Page 67 of His Kidnapped Queen
“Too sensitive,” she mumbles.
“I’ve barely gotten started.”
Now I’m the one who wants to pout. I want more of her, want to be buried between her thighs for hours. But something snaps me out of it. I don’t know if it’s the grip she has on my hair or how desperately I wanted to keep pleasuring her, but something snaps.
I move away from her quickly, my heart racing. I can’t let myself get swept back into this. I couldn’t stop thinking about her for months,yearsafter she left. Not to mention the fact that she might still be a cop, might be trying to take me down.
I can’t trust her, and I can’t trust myself not to get so pussy drunk I lose sight of what’s important.
Finding out the truth. What does she know? How much does she have on me?
Focus, Luca, I tell myself as I look down at her pouting mouth, her nude, curvy body.You have to focus.
“Where are you going?”
I scoff. “What, you wanted to cuddle after?”
Her face falls and my heart clenches in my chest. She’s hurt, and something about that bothers me even though it shouldn’t. She’s my enemy, dammit. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
“You still don’t trust me.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Then why did you fuck me?”
“Don’t have to trust you to fuck you, sweetheart,” I drawl, and she huffs out a breath, blowing her bangs out of her face. She looks away and I get up and adjust my clothes, getting dressed.
“So that’s it, then?” she asks, and I look at her, tilting my head curiously.
“I’m curious. What did you expect?”
My words come out even colder than I’d intended, and I can’t look at her, at the flash of hurt in her blue eyes.
I stalk out of the room, locking the door behind me. I press my forehead against the door, breathing out a long breath.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I feel guilty when she’s the one undercover, trying to topple my empire? The one I’ve worked so hard for since I was fifteen.
I’ve got to get my shit together. And step one is to stay as far away from Sophia as I can.
19
SOPHIA
Two days pass, and I don’t see Luca at all. It’s Diego who feeds me, omelets that taste like they have chorizo in them, sandwiches with thick slices of tomato. I shouldn’t miss Luca.
On the second day, Diego hands me a towel and a pair of sweats and t-shirt.
I raise an eyebrow, looking at the soap he left on top of the clothes.
“Trying to tell me something?”
He shrugs. “Just thought you might want to change. That dress can’t be comfortable.”
It isn’t, and I’m probably starting to smell pretty ripe, given I haven’t showered in two days.
“Thank you,” I say simply, taking the stack from him. He leads me to the master bedroom, which is full of office supplies, stacked paperwork in boxes all over the room.
He jerks his head toward the bathroom, which contains a big clawfoot tub.
