“My angel,” I whispered.
He turned over on his side but moved me with him so that his front was pressed to my back. He was a wall of heat against the chill. He kissed a trail from the base of my neck to the middle of my back.
“Scarlett,” he breathed out. “L'ultima parola che parlerò mai.”
“The last word I’ll ever speak,” I murmured.
He pulled me firmer into his front. I reached below the blankets, taking out his hand, kissing each of his fingers, before tucking it back under to hide from the chill of the night.
Louisiana, no matter the season, was a humid place. Dew would be settling soon. The blanket underneath us had already started to feel damp—some from the perspiration of making love, but the rest came from some of the moisture in the air soaking the ground.
“Remedy,” I said, slow and dazed, playing the word game. “I love that one.”
He kissed along my shoulder. He made a noise of contentment, almost drugged. “I love you, too.”
I almost laughed. “I lovethatone, too.”
“Your hair is insane right now,” he said, his nose protruding through the strands and inhaling. “You lookselvaggio.”
Too bad we didn’t have a mirror. He could see whatwildtruly looked like. Him. And I said so.
His warm breath against my neck made me shiver; he was laughing. “I’m supposed to look wild,” he said. “Sono la tua bestia.”
“You are my beast,” I said. “And the beast is rubbing off on his wife…”
The moments after lingered as his hand slid up, caressing each breast, stroking each nipple.
A sound like thick fabric ripping caused him to pause and then laugh. “Bullfrog.”
We could hear the bullfrog hopping through the grass, bending blades. Every so often he let out a noise that almost sounded likevroooo—vroooo—vroooo.
Brando seemed to be listening for him, but I caught sight of my parents’ house in the distance, rising up from the ground as though it were a swamp monster. All of the strife that we had left behind seemed to catch up to me, but not for long.
“Brando,” I said, becoming as still as the water. “Is that—is it in my hair?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, answering the frog instead of me. He sat up, using his elbow to lean on, and with the other hand waved at the intruder. “I have my princess, go find your own to kiss.”
“Brando! Is it still in my hair? Get it out!”
“This frog is a Romeo.” He laughed. “He can’t help himself, Ballerina Girl. Your hair is like a warm nest.”
I took a deep breath in and let it out in slow puffs. “Get the effing thing out of my hair!” I hiss-whispered.
“Look at that. He’s fallen in love.” Brando was barely able to control his laughter. “He wants to fight me. He’s a big fucking bullfrog, too.”
I reached down and took the first thing available in my grasp, holding it like a hand.
Brando made a noise deep in his throat beforehegot a grip on the situation. “He’s puffing up—”
EEEEEEEEEEEEE! At the sudden cry, Brando pulled his hand back as though he had been stung.
“I don’t think that’s normal. This is a rabid frog.”
I closed my eyes, trying my hardest to ignore the short strands of my hair being pulled by something green and bloated.
EEEEEEEEEEEEE!The noise continued on, as though air had been released out of a balloon, followed by the crackle of dial-up Internet. What was he doing? Trying to get an effing signal?
“What’s he doing?” I whispered.
