Some nights I wished could go on forever. Another reason I didn’t want to get up—contentment in all things.
Through all of my shut-eyed musings, my subconscious had registered my husband's presence, which was why I hadn't wondered where he was, but I didn't realize how close he was to me until then. His nearness seemed to hit me like a brick wall in the darkness.
I opened my eyes to find him as naked as the night before, staring at me with a look I didn't understand at all. Part of it, though, was stifled anger. I understood that well enough.
“Tell me,” he said, his jaw tight.
Tell him...? What could I tell him? That I had enjoyed myself? That he made me have more than one out-of-body experience? In fact, I think he set a record.Grazie? But I knew none of those responses was what he wanted to hear.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting up. The blanket fell, exposing my breasts to the cool air. I rubbed my eyes. “I’m not sure…”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated in Italian. Then, “I didn't mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to what?” I asked almost stupidly, not sure where we were going with this. “Why are you apologizing tome?”
Before I could fully respond, my back was to the bed, my wrists locked in his hold. The air in the room suddenly felt colder, and it tasted bitter on my tongue like ash. I licked my parched lips, feeling as though I had been taken on a dizzying ride before I could really wake up.
I looked over his shoulder. In the light of a crisp winter morning, I realized what I had missed during the haze of lust and romance of the night. That was no moth that flew into the fire. It was a rose petal that he had thrown.
The arrangement was gone. No trace of it was left. In fact, when I thought back, it had been gone since before I came out of the bathroom after we had arrived home.
I still refused to voice my thoughts on the matter. Better him think it was someone else than the man I suspected. His father. The theory hung around, but theory was only half of the battle.Why?Maggie Beautiful first and then me.
“Scarlett,” he said, snapping my attention back to him.
“You didn’t mean to do what, Brando?” I barely got out. My stomach fell, as if it were weighted down by rocks. He rarely apologized, even when he was wrong. He made it up in other ways.
He stared at me as though I had grown three heads and snakes as hair.
“Tu,” he said, his voice low and venomous.
Me? What about me? I wondered if I was returning the look. The last I remembered, we had made love in front of the fire,once again, and then he picked me up and put me to bed after he decided he had served me well—to the point of being delusional.
This entire situation was starting to rub me the wrong way. I struggled to release myself from his hold, but he wouldn’t let me loose.
“Ancora te stesso.” He glared at me.Still yourself. “Stavi parlando nel tuo sonno.”You were talking in your sleep.
“Così?”I said.
What could I have said? Did I talk about grapes and he took them to mean something else? I was honestly confused—almost shocked. The strain of staying up all night was starting to encroach on my peaceful morning. I was sore and hungry, on the verge of becoming angry. Our tempers were a match to gasoline.
“So,” he repeated in English, almost astounded that I had the audacity to say the wordsoin response to his probing—even if in Italian.
“If you have something to say to me,” I snapped, “dillo!”
“No.” He ran his tongue over his lip. “You have something to say tome.”
“If I had something to say—” I wrestled with his hold, but no use. So I bucked my hips up, inciting him to either get on with it or get off. “I would have said it.”
He took his time, watching me. Then he leaned in closer, his erection sliding against my stomach. I had to look at him from the side of my eye. He put his mouth close to my ear. His breath was warm, and my eyes closed in response.
“Gli ubriachi ei bambini parlano la verità,” he whispered. The undercurrent was cool, almost frigid. “Così sognatori.”
His movements were slow as he rose to look over me again, and I held his eye. Releasing one of my wrists, he went to touch the set of my chin, raised in defiance. Mistake. I bit him, hard. But he made no move to yank his hand away.Effing masochist.
I hated that I couldn’t do two things at once that required the use of my teeth. Things had to be said. So I released him.
“You ass,” I almost growled out. “You’re accusing me of dreaming of another man!Drunks and children speak the truth. So do dreamers.” I spit his words back at him.
