She has the sort of curves that drive a thousand flooding urges to my manhood, her hips wide enough so that I can clutch them as I drive a child into her aching womb.
She stops singing when she spots me, her lips pursing, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from striding across and tasting those lips, hearing how musical her moans are, bending her over and driving my searing length into her voluptuous beauty and giving her what I have waited all my forty-two years to give.
She’s the one.
I just know it.
I’ve finally found my queen.
CHAPTER TWO
Lena
Eliza, my supervisor, specifically told me not to talk to or look at Mr. DeLuca when she offered me the position.
We were sitting in her small office at the rear of the house, with her I Love My Cat mug sending coffee steam into the air, when she peered through her red framed glasses and told me.
“You are to be invisible,” she said in her matronly voice. “He must never even know you’re here. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
They’d given me the job because I’m an orphan. I knew that because Eliza basically told me, though she skirted around using the exact words. “We hope you’ll grow loyal to the Family and, one day, see it as your Family, Lena.”
Even if I’m only eighteen years old, I like to think I can read between the lines, and these lines were sharp.
You have nobody. Do what we say. Or there will be consequences.
With a tacit warning as nuclear as that, I expected Lorenzo DeLuca to be an evil looking man, the sort of man that would cause hairs to prick on the back of my neck.
Hairs are pricking on the back of my neck, but not for the reason I thought they would.
He towers over me, standing there just in his shorts like one of his statues at the front of the house has come to life.
Each of his muscles is ridged and outlined in solid stone flesh. As his chest eaves, his ab muscles go tight, his eight pack pressing firmly through his skin. His thick trunk like arms hang ready at his sides. His dark brown eyes gaze at me, his hair swept to the side, specks of silver dotted throughout the brown like threads of strong steel.
My heart thumps and my mouth falls open. For a crazy second, a thought attacks me that he might kiss me. I don’t know where it comes from. The silliness of it is undeniable. But it’s like my womb does a frickin’ backflip in my belly as those autumn leaf eyes stare at me, penetrate me.
I kick that thought aside, not allowing my mind to gallop into silly land. I’ve let it go there once before and it resulted in razor sharp humiliation, the aftershocks of which I still feel to this day.
Nightmares often remind me of the time I let myself think anybody would be attracted to the curvy shy girl with the mousy brown hair.
Nah uh. Never again.
Finally, he steps forward.
His fists are clenched.
He must be angry at me for singing. I only realized I was doing it when I heard him walk up towards me, his footsteps, even in bare feet, sounding loud on the fresh cut grass. He looks absolutely savage, and I know he’s just come from the gym. I heard him lifting weights in there. It sounded like he was tearing a car to pieces with his bare hands, the weights were so heavy.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, forcing myself to look down at the ground. A lump forms in my throat and I know I’ve been staring at him for too long. I wasn’t even supposed to glance at him, and now here I’ve gone and basically gaped at him for several long aching seconds. “I didn’t mean to sing, sir. It just sort of happened. I guess my love for singing sometimes carries me away and—”
I clamp my mouth shut, willing myself to be quiet.
The thought that I’m making this situation worse riots through me with acid certainty. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut, but sometimes awkwardness just turns me into a talking machine.
He just keeps staring, his jaws clenched, his eyes flitting up and down my body. He must think I’m super gross with mud splattered over my clothes. But then again, I am working in a garden. What does he expect?
I can’t take him just staring at me.
“I won’t sing again,” I say quickly, even if a voice inside me is screaming at me to just shut the heck up.
“You can sing,” he growls, his voice a deep rumble.
“Um, okay,” I say, confused.
He stalks forward, moving with the sure movements of an expert predator. For a man of his size, his movements are agile, like a jaguar slinking skillfully through the underbrush to seize his prey.
Am I his prey?
He stops so close to me I’m sure I can feel the volcanic heat radiating from him like his six foot six frame is merely a vessel for containing frothing lava, and any second he could erupt and shower me in his heat. I feel my sex twinge and ache and somewhere deep inside me my womb cries out in desire.
Take me. Take me.
I ignore the silly thoughts, bouncing around pointlessly. Of course he’s not interested in me. I need to rein myself in. I’ve never felt like this about a boy, not once in all my eighteen years.
But then, he’s not a boy. He’s a giant, handsome, hotter than Hades man with steel in his hair and unflinching confidence in his eyes.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
I wonder if the heat I’m feeling is me, actually, my center sending surges of sultriness steaming through my
