Niccolo Fierri [Book #2]

Chapter 20

Oh my damn.

I zero in on the worded tattoo peeking out of his towel located above the curve of his pelvic bone. I can't read the words as they are in Italian and cut off by the towel around his waist.

He doesn't look as broken down as he did last night. He hasn't necessarily healed, but he also doesn't look like he should be sent to the ER.

He glances down at the soup in my hands. For a second, I think he's about to slam the door in my face, but instead he pushes the door open more, steps aside, and giving me room to enter.

"Are those my clothes?" He asks, tilting his head to the side to get a better view of me.

"Probably."

I slip past him, walking over to his nightstand and setting the bowl down. This is weird. I'm not use to this at all. Is it weird that I kind of miss the banter between us?

Yes, it was immensely annoying and pissed me off to no end, but it also gave me something to look forward to at work. I looked forward to pissing him off, as he did me.

Shutting the door closed, he doesn't say a word as he walks over to his dresser and unexpectedly drops the towel. I stare at the towel pooling at his ankles, before my eyes drift up to his bare ass.

Oh my God.

It isn't until he turned around that my heart falls out of my ass. And no matter how much I inhale, oxygen refuses to pass into my lungs.

My mouth is gaped open from the shock, my eyes focused on all of him. The boxers grow damp from the sight.

Fuck, this man is beautiful.

It's not until a minute or two later that I'm able to form a sentence. And even that comes out nervous and breathy. "W-what are... you doing?"

"God, you sound like Luci." He rolls his eyes, turning away from me to rummage in his drawer. "Besides, you're in my room."

His back is to me. His muscles, biceps, calves, ass, everything flexed. I lick at my lips in a failed attempt to moisten my parched lips.

I want to lick and kiss all over him, taste the saltiness of his skin and inhale his musky scent.

My other lips are wet as all hell. I shift with discomfort, unable to tear my lust filled gaze from his torn, tattered, and ripped body.

"I can come back or-"

"Oh please," he scoffs. "Don't act like you don't want me to fuck you right here and now."

"I could say the same to you, pretty boy," I counter with a playfully wicked grin, finally building up the usual confidence I'd lost a moment ago.

He's pulled out a pair of boxers briefs similar to the ones I currently have on, but doesn't put them on. Instead he sets them down on the dresser and saunters over to me, free-balling and all.

My eyes almost pop out of their socket from how shocked I am. It's hard to impress me. And it would be an understatement to say he wasn't the most impressive thing I've ever seen.

I'm backed against the bed, having no choice but to fall back. Pinning his hands on either side of me, I notice the way his eyes have darkened and glistened, a lopsided devilish smirk reaching his blackened eye.

His hand as well as the rest of him is still injured, but he doesn't seem to care. I swallow hard, my first time coming across someone equally as bold as me.

I see why men get so nervous when I say what's on my mind or tell them blatantly what I want. It's intimidating. And it makes you want them more.

"I brought you soup," is the only words I can manage as I'm currently flushed, and my mind not properly functioning at the moment.