“Not just any plum. The best plum you will ever taste,” he says.
When he lowers it, I take a tentative bite. The second my teeth break the deep purple skin, sweetness explodes in my mouth. It’s rich, honey-sweet, decadent. The juice leaks down my chin, the flesh firm and slick, the perfect mix of sweet and tart. I let out a little sigh and Armani takes his own bite.
Our eyes lock as we take turns eating the fruit and kissing in between bites. I can’t explain it, but it’s one of the most erotic experiences of my life. When we finish, we take turns sucking the juice off each other’s fingers and lips and tongues, groaning softly, our movements growing more and more urgent, more feral, more hungry, until suddenly Armani is inside me, his thrusts hot and urgent and perfectly timed with the rolling of my hips. I want this. I need it. I have to have it. Have to havehim.
We’re in the middle of the forest, the waterfall thundering nearby. There’s not a soul on this island that will be able to hear my cries. Knowing it sets me free, and I let myself moan as loudly as I want, my voice deep and throaty and sensual, nothing holding me back. I lock my ankles around his waist and grab his ass, feeling the muscles there flexing as he strokes hard into me. It’s so good. So perfect. So fucking perfect.
The orgasm hits me in waves, each deeper and more toe-curling than the last. My eyes flutter, my mouth falling open as I gasp for breath, and then Armani covers my lips with his own as he comes inside me with a shudder. I can feel his entire body go tense and then relax, and when he tries to roll off of me I wrap my arms tighter around him to keep him exactly where he is.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Right there. Don’t move.”
After a while, once we’ve caught our breath and our bodies have cooled, Armani takes the plastic off my foot and we get our clothes back on. Then he unpacks the picnic. It’s simple but perfect: more fruit, bread and cheeses, olives and hummus, peppers and carrots and radishes and tomato salad. There’s water and wine and slices of Moroccan citrus cake, which Armani says is called meskouta.
Smiling at him, I tease, “You know…if you’re not careful, you just might make a girl fall.”
“Maybe I’m trying to make her fall,” he says.
That takes me completely by surprise.
“You already put a ring on it,” I remind him. “A little forcibly, but still. You don’t really have to try.”
“But I want to,” he says.
He leans over to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and then brushes his thumb over my bottom lip before giving me a quick kiss. And as we eat, I realize that everything about this day has been perfect. Perfect for me, anyway.
I couldn’t have imagined a better honeymoon if I’d tried.
17
ARMANI
I don’t lieto women. Usually.
Not because I’m a paragon of integrity, but because I have no need. Generally speaking—and yes, maybe this is my father’s influence casting its shadow—the less that’s said, the better. This method of operation applies to anyone I deal with. The reason is simple: control. Hold your cards close to the vest and you’ll always have the upper hand.
Furthermore, what does come out of my mouth when I talk is as direct, purposeful, and as to the point as possible. Ergo, I’m a man whose words are taken at face value. Taciturn, laconic, reserved, take your pick of adjective. It’s a trait that historically has served me well. Very well.
When it comes to women specifically, I find that more often than not, this translates to me getting what I want with minimal effort. I never offer platitudes or promises; it’s simply not how I operate. Instead, a woman knows within seconds of meeting me if she’s amenable to what I have to offer. Namely, unapologetic straightforwardness, dominance in and out of the bedroom, and zero emotional involvement.
I don’t play games. I know exactly who I am and what I’m about, and I don’t try to hide those things. I’ve found it’s the most convenient arrangement for all parties. A woman I’ve set my sights on can either come along for the ride or walk away. Her choice. It’s no skin off my back either way.
But over the course of this trip, I’ve come to realize that during my time with Candi Gallagher, my entire foundation for interacting with women has crumbled to dust.
Despite the fact that I know better. Despite the fact that showing weakness or emotion in front of her is a death sentence. She’s already proven that she can see straight through me, that she can somehow coax things out of me that I thought I’d buried too deep to ever be retrieved. That makes her unspeakably dangerous. Not just to me, but to the entire Bellanti family.
Unfortunately, I can’t kill her. I couldn’t order it, either. In fact, in all honesty, I wouldn’t hesitate to destroy anyone who even tried to lay a finger on her. That much is certain.
Being protective of her doesn’t undermine me, of course. Giving her pleasure and taking my own doesn’t compromise me, either. I have plenty of experience with these things. Getting attached, though?
Big fucking red flag.
The emotion my brothers show their wives has always been foreign to me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a weakness. Though of course, everyone has them. Soft spots, vulnerabilities, an Achilles’ heel. All I can do is keep extra vigilant and uphold my commitment to protect the Bellanti clan. I can’t afford to acquire the same weaknesses that my brothers have.
And yet. I can’t deny the fact that Frankie and Karina have brought something back to Dante and Marco. Something intangible. Something that my brothers and I all lost when our mom and our sister Lili died. I can’t pinpoint what it is exactly. A softness, maybe. An openness. The kind of thing we had to let go of in the face of our father’s tyranny and rage. We built up our defenses, and we lost our innocence.
We also lost the childhood joy we’d experienced when our mother was alive, but now it’s almost as if I can see glimmers of it in my brothers again. They smile more. Laugh. Tell jokes. The way Dante looks at his baby girl, the serenity he radiates when she’s asleep on his chest. As for Marco, he’s mellowed out, too. He and Karina don’t have any kids yet, but it seems like he’s stopped trying to burn all the bad memories out of his mind with rash decisions and dangerous rivalries and reckless racing.
An uncomfortable part of me envies them, but I can’t let myself fall into the same trap that they have. Not with so many threats weighing on me every day. Our lives are once again uncertain and unsafe. It’s hard to believe my brothers and I ever thought we could walk away from the mob.
