Page 35 of His Kidnapped Queen
“Okay, it was more than nice,” I admit, groaning. “It was amazing, but Luca, you have to let me go.”
“I can’t,” he says, his voice strained.
“I have to make a call,” I plead, putting my hands on his chest.
He twitches at my touch, his breath letting out in a rush.
Luca hums in the back of his throat. “Just a call? And then you’ll come back?”
He sounds almost desperate, pleading, and it’s unlike him from everything I’ve read in the dossier.
He’s stoic, determined—ruthless.
So why are his green eyes looking at me like he needs me?
I draw in a breath. “I should really go.”
“No,” he says staunchly, taking my hands from his chest and putting them by my sides. “You’re not going. Not again.”
“Luca…”
“I tried to find you,” he murmurs, and I squeak when his lips touch my neck. “Had a man posted up at your apartment. But you left. You left and I couldn’t find you.”
I let out a shaky breath as his hands trail up my arms, light touches. I should go. I should push him away, should knee him in the nuts again, but I can’t seem to move.
God, I haven’t been touched like this, well, since Luca. I just knew any other man would come up wanting.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his lips trailing up my throat.
“I told you. Just wanted a night out. I’ve changed.”
“You’ve changed,” he repeats incredulously, moving away to look at me. The touch of his lips on my neck tingles when he pulls away.
“People can change,” I insist, and Luca stares down at me.
“No they can’t.”
I blow my bangs out of my face.
“I lost someone. It changed me, okay?”
In reality, I can’timaginelosing Scott. It really would change me, and probably not for the better. That’s why I came up with that cover story.
He rubs a hand across his face.
“I wish I believed you, pixie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He smiles slightly, it’s almost bitter.
“Why not? You’ve got the hair for it now.” He pushes strands out of my face, looking down at me almost tenderly.
What is going on? He was passionate that first night, for sure, eager, but I didn’t think he’d still be interested.
“Luca, you can’t possibly think that after two years?—”
“Three. Nearly three,” he corrects me.
