Obsession by Lena Little
6
Carolina
I’ve never slept so well in my life. It’s as if I was sleeping on a cloud.
As I pry open one eye it’s as if I’m waking up from a trance…and then I start to remember where I am and what happened and I jolt upright.
I look next to the bed and see the man who saved me twice last night, sitting in a plush, black leather chair that looks like it cost more money than I’ll make in my lifetime. He shoots a half-cocked smirk in my direction, or is it more of the look of a hungry animal who knows it has its prey trapped? Then he brings his hand to the wall and raps his knuckles against it three times.
A split second later three men in baker’s uniforms come rushing into the room, placing fancy breakfast in bed trays all over the bed.
“Cornetto with custard cream,” one man says, as he bows over the powdered croissants on the tray he’s placed before me.
“Maritozzi,” the second says, announcing the tray of sweet buns which have been sliced in half and then filled with whipped cream. There’s even a white flower with a pink bulb just next to them. “These are especially popular for breakfast in Rome,” he adds.
“Biscotti, cheese, grapes, and brioche,” the final chef chimes in, overwhelming me with options. “And an espresso with milk,” he adds as if all this food wasn’t enough. “And a freshly squeezed orange juice,” a fourth chef says entering the room, carrying a cup of orange juice in his hands with such care that it looks like he’s handling the nuclear codes.
“Thank you,” my mystery man says and all four chefs disappear even quicker than they appeared.
“And to think the only Italian food I ever knew was Chef Boyardee,” I say to myself, marveling at all the sweets in front of me. The best part is they’re clearly not processed nor from a box. They’re fresh and something I was excited to experience here in Rome. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen under these kinds of circumstances.
I pull my gaze from the multitude of sweets and look at the now unexpressive man in the chair.
“Okay. I’ve never been offered anything from a man that didn’t seem to come with some sort of conditions, either expressed initially or hidden, and then bought up later. And second of all, I don’t even know anything about you. Your name? Who you are? Why you’re doing all of this?”
His eyes narrow and his head turns to the side ever so slightly, almost as if he’s amused by me. As if he’s studying me, which I assume he might have been doing while I was sleeping too.
“My name is Carlito and this is my home. But it is my intention to convince you that this is our home, which is how I already see it.”
“Our home?”
“That’s right.”
“But you don’t even know me?”
“Also correct, but incorrect too. I may not know trivial details about you, and I will come to know everything about you because I want to, I need to, but I do know the only thing that matters at this point.”
“Which is?” I finally question after he lets his cryptic statement just hang in the air of this palatial bedroom.
“That I want you like I’ve never wanted another woman in my life.”
“And that’s why you…?” This time I’m the one who cocks my head as I contemplate finishing my sentence and or what his response to it might be. I reconsider bringing up the fact that he’s murdered, twice, since I’ve met him. Yet in doing so he’s made me feel safe. Logic is clearly out the window in my brain, and just thinking through the process has made me realize he’s operating on the same wavelength. Instead of thinking, we’re feeling, and as much as humans try and force logic onto situations in, or beyond, our control, the fact is we’re still very much emotional creatures. But I still want to hear his reply. “Why you’ve pursued me so aggressively?”
“I’m not sure pursued is the correct word choice, but yes. Something about you, or more accurately everything about you, has awoken something…” he pauses, “everything within me.” Another long pause. “Let’s start over.”
He slides his chair even closer to the bed and reaches for the small dessert fork on one of the trays, cutting a piece of the cornetto and then stabbing it with the prongs of the utensil.
“Try this. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
He brings it to my mouth, just a couple inches from my lips as if to let me have the power, to let me know the decision is mine although he’s more than guiding me toward the result he’s after. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see this man is used to getting what he wants, either by persuasion or by force…which I’ve already witnessed.
But considering just a few hours ago I was rationing my low two-figure cash balance in order to survive, and now I’m being spoon-fed, okay so it’s a fork but still, what amounts to a cream-filled croissant covered in powdered sugar, I’m not exactly in a position to say no or to want to.
I lean my head toward the fork and he completes the connection, carefully placing the bite in my mouth and gently removing the fork.
I have never tasted anything so mouth-wateringly delicious in my entire life. As I chew the food savoring the sugary sweetness that washes over the insides of my mouth like a waterfall, there’s something else that washes over the inside of my body, my emotions, with an equal degree of power and thoroughness.
There’s something about the way he’s a big, strong, brute of man yet he’s caring for me almost like I’m…a child. And it feels…right. It awakens something inside me that I never knew existed. I feel like I’ve been fighting tooth and nail, scratching and clawing to keep my head above water my entire existence and now, suddenly there’s this sense of relief that maybe, just maybe, there’s someone else in this big world who wants to help me, even just for a minute, or an hour or a day. And the relief that pours from me, the way my neck and shoulder muscles relax at that knowledge is like my entire body has been twisted into a knot like a pretzel all along.
I’ve never believed someone was going to come along and help me with all my troubles, nor did I want that. Despite reading so many romance novellas that pretty much play out exactly like this, I always thought, scratch that…knew, that the only way to get what you want in life is to earn it yourself.
Then why does it feel so amazingly good when it’s just freely given by someone else. But can you really teach an old dog new tricks? I may only be eighteen, but I’ve lived multiple lifetimes in my less than two decades on this planet, and I quickly revert to my default setting, knowing that nothing in life is free.
My walls go back up and I guard my feelings, my thoughts, my movements, my gestures.
But I can’t deny that being cared for, even ever so briefly, like a child has awoken a secret part of me. I never had a childhood, which isn’t a surprise when you’re abandoned by your parents the day you enter this world. Bouncing around orphanages and foster homes with “handsy” husbands taught me to watch my back because no one else is going to do it for me.
I often feel cast adrift, like the world is a series of waves sent to drown me. But here’s a friendly hand throwing me a lifejacket in the middle of the swell in the deepest part of the sea.
Before I can process anything more, he’s dabbing powdered sugar off my lips and lining up a bite of something else. “There’s a little more, right there,” he says, leaning in close and brushing his napkin over the corner of my lip for a second and then a third time. But he continues to linger and I feel his hot breath on my skin as I study his masculine features. His chiseled jaw is more prominent in the day than the fleeting glances I got of it in the night. That sawdust and Tuscan scent, or at least my preconceived thoughts about what the Italian countryside would smell like, cloak me.
Part of me wants him to lean in even more and do something that’s never happened before…kiss me.
Oh, men have tried. Married men who tried to adopt me because they were doing “good deeds” for a “poor little orphan girl.” But no one ever got past my knees and elbows. But with him, it’s different. I want him to kiss me. Everything about him has been so perfect I want to experience more. Even seeing flashbacks of his violence in my mind I want more, somehow knowing that violence would never be directed at me, but instead on behalf of me. He’s the muscles, the anger, the revenge that would be impossible for me to flex, show, and exact on my own…because even though I’m all for girl power the reality is I’m not exactly tall and strong and I can’t pretend that I could keep a determined, and large man off or away from me. But he sure could. And I know he would. Willingly and without me asking because he’s already done it. Twice.
It’s almost like he’s become, my imaginary appointed caretaker. The dark knight who appears out of nowhere to solve my problems and now the light in my life to nurture and comfort me. There’s something about him that I admire, and I look up to him, and his success and the way he handles things, as much as I’m starting to want him…on top of me. Using my body for his own personal pleasure and taking my mind along for the ride, or more accurately getting me out of my head for a while while I enjoy an experience I have no idea about, at least not beyond what I’ve read about on my Kindle.
I want him on top of me, completely wild and free. But I won’t give myself to him, or anyone, that easily. I have to know it’s more. I have to know it’s permanent. And that, along with the itinerant nature of my life leading up to this point, are two of the reasons I’ve never so much as given a guy a chance. The most important reason being none ever made me feel a way I knew I was capable of feeling. No one ever gave me butterflies like he does. Carlito, this forbidden protector.
“It’s good, right?” he asks, interrupting my train of thought.
“Good is the understatement of the year. It’s delicious. You like it too?”
“I don’t eat sweets.”
“How do you know it’s good then?”
“I was a child once, or something that resembled it.”
I don’t dig deeper at the cryptic clue he’s tossed me in regards to his past. Now is not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Carlito picks up the bunch of grapes, his long, thick fingers making them look even tinier than they even are. Breaking off a single grape he brings it to my mouth, and this time I lean forward to take his offering sans fork, and I accidentally lean in too far, my lips brushing the tips of his fingers as I take away the fruit.
My face heats as I can’t raise my eyes to meet his, yet I can feel his gaze on me. It only intensifies when he leans back in his chair like an indolent king, as if waiting for the clown jester, me, to respond in some way, shape, or form.
My hands slide beneath the table as I wring them out at my waist. Nerves have taken hold and my mouth kicks in. “So what’s planned for after breakfast?” I blurt out.
“You’re in a rush for it to end. I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
“Just curious,” I reply.
“We’re going someplace special.”
“What if I need to get going and can’t join you?” I fake protest.
“Where do you have to be?” he calls my bluff.
“Nowhere in particular. Just asking.”
“I insist,” he counters.
“You…said someplace special. I really don’t have anything to wear that fits that description.”
“You need not worry. I’ve already taken care of it.”
I narrow my eyes and try to understand exactly what that means. He doesn’t make me think long or hard, moving toward the closet and opening it to reveal the start of one incredible wardrobe collection.
“You…had this already.”
“I had it brought over this morning and carefully put it in your closet while you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“My closet?”
“That’s right. When you outgrow this one, and you will, I’ll build you another one, and another. You’ll never want for anything here. I promise.”
I can only slightly nod, and let the words roll off my back. Carlito wastes no time offering me more food, but this time I take the fork from his grasp and feed myself.
I refuse to let this man, or anyone, do everything for me. But take me to a place “somewhere special”? I’m intrigued. How can I say no?
