Chapter Eighteen

She's sitting in the kitchen with a cup of orange juice, not even coffee, and I fight the urge to switch it for her. There's just something so damn innocent about her that drives me insane. My sweet little wife turns me on with everything she does, but she's only eighteen.

"No coffee?"

"I don't know where it's at."

"You didn't ask the chef to make it for you?" She blushes, and a hint of jealousy fills me. Is she interested in my younger chef?

"Um, he's a chef. Besides, I didn't want to impose." Damn. What kind of life did she have with her stepfather? That piece of shit probably limited her meals or made her ask for permission. Am I any better? She can't do shit without my say, but it's not for the same reason.

"This is your home," I tell her, wanting to be different than Jones.

"For now," she reminds me. Fuck. Eating my own words burns in my gut. A part of me wishes I'd cut my tongue out for slipping up like that.

My hand cups her chin. "Don't spread that around to everyone. I'd hate for anyone to treat you with a lack of respect." She cocks her brow and purses her lips, dipping her eyes to where my hand is.

Releasing my grip, I turn around and start the coffee, ignoring the pointed reference that I don't treat her with respect. She gets more respect out of me than anyone else. The way she talks back would have cost her life. Once the pot is brewing, I face her and say, "My mother would like you to join her and Gracie to go shopping today."

"Oh, really?" Stella's eyes widened. "I can go?"

"Yes, but you'll be under guard the entire time, so don't try anything stupid." She twists her lips, giving me a confused frown. "What do you have to say now?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

"No, I don't have anything to say to you, Mr. Valentino. I'm cool. It will be good to see your sister again. Now, I appreciate the release off house arrest."

"It's for your safety, Stella."

"I get it. It's you being a prick about it. What did you think I'd do that would be so stupid? I lived with a man who hadn't let me leave the house in four years. I'm not tripping about a few months."

I lose the distance between us and ask in disbelief, "Four years?"

"Yes, so you can see how being cooped up can feel a bit overwhelming."

"I'm sorry." She snaps her head back, surprised by my apology. Hell, so am I. Frankly, I can't remember the last time I ever said sorry for a damn thing.

"Here's my card."

"Oh, no. Are you sure you trust me with this? You might be broke by the time I get back," she warns me with a devious smile that cracks something deep inside my chest.

"Wife, you could spend to your heart's content and still not bankrupt us. Trust me—my mother has given my father a run for his money." She giggles, and I pull her into my arms. "Have some fun. We'll have dinner together tonight, and you can maybe try something on for me." I wink, kiss her forehead, and then release her. The stunned look on her face matches the one on mine. Fuck—what am I doing? This isn't what I signed up for. Lust. I married her to slake the lust she brings out in me. That's all. Temporary, pleasurable, and that's it.

I rush out of the kitchen, forgetting all about my coffee, and adjust my aching cock. What am I going to do about this feeling in my chest?