Page 7 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
“I’ll hire you, Brook.”
Her slow blink fills me with concern until a lopsided grin lifts her lips.
“Hire me.Fire me.It’s all a dream anyway,” she mumbles.
Every cell in my body freezes in shock when she grabs my head and pulls my mouth down to hers.Heat blasts through me when she dips her tongue between my teeth and groans.Her little wiggle rubs her ass against my rock-hard cock, and her breast brushes against my chest.My head spins from the intensity of my lust.
I growl, rip my face away from hers, snatch her shawl from the table and her purse from Carol’s outstretched hand as I surge to my feet, and carry my prize away from prying eyes.
To the tune of our classmates howling their encouragement, I exit the restaurant and duck into the black sedan waiting for me.
With Brook passed out in my lap, I direct my driver to take us to my preferred hotel and text my personal assistant to arrange a room.As we pull out into traffic, I tell myself to push the conniving little bitch onto the floor and let her lie where she falls, but I can’t force myself to let her go.
She’s too soft.Too feminine.Too tempting.
Too perfect.
Holding her in my arms feels too good.
I’m so fucked.
Chapter 3
Brook Simons
The asshole with the jackhammerneeds to stop pounding on my temples.It hurts.And whoever replaced my joints with those of an eighty-year-old man should be shot.They’re evil.
Every muscle in my body throbs in pain as I roll onto my back.
Is this how my mom felt as she battled cancer?Am I dying?
I peel my lashes apart and grimace at the light spearing into my skull.After a few steadying breaths, the urge to vomit recedes, so I force my eyes open again and hiss in agony.
The lights aren’t on, but the barest sliver of sunlight streaks across the ceiling.
An unfamiliar ceiling.
I squint and study my surroundings with as little movement as possible.
The paint is pristine.High-end light fixtures sit on the sleek bedside shelves.The headboard is something straight from a magazine.
Soft sheets caress my arms and legs, but my dress still squeezes my curves.My left breast threatens to pop free of the fabric, but I don’t have the energy to fix it.
A massive shadow rises from the couch and stalks toward me.Terror floods my veins with adrenaline, and my body leaps out of my control.I scream and throw the nearest thing—a pillow—and scramble back against the headboard before the monster steps into the streak of sunlight.
Matteo Ricco.
Emotions barrel through me.My head spins and nausea squeezes my stomach.Vomit surges up my throat.I clamp my hand over my mouth and scramble to the edge of the mattress.
Deft hands drop a waste basket right where I need it.Long fingers pull my hair away from my face and stroke down my back in the most confusing and comforting gesture.
In the most embarrassing moment of my life, I retch until tears streak down my face and acid burns my throat.When the horrible cramps cease, exhaustion adds a million pounds to my body, but I spit and grab a tissue from the box on the beside shelf.
A bottle of water appears in front of my face.I give Matteo an untrusting side glance but take the bottle from him, ignoring the zings of awareness as my fingers brush his.My hands refuse to grip the plastic hard enough to open the lid.
He growls in annoyance, snatches the water from me, cracks it open, and wraps my digits around the bottle.Before he can lift it to my lips like I’m a child, I push his wrist away and take a few refreshing sips.As much as I want to guzzle the entire bottle, I don’t dare with how unsettled my stomach is, so I twist the lid into place and brace myself before I look up at the man I’ve fought so hard to forget.
He’s panty-meltingly handsome with his coat and tie removed, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, and the top buttons of his shirt undone.
