The Mafia Boss

Part 3: Those Seductive Hands

"Don't ever try to run from me like that again, my little angel. "

My little angel? He has a fucking nickname for me now? As if he has the right to call me anything but my name. I move my wrists, trying to free them, but fail. I tug my hands away from the bedpost they are attached to with as much strength as I can muster, rewarded only with a chuckle from the man standing in front me. I am sitting on the edge of a large bed in the shape of a square and colored with a dark shade of blue. The bedposts on each corner of the bed connect to the roof of the canopy, to protect from a rainstorm totally about to happen inside the room. Rich people go so overboard, it's ridiculous. 

I lift my gaze up to meet his hypnotizing green eyes. Green like the leaves on a tree in spring. Like the grass in a park. Like the plants. Like nature. Like life. I stare into those endless green eyes. Those absorbing, enchanting, beautiful green eyes. Observing them, losing myself in them, forgetting where I am, who he is. Forgetting where I am, which is handcuffed to his bed, abducted, captured, stuck. Forgetting who he is, which is a lunatic who kidnapped me and for what reason? Still unknown. He grins, looking down at me, sitting on the edge of the bed, the tips of my feet barely touching the floor. I give him the bitchiest face I can, showing him how much I hate him, showing him how much of a prick he is, how unfair it is for him to be so hot but so incredibly infuriating and entitled. His grin widens, making my breath hitch in my throat.

"You're so cute when you're mad. God, how I missed you, Lucia." He says leaving the heat to rise on my skin. He steps forward keeping his head facing down at me. His hand caresses my cheek. An arrogant smirk grows on his face as he unexpectedly gets down on his knees and spread my legs apart with his left hand. My breathing quickens and my heartbeat goes faster and faster. His hand trails a pattern along my inner thigh. Leaving goosebumps in its wake. I'm wearing shorts and an oversized T-shirt. I wasn't wearing that when I woke up. I just realize he must have changed my clothing without me knowing. I try to close my legs, but he grips both my thighs and pushes them open even further. I look down at him, my mouth slighted parted as short pants escape it. He smiles and places his hand at my knee and with a featherlight touch continues the path upwards. Slowly, ever so slowly he goes up and up. I'm frozen in place, I cannot get it into my head to move, to pull away, maybe I just don't want to. His hand reaches just below the exact point I so desperately want it to go to and stops. "Remember those times, Lucia? I know you so well, I know exactly what you want," his hand paints circles with light strokes "exactly what you need," he goes round and round and round "exactly what can turn you on," round and round and round, I can't take it, I close my eyes and put my head back letting out a slow, shaky breath. He stops and I miss his hand, yearn for his touch. I bring my head up to face him, once again towering over me. He bends down and brings his lips to my right ear, whispers: "And I know exactly how much power I have over your body; how desperate you are for my touch."

The moment those fucking horrifying, ridiculous, absolute bullshit words reached the short distance from his lips to my ear I snapped back into focus. Those words released me from the spell he had put me under with those eyes, that voice, those hands. I pull my head away from his lips and give him a powerful kick in the leg right under the knee, hopefully that'll bruise. He takes in a sharp breath. And just once, just one time can he please take off that stupid mask and show me that I have hurt him. That I'm strong enough to deliver him pain, capable of hurting him or affecting him in any way. But that mask he puts on, the one that hides away the effect anything has on him, the one he uses to burn his emotions into smoke, stays in place. When we were dating, he never once let it slip, never once showed emotions. At some point in the relationship, I thought he had none, that the mask was just something I made up, that he actually doesn't feel anything. He does though, how can he not? All humans do. Although, maybe he isn't one, that would explain a lot.

He smiles, further proving the existence of the mask, and just to attempt to rip that smug fucking smile off of his smug fucking face I say: "You're wrong. You might think you know everything about me but a lot has changed since you last saw me. You think you have any power over me? Wrong. I moved on the moment I left you. My memory had been wiped clean of you until you took me. I hate you and your very being. And I'm going to keep trying and trying to escape until you let me go or my heart has beaten its last note."

Disappointment paints his face with its ugly shade. "That's too bad, I thought I could make this fun for the both of us. But if you want it to be so, so be it. Just understand" He bends down until his face is inches away from mine, his lashes easily countable, the shine on his perfectly carved lips visible. Suddenly he becomes serious, his previous air of non-chalance and teasing gone. "that I will not let you escape, no matter how hard you try. I will not let you go until you feel the same burning obsession, the same torturing adoration for me as I do for you. Understand that I will not let you go because if you die it will be in my arms, in my house, with me rather than with any other man breathing on this planet." I can't breathe, my heart beats faster than it should. Why does he manage to make me feel like this, like how no other man has never made me feel before? I've dated so many guys, but been in love with not as many and yet this feeling is foreign to me. This wild, adrenaline high. He makes my heart run, the blood flowing in my veins hotter, makes me feel special, wanted, makes me feel good in my own body, comfortable, makes me want things I shouldn't want. He straightens himself, returning to his normal self and walks calmly over to the closet next to the door opposite the bed and pulls out a piece of silky, red cloth, its shape not distinguishable from on the bed. He walks over and throws the dress next to me on the bed. Reaching into the pocket of his suit pants, he procures a little key. The next thing I hear are his steps reaching the bedpost to my left with the handcuffs tied to it, the lock on the cuffs rattle and I pull my hands away as soon as they are freed of them. I check my wrists, but they are unscathed. He had put the handcuffs so that they were loose as not to damage my wrists yet tight enough to stop them from falling off my hands.

"Put the dress on and freshen yourself up. The bathroom is there." pointing at the door opposite my bed "You have an hour until I will see you downstairs for dinner. Don't be late." he says and then the door slams shut behind him.