He was removing the lid off one of the silver-lidded dishes on the table when I got up. He paused what he was doing, giving me his full attention, no doubt reveling in my obedience. In my submission.
My humiliation.
And for the first time since becoming an undercover agent, I truly had no idea what to do. I was used to letting the legends react. Allowing my covers to dictate my feelings, words, and actions. But I wasn’t a legend right now.
I was Ariana De Luca, and while I had no clue what that entailed, I figured I could allow myself to act on instinct. But instinct wanted to fight. And pride wouldn’t allow me to shut up and take Bastiano’s torment.
I was going to get the wine cart. Truly, I was. Until I wasn’t. Instead, I found myself walking to his side of the table, hovering above him. He pulled his seat back, angled it toward me, and pushed forward until I stood between his thighs.
His thighs were spread lazily apart, the tailor-made qiviut slacks pulled tightly across his powerful thighs. His strong forearms rested on each arm of the chair, and his lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer. He looked both devastatingly handsome and entirely entertained.
I was about to confront him, and he was amused. I wanted to hit him hard with the things I knew and he didn’t. The FBI had been siphoning the online job applications for the bartending gig, leaving only the unqualified applicants.
Which meant I had this job.
Though he was acting like he had an alternative, the truth was he didn’t. However today went, this job was mine. We both knew this, but I couldn’t tell him that I did. And at that realization, the fight in me died a painful death, murdered in my throat and buried beside my indignation.
“Well?” He arched a perfect brow, so damned smug and rightfully so.
I pivoted before he could see the pink hue of my cheeks and revel in my embarrassment. This whole situation was a disaster. I couldn’t be too combatant. I needed this job. But if I wanted to survive it, for my sanity’s sake, I couldn’t just take his shit and pretend I liked the stench.
Beside me, someone banged on the door. I glanced at it, my embarrassment heightened when I caught sight of Dana and another employee through the glass panel on the locked door. They were trying to get into the employee room, but at the sight of me, they stopped and stared as I approached the cart.
I could feel Bastiano’s amusement from across the room as I obeyed him in front of an audience. My anger flared. We could have easily done this job interview in his spacious office, but he knew what time it was and had deliberately chosen a public area—at a time when employees were showing up—to publicize my humiliation.
“Problem?” he asked, and even though I couldn’t see him, I could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
My fists tightly clasped the bar of the cart, and I tried with all my might to transfer my humiliation into it and ignore the crowd. When I turned around and pushed the cart to him like his personal fucking maid, I had a saccharine smile pasted on my face. Like I wasn’t fazed by his radical brand of assholery.
“None at all.” Keeping the smile on my face felt like stepping in quicksand and giving my consent to sink. “Forgive me. I’m used to being around gentlemen who’d never let a lady exert herself.”
The wheel of the cart wobbled, and my smile faltered. The amusement on his face increased.
“If this is your idea of exerting yourself, perhaps the exercise will do you more good than harm.”
I opened my mouth to respond, a witty retort resting heavily on the tip of my tongue, but I forced myself to swallow it. I couldn’t win this fight. The best I could hope for was for it to end already and minimize my casualties.
I pushed the cart a little faster, hoping he wouldn’t notice my eagerness to end this interview and see it as a victory. Each squeak of the wheel was a blemish in my armor, adding to my demise and his building pleasure. By the time I reached the table, I felt like I had lost a proxy war.
“These are our bestselling dishes. Find me a wine pairing for each one.” He deliberately lifted the remaining metal lids slowly, each dish’s revelation bringing conceit to his eyes.
A ‘nduja and guanciale charcuterie. All-belly porchetta. Duck confit. These were all dishes that were best suited for red wines. He had given me a limited selection of whites. Jerk.
“These pairings shouldn’t be too hard for someone of your talents.” He leaned back in his seat, making me feel like a zoo animal on display. Was it too much to hope he wouldn’t throw rocks at me and demand I perform?
“Not at all.” I forced an indifferent expression on my face as I inventoried my poor selection and poured a glass of wine in front of each dish.
Gewürztraminer for the charcuterie. Crémant for the porchetta. Marsanne for the duck. They were good selections. Not what I would have normally chosen, but the best given the circumstances. I sat down, my fingers clenched in fists at my sides as I watched him languorously cut into the porchetta, deliberately taking his sweet time.
I was sitting in his ten-thousand-dollar chair, dressed to kill in a fitted cocktail dress the color of coal, my hair pulled up in a French chignon that had taken an hour to perfect, my makeup flawless and natural.
I was educated and witty, well-read and gifted in almost everything I had ever tried. I looked like I belonged on a goddamned runway in Milan, and in a war of words, I knew I could hold my own. Yet, in front of him, my entire existence felt inadequate. Futile.
My heart struggled to escape my chest as I waited for him to cut the tiniest of pieces off the porchetta. He added a bit of a roasted rosemary potato to the fork and dipped it in the peach glaze, his movements measured and painstakingly slow.
And just when I thought he was finally going to feed himself, he lifted the fork in my direction. My eyes widened as he waited for me to accept the offered bite, a convincing look of indifference pasted on his cold face.
Just do it and get it over with, I begged my pride.
I leaned forward, excruciatingly aware of the way the table dug into my cleavage at the movement. His eyes dropped to my breasts for a short-lived second, but it was enough to quicken my breath. I forced myself to ignore my audience—him more so than his employees—and opened my mouth for the bite.
He made me wait there, my mouth open, his fork suspended in the air, before he allowed the cold metal to touch the tip of my tongue. He broke our tense eye contact to watch my mouth wrap around the fork. When his eyes dilated and his nostrils flared, I leaned back, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
Everything about the situation was erotic. My nipples pebbled painfully against the bare fabric of my dress. My pulse felt tangible. A light sheen of sweat coated my neck. And I knew that, if I were to touch myself, I’d find myself dripping wet. For him. The man who came from a family of monsters. The man who was, quite probably, a monster himself.
And only after I let out an involuntary moan—whether at the taste of the food or the indecency of being fed by him, I didn’t know—did he speak, “This is the quality of food we serve at L’Oscurità.” His lips formed a derisive sneer as he met my eyes with unrelenting judgment. “No bartender worth hiring would ever pair a porchetta with a glass of Crémant at a three Michelin star restaurant. Not even on the bar side.”
He tossed his napkin onto the table and stood. The tailored fit of his pants showed off a massive hard-on he didn’t bother hiding. I couldn’t even process the fact that I had given him an erection before he left the room, leaving behind his suit jacket, one-hundred-and-fourteen-thousand-dollar cufflinks, and what little dignity I had left.
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Devious Lies: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Cruel Crown Book 1) Page 52
