“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, caressing my flushed cheek, placing a sweet kiss on my lips. “That dress looks beautiful on you.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Everything, but mostly that it’s on you.”
“Ooh, you are sosweet, Fausti.” I fluttered my lashes at him.
He shook his head, as if he was waking from a dream. “Scarlett,” he said, his chest vibrating with a low growl. “Wrong choice of words. Just for that, you better make the dance dirty.”
I put my hands up, throwing my head back, cackling. “You are such a sensitive, caring man.” I sighed with dramatic flair. “Just a big stuffed animal, that’s all you are. You are so in touch with your feelings! Can we do each other’s hair? You can meet Bob.”
He swooped me up, throwing me over his shoulder, causing me to screechMAMMA MIAbefore he brought me to the bed.
“Hell.” He made a noise deep in his throat. “You really are going to be the death of me. My wife has become a giggling wino.”
“Haha! You poured it down my throat, remember?” He put me down on the bed and I bounced. Somehow, I found the situation even more hilarious. I pointed at him. “If you’re going to ravish me, I demand food after!”
He went outside and grabbed the bowl of fruit, placing it next to the bed.
“No.” I mocked Rosaria’s voice. I pouted. “Bring me pasta, Beast!”
“What kind?”
“Does it matter?” I said, a bit more serious. “It’s pasta, Brando.”
He exhaled, long and deep, staring down at me. “You’re going to have to work for it.”
“Mamma Mia!”
“Stop saying Mamma Mia.”
“All right.” I cocked my pointer finger at him, beckoning him. “Come to me, my husband, and warm my bed.”
“Yeah,” he said, obliging. “That’s fucking better.”
* * *
Vibrations woke me. A constant shaking that confused me, even in sleep.
One eye slowly opened, aroused by the jiggle. At first, I was met by bright, hot light that seemed to sear my cornea. I closed my eye to it before both eyes decided it was worth the risk to team up and see what caused the fuss. On full alert, I also smelled the divinity that was coffee.
Brando sat next to me, on the edge of the bed, leaning over his legs, his face cast down, his shoulders shaking.
“Brando?”
“Yeah, baby.”
He wasn’t upset; he was laughing.
“Am I dreaming?”
He laughed even harder.
“H-how are y-you f-feeling?” He could hardly get the words out.
“Perturbed.” The sun almost wanted to make me hiss, and his movements almost made me lose the contents of my stomach. Too much dirty dancing, too much pasta, and so many orgasms, but he was right. I had worked for them.
