Dubious (The Loan Shark Duet 1)
“Shh,” he whispers against my ear. Repeating the same mantra from earlier, he gives me absolution. “You didn’t have a choice.”
There are many things I can take, but not his gentleness. I need to hate him. Prying his fingers open, I roll to the edge of the bed and jump to my feet.
“Get away from me.” I jerk my nightgown down my body.
His eyes harden, but he doesn’t reach for me. With his dark expression on top of the scars, he looks scarier than any man I’ve seen.
Lifting up on one elbow, he says, “You should’ve told me it was your first time.”
Why can’t I feel indifferent? Indifference won’t hurt or cut so deep. The ache and betrayal won’t let me go. Using that pain, I mold it into a shield of hatred.
Loathing infuses my tone. “What difference would it have made?”
There’s a warning in his voice. “Valentina, I took nothing you didn’t promise to give.”
“Exactly,” I snap. “I promised to give, not to take.”
His lips lift in one corner, giving him the same amused expression from this morning when he threatened Charlie’s life. “Give and take, now that’s a debatable subject. The way I look at it, this was all give on your part. I did all the taking.”
I’m fuming. I expected him to use me, but to do it like Tiny. Instead, he somehow managed to make me a partner in whatever he executed.
“Are you angry that I made you come or that you enjoyed it?” he asks, hitting the hammer on the nail.
Shivering with fury, mostly at myself, I wrap my arms around my body. “Is there something else you want? Any other service you require?”
He smirks. “All in good time.” A wince replaces his cocky smile as he gets to his feet. “I’ll have my breakfast at five. Grapefruit, orange juice, coffee, and omelette with chili. Make sure it’s ready.”
Adjusting his pants over a hard-on impossible to miss, he limps from the room. I wait a good five minutes after the clack of his heels on the kitchen tiles has disappeared before I shut the door, leaning against it with wobbly legs. My shoulders shake with more unwelcome sobs, but I can’t stop them. It takes me a few minutes to find my control. I want to have another shower to wash away the remnants of Gabriel’s touch, but a glimpse at my phone tells me it’s past midnight. I have to wake in four hours, so I slip into bed and give myself over to the escape of a shallow and fitful sleep.
* * *
It’s torture when my alarm goes off at four. Oscar is stretched out on the foot of the bed, purring like an engine. He must’ve jumped through the window during the night. I can only spare him a quick cuddle, or I’ll be late. I put last night out of my mind, making a conscious decision to not dwell on the shameful memory. Torturing myself with the details won’t change anything. I’ll only make it harder on myself.
After a shower, I dress in the morbid, black dress and tie my hair into a ponytail. Knowing I’ll be on my feet all day, I slip on my trainers. Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen, chopping chili for Gabriel’s omelette while the coffee percolates. Cooking comes easy for me. I’ve fed Charlie and myself since I was fourteen. I miss my brother so much. We’ve never been apart. It feels as if my anchor has been dislodged, and I’m floating aimlessly in a dark and treacherous sea.
My back is turned to the door, but I know the minute Gabriel walks into the kitchen. I first feel and then smell him. Heat creeps up my spine, making me break out in a cold sweat. The air becomes thick like smoke hard to breathe. My body registers his scent from where I’ve categorized it in my brain, connecting the dots to the sensual experience from last night, an experience I’d rather forget, but I can’t help the powerful association. The clean, spicy fragrance of his skin triggers an unwanted reaction in my belly, contracting my womb with a fluttering echo of my first orgasm. My cheeks flame at the thought. I hope he’ll think it’s from the hot stove plate.
“Good morning, Valentina.”
That voice again. Now that I’m less frightened, it leaves a complex mixture of sensory impressions on me––dark, smooth, bittersweet, and deep. Like burnt sugar. I glance over my shoulder. He’s dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. His hair is damp and his beard trimmed.
I fold his omelette, doing my best not to let my nerves show. “Good morning.”
He comes to stand next to me, so close that our hips almost touch, and reaches for two mugs in the cupboard above. As he pours the coffee with a steady hand, mine holding the spatula starts shaking.