pinch of sand on the beach for me. But not today.
Today, he’s just given me a reason to do what I want.
He’s taken from me, and now, I can take from him.
And he’ll be able to do nothing about it.
I lean back in my chair, my mood much lighter.
I replay the camera footage and my smile turns to a grin.
Edward Fucking Reynolds… you’ve made a big mistake.
Chapter Five
Ramona
Except for his repeated warnings about me not leaving our property and not roaming around alone, Daddy doesn’t say anything on the ride back home. And just like that, my hopes for having some family time flies out the window. But for the first time, I can’t say that I’m disappointed.
Mom sees us enter the house, and her eyes widen when she looks at me. “Where were you?”
I shrug. I don’t want to be reprimanded by her too.
“Can we have lunch?” Daddy asks her. His voice is gruff, and Mom must realize it because, normally, she would ask questions, but he oozes tension, so she only nods.
“It’s all ready,” she murmurs. I see her nibbling her lip like she’s also nervous, but I don’t try to understand their agitation. My mind is too occupied with a certain man to focus on anything else.
When I finish my lunch, I mumble about going to my room. They either didn't hear me or didn’t feel the need to acknowledge me. No matter what, I'm grateful for their distraction. I don't want Daddy to start talking about how I should stay away from the club or how I should stay at home. I've already heard it enough.
Once I get to my room, I grab my laptop and search the name I've been thinking about since I met him: Luca Caruso.
As soon as I hit enter, I'm bombarded with his masculine beauty. His eyes are still intense enough to make my breath hitch, even through the screen. I take a quick look at his biography. His father died last year, and there is no information about his mother, except her being from the United States. His father came from Italy, and that definitely explains the good looks he has. Bless those Italian men. I read about his achievements but get distracted with all the magazine covers that have his face on them. Mr. Perfect is written next to one of his pictures, and I couldn't agree more.
I remember how kind he was to me, even though he looked every bit intimidating on the outside. I still feel the warmth of his hand around my waist and his feather-like touch on my hair. Such a gentleman he was. Looks, money, education, and behavior, he has it all. He is indeed Mr. Perfect.
I try to find out if he has a girlfriend or, worse, a wife, but the internet only shows a collection of different women with him at the lavish social functions he attends. So I guess he's a bachelor. From what I gather, he seems like the most eligible bachelor around here.
An absurd wave of jealousy rushes through me, like I have any right over him. I quickly shake it off. It's stupid. I’ve never even had a boyfriend, and the moment I see a handsome man, I get an instant crush on him. This sounds pathetic. I have no idea how to even please a man like him. Hell, I don't know how to please men in general.
What would he want to do with me?
That man wouldn't want an amateur. He must be spending his nights with someone who knows what she's doing, and that person isn't me.
But that doesn't stop me from fantasizing. I wonder how it would be to feel him over my body, touching me, kissing me, making love to me. I wonder what kind of lover he would be. If he’d be soft and tender. Somehow, I doubt it. He’s definitely domineering, and that excites a part of me, more than I should admit. I wonder what it would feel like when he takes control of my body and takes care of me as he makes love to me. With a dreamy but frustrated sigh, I close my laptop and place it on my nightstand. If I sleep, maybe I can forget about him.
I can't see his face, my vision is blurred, probably with tears, but I feel him over every inch of my body. His hands on my hips are bruising. I feel his fingers digging into my skin. His weight pushes