Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(77)

“You want me to let you go?” I ask, leaning down, pausing just shy of her lips.

“Yes.”

“Ask nicely,” I tell her. “Say ‘Lorenzo Gambini, I beg of you, please, let me go and I’ll suck your dick.’”

She laughs again, harder. “You wish.”

“I do,” I say. “No doubt about it.”

Her struggling is pathetic. She could break free if she really wanted to, but she’s barely even fighting.

I close the rest of the distance, kissing her lips, as I grind my cock against her, the tip of it rubbing her clit. She moans into my mouth as she stops struggling, relaxing into the bed.

Surrendering.

“Lorenzo Gambini,” she whispers between kisses, “I beg of you, please... f*ck me.”

I kiss her once more before pulling back, shifting position, smirking. “Well, since you asked so nicely...”

I thrust hard, sliding right in first goddamn try.

BAM.





Chapter Twenty-One





You know that dream people have where they’re out somewhere—school, work, somewhere—only to realize they forgot to put clothes on that morning and everybody is staring at them?

I think I might know what that feels like.

The kitchen is quiet, strangely so, considering there are five of us packed in the room. I’m sitting at a round table, in a matching wooden chair, across from Leo and Melody. She’s playing on a cell phone, cutting her eyes at me every now and then, her expression full of curiosity, while Leo isn’t even pretending to be interested in anything else. He’s just blatantly staring.

And he’s not the only one.

Seven stands across the room, leaning against the counter. I can feel his eyes watching me, too.

Yep, I showed up naked to class.

It’s funny, really, because I’ve been naked in public, around plenty of people, and it wasn’t always pleasant for me, but it rarely felt this awkward.

I’ve got clothes on, although they’re obviously not mine—black long sleeved shirt that could pass for a little dress with a pair of blue shorts underneath. Or well, okay, they’re really boxers. Boxers with alligators all over them. Florida Gators.

I didn’t know Lorenzo liked sports.

There’s a lot I didn’t know, I think, as I glance across the room at him, and it smacked me right in the face just a bit ago when I walked in here. Lorenzo’s facing away from me, barefoot, shirtless, dressed only in low-slung black pajama pants and a pair of glasses. Glasses. Black frames, square, thin—not showy, barely even noticeable, but I see them. He moves around, alternating between sorting through paperwork spread out along the counter and tending to whatever’s cooking on the stove.

Yes, you heard me right.

He’s cooking.

And I don’t mean Pop-Tart in the toaster level cooking. The man, who fed me half of a crappy sandwich and a juice pouch last night, has bacon sizzling as he flips pancakes and sips fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Seriously. I watched him squeeze it.

He even poured me some.

I glance down at the glass in my hand, at the pulpy juice, biting the inside of my cheek. No ninety-nine cent generic bodega juice for this family. They all keep looking at me like I’m peculiar, yet they’re acting as if that is normal.

Lorenzo turns around, and I look up as he steps toward the table, half-expecting him to give me weird looks, too, but no, he’s glaring at his brother. Swinging a spatula, he smacks Leo in the head, the loud thwack echoing through the kitchen.

“Shit!” Leo winced, the hit pulling him out of his trance as he rubs the back of his head. “What the hell was that for?”

“The table isn’t set,” Lorenzo says. “What are we, animals?”

Leo stands up, dramatically rolling his eyes, and Lorenzo swings the spatula again, barely grazing his shoulder with it as he jumps out of the way. “Okay, okay, I’m doing it! Geez...”

“You’re not too old for me to take over my knee, Pretty Boy,” Lorenzo said, pointing the spatula. “You weren’t raised in a f*cking barn.”

“No, but I was raised on a farm,” Leo says, grabbing some plates from a cabinet.

“It’s an orange grove,” Lorenzo says, “not a farm.”

Orange grove.

I glance at my orange juice again, bringing it to my lips for a sip. This is all starting to feel very TV-sitcom, like Lassie is about to run in and tell us Timmy fell down the well.

Lorenzo tosses the spatula in the sink and brings platters of food over as Leo sets the table. I look at the empty plate in front of where I’m sitting and go to leave when Lorenzo slides into the chair beside me, gripping my thigh, forcing my ass back into the seat.

“Help yourself, Seven,” Lorenzo calls over to the guy, still leaning against the counter. “You know how it goes.”

“I appreciate it, boss,” Seven says, “but the wife made omelets this morning, so I couldn’t eat another bite even if I wanted to.”

“I figured,” Lorenzo says. “The woman feeds you morning, noon, and night.”

“And packs me snacks in between,” Seven says, and I think he’s joking until he pulls a protein bar from one coat pocket and a little Ziplock bag of carrots from the other. Wow.