Page 30 of Unrequited
He groans, deep and primal. “My fucking god, Zoya. Don’t tempt me. Can’t you see I’m trying to do right by you?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I know.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want more,” he mutters. “Doesn’t mean I don’t ache for you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Tonight, you called for me because you were in trouble. Tonight, I killed a man for you. Protected you.” He sighs. “But who protects you fromme, lass?”
He means it. Hemeansit. He’s not playing games, and he’s not trying to impress me.
He cares.
I sigh. “I don’t know. It just feels like… like we won’t get another chance.”
He groans again. “Aye, I know that. Don’t I feckin’ know it.”
He straightens, his voice shifting into command.
“But right now, you have some basic needs. You’ll eat. Then you’ll get yer pretty arse into bed.”
That makes me giggle. “My pretty arse?” I repeat, standing.
“Aye,” he growls, his gaze heated as he grips “my pretty arse” in his big hand. “You do what you’re told,” he growls playfully. “Where I’m from, women obey their men. So—are you going to listen?”
He raises a brow, daring me.
My heart stutters.
And to my shock, he gives my ass a sharp smack.
I laugh, and my cheeks flame.
I nod. Because I’ll do anything he asks.
And that might just be the problem.
“How about toast?” he asks. “Mam always said toast was good for a sour stomach.”
“Mam?” I echo.
“Aye.”
He says it with so much affection, I can’t help but smile.
“What about your dad? Do you get along with him?”
“Aye. He’s a good man,” he says thoughtfully. “I mean, by my standards.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He tilts his head. “Like your brothers. Would you say they’re good men?”
I nod slowly. “Now that makes sense,” I say softly.
And I exhale as he walks to the kitchen and puts bread into the toaster. I watch, perched on the edge of the couch, as he butters it, cuts it into triangles, and brings it to me.
I eat it hungrily, crumbs falling onto the little plate while he watches me. “That’s a good girl,” he says. Then he talks to me about the little shops at home and how he’d love taking me to D’Agostinos, the only Italian place nearby.
“They’ve got the best homemade bread with this seasoned olive oil,” he says with a smile. When I finish the toast, he speaks gently.
