She’s mine, every fucking inch of her.
Our hands were panicked, like we had been apart for too long, or were facing a separation neither of us was prepared for.
“Brando.” Her hands were in my hair, her soft lips absorbing the droplets of water along my face, and her breath was in my ear, warm and ragged. “Oh, God. I—I love you so much. Only you.”
“You’ve always been mine,” I said to the pulse in her neck. “You’ll always be mine.”
Pausing, I forced her to look me in the eye. “Never. Never question that. You’ve always had me. And I’ve always had you. Even before our time together. Do you understand me, Ballerina Girl?”
She nodded, her eyes glistening with fear and droplets of water.
“Not good enough,” I said, pressing harder against her. “Tell me. I want to hear it.”
“I won’t,” her voice came out as a whisper. “I won’t,mio angelo. I won’t ever question it. But I—I don’t want to even think about it.”
Before she could breathe out another word, my mouth was on hers again, swallowing her fear and uncertainty. I couldn’t take it all and make our world a perfect place, but I could do whatever was in my power to keep her safe.
“I’m terrified,” she said, her voice even lower. “So terrified.” Her hands fluttered around my throat, and then her mouth came to mine, hungry, yearning for the safety she’d always found in me. Her arms came around my neck, her legs around my waist, and when I entered her, we both began to move, a savage need for the push and pull.
“You,” she panted. “Feel. So. Good. Don’t. Stop.”
I didn’t. Not until we both came apart, and then afterward, came together, whatever it was standing between us squashed.
Her fingers came to my hair, running through it over and over, bringing me close to peace.
Still.
“Tell me,” I said, voice sharp and jagged.
“I don’t remember the secrets,” she whispered. “From my dreams. Not remembering terrifies me. This feeling I have—it’s close to the fear I have when death threatens to take you from me. I feel it the most after I have the dreams, even if the dreams have nothing to do with you. You feel it too; you seem to be answering its call.” Her nails dug into my skin. “I won’t be left behind. Not without you. Not now. Not ever.Iswearit. You’re all I have, Brando Fausti. You’reallI’ll ever want. Do you hear me?”
She didn’t have to say what she held back: she felt what I’d been doing. Preparing Romeo for the future.
* * *
“You wear that the last time you were here, baby?”
She looked down at her outfit—my (her) leather jacket, a loose-fitting Henley the color of oatmeal that fell below her thighs, a black pair of pants that were so tight, you didn’t have to guess how fine her legs were, and leather boots that came to her knees.
“Yes,” she said, bringing her eyes back to mine. “Do you think anyone will notice?”
“Not that the outfit is the same.” I cleared my throat. “You were right.”
Even before she knew what she was right about, I could sense the smugness on her. “I usually am.” She sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, pretending to feign impatience. “Tell me, though, what about this time?”
With her eyes to the ceiling, not paying any attention, I swooped her up, and she let out a startledwhoop!I threw her over my shoulder, and she called me names until we got to the front door of the cottage.
“Tell me, Brando.”
“Jesus. You sound just like me.”
I opened the front door, the breeze sweeping and cool, and carted her to the waiting car.
“I know.” She sighed. “Everyone tells me so.”
“Good,” I said.
“Tell me!” Then she growled, laughing while trying to be serious. “Wait! My purse!”
