Page 103 of I'm sorry, Princess
“I see you’ve met Bianca.”
I look up, and there he is.
Lorenzo stands across the kitchen, his sharp blue gaze locked onto mine, unwavering. Bianca, to my delight, glares at him, but it does nothing to wipe the smirk off his stupidly perfect face.
And God help me, he’s beautiful.
Does this man ever have an ugly day?
His black shirt is unbuttoned just enough to tease at the sculpted planes of his chest, his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms, the sluttiest thing a man can possibly do, in my opinion. The ink on his skin and the veins running along his hands only add to the problem. His dark hair is a mess, like he’s just run his hands through it, and he moves toward me with slow, effortless confidence, like he owns the air in this room.
He doesn’t sit across from me. No, of course not. He pulls out the chair beside mine and takes his place right next to me.
Bianca hums disapprovingly but still sets down our plates with care. My stomach growls, and I instantly regret it because he hears it. His lips twitch, amusement flashing in his eyes as he looks at me. I roll my eyes, which only makes him smirk more.
Bianca has made lasagna, and it smells like heaven. I swear, I’d move into this house just to eat whatever she makes every day.
“I hope you’ll like it!” she says, her voice warm and proud.
Lorenzo gives her a small nod of approval, and we both start eating. The first bite melts in my mouth, rich and savory, and I nearly moan. Oh my God, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
Lorenzo, meanwhile, pours us both glasses of wine like this is some kind of intimate dinner date. I sip it cautiously, the smooth taste pairing perfectly with the meal, and suddenly I’m thinking that this might be the best dinner I’ve had in weeks, no, months. And that includes the fancy, Michelin-starred restaurants I’ve been forced to endure with my family.
I glance at Lorenzo, realizing he hasn’t eaten much. Instead, his eyes are fixed on me, watching every movement I make, every shift in my expression.
Before I can ask what his problem is, he does something completely unexpected.
With zero warning, he reaches over and pulls my chair closer to his.
I fold. Just like that.
His presence, his gaze, the way he effortlessly invades my space, it’s too much. He leans back lazily in his chair,exuding that insufferable dominance he carries everywhere, and just looks at me.
The air between us is charged, thick with tension I don’t understand but can’t ignore.
I break the silence first. “Care to explain why you kidnapped me?” I ask, arching a brow, trying to sound unimpressed despite the way my pulse is hammering.
Lorenzo leans in, tilting my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. His touch is gentle, but his grip tells me he’s in control.
His lips curve into something dark and wicked.
“No.”
Is he serious right now?
I stare at him, my heartbeat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “I’m serious. Why am I here, Lorenzo?”
His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering, unreadable. “Because I want you to be here.”
And just like that, before I can even argue, before I can demand more than that maddeningly vague response, he stands, reaches for me, and lifts me into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Lorenzo—” My words die in my throat as he strides effortlessly through the house.
I should fight him. I should demand he put me down.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let myself melt into the warmth of his body, my cheek pressed against his chest. His scent wraps around me, woodsy, clean, intoxicating. I hate how safe I feel.
