I could not remember if I washed my hair or not when I got out of the shower. I wrapped myself up in a robe and paced the length of the small cottage. I did not know whether I should go after him and argue it out or wait for him to return to argue it out.
Growling at myself for being so…pathetic, I picked up my leather bag, all the designs I had been working on tucked inside.My family demanded that I still work while on “vacations.” My grandfather and father could create my designs, but not the same as me.
I could not concentrate. I rested my head on the desk, attempting to calm my breaths.
It was official.
My heart was pining.
Aching.
My thighs and vagina too.
A slight knock came at the door. I leaned back some, hoping to see who it was through the window next to the front entrance. Although a curtain shielded the glass some, it was sheer and breezy.
Marciano waved at me.
I really liked Marciano. He reminded me of Romeo Fausti, who I always enjoyed designing for, although my father took care of that generation more than I did.
Romeo seemed to be the most genial of Luca Fausti’s sons, although I had heard plenty of stories about him as well. He might have been slow to anger, but he was still a dangerous Fausti. As dangerous as the lions tattooed on their flesh.
I could never deny that the family lived up to the hype of being dangerous. No matter how far the branch, all the men seemed to share a lion’s spirit. Perhaps years ago, when at the start of the lineage, a Gladiator ancestor had traded his spirit for a lion he had battled in the arena, and that spirit had been kept alive through the ages.
Marciano was another perfect specimen of that lineage. He was darker than Mariano, and…bigger somehow. It looked as if he could pop a man’s head with one squeeze of his bicep. He wore a black t-shirt that looked close to ripping. It jarred me for a moment. I was not accustomed to seeing them in such relaxed clothing. It was usually custom-made suits.
I cracked the door, since I was not dressed, and gave him a shot at my best smile. His eyes narrowed and his face fell into what seemed more natural for him and his brothers—a serious look.
“You okay, Spicy Sissy?”
Despite myself, and the turmoil churning inside of me, my smile relaxed into a more natural one. “Sì.Just…”
My eyes widened at the sight of Mariano charging behind him. I was too slow. Marciano had heard him coming, and he seemed to be bracing himself. Of course. In their family, hierarchy was king. Marciano was behind Mariano.
Mariano had a sweatshirt on, the hood pulled up, and a pair of sweatpants and running shoes. He was covered in sweat. It ran down his face in crystal streams. He looked between the two of us before he stopped in front of his brother. Only a breath existed between their bodies. In the coldest and hardest voice I had ever heard Mariano use, he basically ordered his brother to get the fuck away and go to his own accommodations.
Marciano nodded to him as a soldier, not a brother, would, then turned and left. Remo met him to show him the way.
I opened the door a little wider. “That was rude!”
He looked me over, the ice in his eyes not melted, even with the flash of heat for the silk robe. I pulled it tighter, fighting the urge not to take steps back. He was intimidating this way. If it would have been cold out, he would have been breathing smoke.
He said nothing.
He said nothing for so long, I did not understand what we were doing. Then his eyes flashed to the door, and somehow, I understood. I opened it wider. An invitation to come in.
As soon as the door closed, we turned on each other.
“I was only suggesting!” I shouted, picking up where we had left off at the hot springs.
“Fuck that suggestion!” he roared, waving his hand.
“I am new at this.” I waved a hand, almost crazily. “I did not mean it, or I did, but…only because I do not want to see you in trouble. The law between my family and yours dictates blood, almost.”
He moved closer to me, so close that his breath washed across my face. I took a few steps back, and he took advantage of the space. His body overwhelmed mine, but something told me that, if I held a hand up, he would have bowed down to me.
“The only wounds I cannot recover from are the cuts you dole out, whether from your mouth or your hands,” he said in Italian.
I swallowed hard, my eyes frantically searching his. “All right,” I breathed. “Take me then. Take me to bed. Not to get it out of our systems, but to wash us in each other, so the entire world knows we belong to each other.”
