Maggie
I was weightless.
Floating.
For the first time in over a year, it felt like there was nothing I had to worry about. There was nothing I had to think of except how it felt to sleep, relax, and just be.
Then I felt something soft, plush, comfortable, unlike anything I’d ever felt before. A cloud. A pillow. A mattress?
My eyes flew open as the weightlessness ended. I jerked upright, grabbing around me, my hands reaching, panic overtaking me. “Mateo?Mijo? Where are you?”
“Maggie. Shh…” Smoke. His arms. Strong, solid. “He’s fine. I got you. He’s asleep.”
“Where?” I said, brushing the hair from my face. I was still in Antonia’s dress, but the shoes were gone and so were the earrings. “Where’s my son?”
“Here,” he told me before holding my hand, leading me down a short hallway and into a bedroom, the door open wide.
There was a bed outfitted with a thick quilt pushed to the edge of the mattress. In the center was my son, on his back, his arms outstretched, surrounded by a ring of pillows Smoke seemed to have made for him.
“Yes,” I said, laughing under my breath.
Men were clueless about babies but damn cute sometimes.
“You can hear him if he cries,” he told me, leading me back toward his room. “The place is old and solid, but the vents make it impossible to keep many secrets. If he cries, you’ll know.”
“You’re the only one in the building?” I blinked with my mouth hanging open.
“My folks took Dario to their place, and the street sweepers got the snow cleared,” he said, untucking his shirt. As I watched him, pressing my lips together, probably looking a little desperate, Smoke stopped, moving closer, but not close enough to touch me. “I’ll take the pullout couch so you can rest in here.” His tone was light, but the inflection was open-ended, like he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted to do. Like he was pretty sure that was not what I wanted him to do at all.
The shirt he wore was high-end, the sleeves rolled and still unwrinkled. It fit him like it was sewn onto him. This branch of the Carelli family tree may not betheCarelli family, but they certainly weren’t poor.
Smoke’s home was lush, his furnishings ornate and comfortable. There were no discount IKEA pieces in this place. No overstock purchases or last-season designs filling his closets. Like the dress I borrowed from his sister, everything was new and designer, with just a bit of overkill. But on Smoke, it didn’t seem over the top.
It seemed pretty damn good.
He appeared to be waiting for me to do something. He didn’t have to wait long. I’d gone a long time not touching anyone but myself.
I didn’t love Smoke Carelli, but I did want him.
I needed him to touch me, and I wanted desperately to touch the fine lines of his taut, strong body. I wanted to taste the smooth slope of his thin waist and deep ridges that dipped past his navel.
“Smoke,” I whispered, standing in front of him, taking his hand in mine.
He raised his eyebrows, a silent acknowledgment.
“I don’t want to be in here alone.”
He wet his lips, moving his teeth over his bottom one while he looked at me like he needed me to be clear. “You want me to sleep in here?”
“Not so much, no.”
He moved close, curling one hand around my waist. “You want me to fuck you in here?”
I laughed, my mouth pulling up at one side. “Damn,papi, you have a filthy mouth.”
“Bellissima, you’re about to find out just how filthy my mouth is.”
I was not ready for him.
