Desired By The Mafia Boss

Chapter12

Jessamae shivers in her sleep, a sight that prompts Hanzo to grumble for August to increase the temperature on the thermostat.

"Understood, boss!" August responds promptly.

In her slumber, Jessamae appears peaceful, a sight that Hanzo takes a moment to appreciate. He watches her chest rise and fall rhythmically with each breath she takes. Her usual scowl fades away, replaced by a serene expression as her dark lashes flutter against her cheeks. His arousal stirs, and he places a hand over the growing bulge, anger simmering alongside the desire. He blames her for the turmoil he's experiencing.

The soft light illuminates her cheekbones and traces the length of her slender neck. Her thick hair, mostly dry now, spills over the sides of the plush leather. Her mouth falls slightly open, and she stirs in her sleep, muttering incoherent words before falling silent again.

He takes another swig of sake, accusation burning in his heart. Why should he care about her? She's just a skinny know-it-all.

Mary's voice interrupts his thoughts. "Why are you torturing the poor girl?" Her words instantly transport him back to his childhood. They've had countless exchanges like this over the past twenty years. Mary, she's the mother figure he never had.

He rubs his face and blinks, realizing he's sitting in the kitchen, daydreaming about Jessy. He's bathed and changed into plain cotton slacks, a new bottle of sake cradled in one hand. Damn it. This is going to be a problem.

"I ain't torturing her," he mutters, resuming his self-imposed mission to drink himself into oblivion. "I'm helping her."

"It sure didn't look like it earlier," Mary retorts.

"So sue me. She's alive, isn't she?"

"I suppose that is true," Mary concedes.

She pushes a dinner tray towards him. "Here, make yourself useful. And at least try to be civil."

He scowls, wanting to avoid the truth like the plague. There's a reason why no one else ever visits, not even his friends. This place isn't a home; it's more like a mausoleum.

"I don't pay you just to end up doing this mundane stuff myself," Hanzo grumbles, his tone laced with irritation.

"Are you giving me lip, boy?" Mary warns, brandishing a tea towel like a weapon. "Watch your step, or you might find a surprise of nails in your porridge tomorrow. And then who will take care of your sorry self?"

"Alright! For heaven's sake." Hanzo grudgingly sets his bottle of sake aside to accept the tray. "Could this evening possibly drag on any longer?!"

"I like her," Mary comments as he turns to leave. "And this place could certainly benefit from a few more souls."

A wave of unexpected pleasure washes over him at the thought of Jessamae being just two doors down from his bedroom. "Don't get too comfortable with her. She won't be staying long."

He glances at the tray filled with rice, a fried egg, grilled eel, some vegetable sides, and miso soup. Damn it. Is he trying to convince Mary or himself?

He grumbles to himself as he carries the tray up the staircase, annoyance simmering within him, his arousal making its presence known every few seconds. He knocks on the door once.

"Hey?" He calls out, one hand on the doorknob, the other carefully balancing the tray. "Are you awake?"

Then he remembers who he is and pushes the door open without waiting for a response. It's his house, after all. He shouldn't have to knock.

"Mary thought you might be hungry," he explains, immediately cursing himself for returning. They aren't friends, if that's what she's thinking. This...is purely physical. "It's not like you have anywhere to be tomorrow, right?"

"Join me?" She blurts out, rubbing her arm nervously. "To be honest, this room... It's stunning, don't get me wrong, but it's also a little intimidating." Her voice lowers, and his arousal responds to each word. "I can't explain it. There's just something...haunting about this place."

He frowns. Hnnn, she has no idea how right she is.

He sprawls out in the vacant spot beside her, finding himself strangely wanting to make her happy. He sets the tray between them, remembering that he's already eaten. Then he notices that she's still wearing his T-shirt. He imagines his skin touching hers like the fabric of his shirt, and swallows a groan as his arousal intensifies. Damn it. This is becoming a problem.

"Where's your knife?" She queries, delicately spooning small portions of the meal into her mouth. As she swallows, Hanzo finds himself entranced by the sight of her throat moving. Damn it.

His arousal responds immediately, straining against the confines of his trousers. He clears his throat in an attempt to alleviate the tension and casually hooks a finger over the waistband of his slacks. "It's not just a knife. It's a katana. Mary is currently cleaning it. If it's not properly cleaned, the metal will become stained. You know, with the blood from your deceased Russian acquaintances?"

Jessamae's brow furrows at his vivid yet insensitive description, her eyes darting over to his muscular body lounging casually on the right side of the bed. She focuses on his chest and raises the bowl to her face, hoping to hide her embarrassment. "I'm surprised you don't sleep with that thing beside you."

He counters her jest with a stern expression, a finger absentmindedly stroking an earring. "I do - after it's cleaned."

She steals glances at him, and her stomach clenches. She swallows the giggle threatening to escape her lips as her cheeks flush with heat.

Damn it. What was that?! She hasn't had that reaction since high school!

Her foot begins to throb, and she places the bowl onto the tray before moving it onto the side table. She lifts her leg to check her foot, only to find it significantly swollen. She quirks her lips in confusion and releases a drawn-out sigh.

"I bet it's infected from all that damned pacing," Hanzo comments.

She turns her gaze towards him, her right foot still held in her hand as she mutters under her breath. "I don't remember asking for your opinion."

"Honestly, it's amazing you haven't already died," he continues. "I'll do you a favor and take a look. You're probably blind as well."

But she doesn't respond. Instead, her heart pounds like a sledgehammer in her chest as his warm, calloused fingers suddenly grip her ankle.

"Oh!" With a single jerk, heat rushes to her face as she's pulled against the mattress and closer to him. He hovers over her as he studies the wound on her foot.

What on earth is he doing?!

She opens her mouth to speak, to tell him no, but no words come out. A tingle spreads over her ankle as his fingers lightly stroke her. And she finds herself captivated by the sight of him.

Her grandfather's words echo in her ears. On the day of her wedding, an Asian bride will kneel and wash her husband's feet with fragrant water infused with petals - it's a sign of the utmost respect.