Delgano: A Dark Contemporary Interracial Romance

In those sixteen weeks, he’d gone from cut to shredded, his hair was longer, and his skin had tanned even further.

Sexy wasn’t a strong enough word.

She watched him like a hungry wolf as he went to the dining table, pulled out a chair for her, and then sank into the one on the other side of the table.

“Today I’ve made,” she removed the cover from a stainless steel dish, “more popular Brazilian dishes!”

“Just for me?” he asked, with a look on his face that made her weak.

“Just for you, my love.” She set several serving dishes on the table and gestured to each. “So, I’ve made Moqueca stew with shrimp and fish, bolinhos made with fresh cod, cheese bread—of course—and, for dessert…brigadeiros!”

He moved as if to stand.

“Sit down, babe. You look dead on your feet. I can manage. You’ve earned the rest.”

In more ways than one.

As she moved between the kitchen and the table, the ends of a long white dress billowed slightly past her ankles. Soft, plain fabric covered her hair and face instead of the Moroccan textiles she usually wore. While he was away, he’d become the protagonist of her romantic daydreams. In them, after making love, she walked around wearing nothing but a look of satisfaction. Hopefully, that could one day become a reality.

Once everything was laid out, she took her seat and blessed the food. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her like he’d never closed his.

“So, Adrían,” she began, scooping up a spoonful of stew, “I’m sorry to do this right away, but we have to talk about the money.”

He bit into a bolinho. “What about it?”

“I think you might have made a mistake.”

“I didn’t. I sent four hundred thousand, then six more. All in all, it should come out to one million euros.”

She stared at him, her spoon dangling in midair. “One…million…euros?”

“I sent the rest just before I got home.”

“Adrían, I?—”

“Did you marry him?”

“No.” She grimaced. If she got married at all, there was only one person she wanted. “Where’d that come from? That wasn’t even an option.”

“Just checking,” he said. “But you’re stalling. Talk to me about what you really want to talk about.”

“Not here.”

What she needed to discuss with him had nothing to do with the man who called himself Novi.

Not directly, anyhow.

At the villa, she felt safe. Then, while he was gone, they completed Qasim and Ahmed’s extraction, and from what had been shared, the boys would be joining extended family members in the United Kingdom.

However, she’d learned that the men who’d shown up outside her old place with the machetes had tied his, Trevor’s, and Hannah’s retaliation to her, although the trio had left no loose ends. The gang had intercepted the last family she had to transport, a woman and her daughter, and were holding them hostage, though she didn’t know where.

They were also completely unrelated to Novi’s visit, which was even more confusing. If Novi was as dangerous as everyone claimed, why didn’t her mother simply send him after the men? Why didn’t she send Omega? It would be like picking daisies.

When they were done with their meal, Adrían asked her to wait for him in the bedroom while he cleaned up the kitchen. She offered to help, but he ignored the request and told her to make sure she was naked by the time he showed up.

Whereas her brain believed she could take Adrían over and over, with no end in sight, her body repeatedly reminded her that she was still new to this, and Adrían was well-endowed. Imposing limits was necessary for recovery.

But she was naked when he showed up.