Page 9 of Do It For Me
His gaze drops to my black boots, then lingers on my tight jeans and oversized shirt. If I’d worn the dress, he could easily touch my skin. At least, with this, I’d have time to stop him.
His soft smile puzzles me.
“You kept the sweater.”
I grip the sleeves, glance down at them, and nod.
“It’s cosy.”
“I’m glad you like it; my mom made it.”
Oh, God.
“She doesn’t want it back? I mean… she doesn’t know me, and I’m definitely not ideal daughter-in-law material, and…”
“She made itforyou,ragnetta.” He reaches out, clasping his hand over mine.
I freeze. His mother gave me a present. The dress must be from her too. No man would choose gifts like these. If she hadn’t been involved, the box would have held something like a hideously revealing lingerie set.
He guides me to his car, opens the passenger door, and gestures for me to get in.
Put up your walls. Switch off your body. Just listen to everything he says. Donotpiss him off.
I repeat it to myself twice before sliding into the seat, my stomach twisting into tighter knots.
Dante closes the door, and as he walks to the driver’s side, I fumble with the cardigan buttons, fastening them like armour. My hair becomes a shield as I let it fall across my face. If he tries anything, I don’t want to see him.
“You were right. The dress wasn’t the best idea,” he says as he gets in. “Did you like it, though? I can change it if not. I didn’t know if—”
“It’s nice,” I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended. “Thank you.”
He sighs and starts the car. I close my eyes.
Please make it quick.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” My throat tightens, and nausea churns in my stomach.
Silence settles between us, heavy and awkward. It’s one thing to wander the garden with him, but climbing into his car, letting him take me to God-knows-where, feels entirely different.
If I disappear, my father won’t care. My mother won’t have the power to do much about it either.
If that’s the case, I’d just beg him to have mercy and kill me once he’s done. I don’t want to stay alive if I must endure that torture again.
His hand brushes my thigh, and every muscle in my body tenses. He pulls away immediately.
I knew it. He’s the same as—
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I wanted to take your hand, but I’m nervous. I—”
“Nervous?”
He takes my hand before I can pull away. His palm is sweaty, trembling slightly. I look at him. His face is flushed, his mask of confidence cracking. His jaw tightens as he clears his throat and looks back at the road.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Well, mission failed.
