Stolen Touches (Perfectly Imperfect #5)

The waiter straightens and finally gives me his attention. “Yes, Mrs. Ajello?”

“Can I have some sugar, please?” I ask and lean my elbows on the table again, glaring at my husband who’s been watching me the whole time. I wait for the waiters to leave, then raise my eyebrows. “What was that?”

“What exactly?”

“That nod. Because it looked like you were giving the waiter permission to address me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Are you for real?”

“He’s not from the Family, Milene. Therefore, he is not permitted to look at my wife unless I allow him to.”

I have no comeback to that, so I just stare at him.

“What would you like to eat?” He nods toward the plates and the ton of food lining the table in front of me.

“I’m not picky.” I shrug and place something that looks like rice and green leaves on my plate, together with a huge piece of fish.

“Don’t you want to know what it is first? What if you don’t like it?”

“Someone took time to make these… whatever you call them. They cooked them and brought them over. I didn’t have to make any of this.” I stuff a spoonful of food into my mouth. “So, what’s not to like?”

“You really hate cooking.”

“Yup.” There is something that looks like fried onion rings on one of the plates. I reach out and take a piece, then yelp. They’re scorching hot.

“Let me see.” Salvatore seizes my hand and turns my palm up.

I try pulling out of his grip, but he holds my hand tightly. My heartbeat picks up, and butterflies flutter in my stomach again as he lifts my hand to his lips and places a kiss on the tips of my fingers. The moment his grip loosens, I quickly retrieve my hand and pretend I’m engrossed in my meal. Why does he keep doing that? Shouldn’t the seduction come before the marriage? He’s already forced me into marrying him, so I don’t see the point.

He can keep trying. I’m not sleeping with him. I would rather die than sleep with him. I take another bite and chew slowly while my inner devil mocks me.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. You’ve been imagining how it would be. Wondering if he would also be controlling in bed. You’ve been ogling him in secret like he’s a candy for days, and…

I put my fork next to the plate and grit my teeth.Stop!I yell at my internal self. That bitch has the worst taste in men.Just… fucking stop.

“Are you all right, Milene?”

My head snaps up. “Yup,” I murmur and keep shoveling the food in my mouth. “Why?”

“You had a very interesting facial expression for a moment. It seemed like… frustration.”

“Well, I’m forced to be with you, Salvatore. Wouldn’t you be frustrated if someone forced you to spend time with yourself?”

He leans over the table and takes my chin, making me look at him. “Is it really that awful? Spending time with me?”

No. And that’s exactly why I’m so frustrated. “Yes,” I say.

His thumb traces a line along my chin and up to my lower lip. If I saw his picture somewhere, I would have said he’s ridiculously handsome and that’s it. But the image wouldn’t be able to convey the potency of his presence in person. I quickly pull away from his touch and focus back on my meal, eating some more of the delicious food. Trying my best not to let my eyes wander to him. It doesn’t really help because even though I’m not looking at him, I can still sense his gaze on me.

Why did he insist on marrying me? I’m pretty sure I’m not his type. I mean, he’s like a walking commercial for Armani or Prada, or a similar high-end designer, in his impeccably tailored gray suit and black shirt. And that slicked back dark hair, with snow-white strands splattered here and there, which tempts me to thread my fingers through it and count the grays. I don’t know why I’m so attracted to him. I like blond guys. Chris Hemsworth. Brad Pitt. The angelic-looking type. I steal a quick glance at Salvatore and snort. He could give Satan a fucking run for his money. He’s just missing the damn horns and a pitchfork.

Suddenly, his gloved hand enters my field of vision and takes a strand of my hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail andis hanging next to my plate. He holds it between his fingers for a few seconds, then moves it behind my shoulder.

“You find something amusing, Milene?”

I put my fork down and lift my head. Salvatore is leaning over the table, his face barely inches from mine, and his unnerving eyes are staring right into my own. My breath catches. I force myself to hold his gaze while keeping my expression blank. It’s not easy.