The thought sends another wave of warmth crashing throughme simultaneously. Because it isn’t just that he took my virginity. It’s that between those slow kisses and whispered words and the impossible gentleness, Fiero Bellucci made me feel precious. Like something worth protecting.
And no one has ever made me feel that way before.
My fingertips hover over the dressing before I stop myself from touching him. Despite everything we’ve done, touching the dressing over his bullet wound feels too intimate somehow.
Suddenly, his arm tightens around my waist.
I freeze. I don’t know anything about morning-after etiquette and besides, this isn’t an ordinary morning after. It’s so completely abnormal, maybe the right etiquette doesn’t exist.
“Where are you going?” he asks in a voice rough with sleep.
“I need to call my father.”
One eye opens sleepily. Dark, dark brown, rich and heavy.
“Why?”
“I’m usually home by now. He’ll be worried.”
He nods once. “Be quick.”
I climb self-consciously out of the sheets, grab my phone and dive into the bathroom. There’s no answer so I leave a short message.
When I return to Fiero, he’s awake and looking back at me with lazy bed eyes.
Now that I can fully see his face, I can’t seem to stop staring at it. He’s tragically handsome, features cut deep like a Shakespearian hero. There’s also a world behind his eyes that he isn’t letting me see.
Acutely aware that I’m naked, I slip into bed and tug the sheets up to my chin. He watches me with an amused curve to his lips.
“Come here.” He opens his arms, inviting me to curl into his hard, inked chest again, which I do.
After a few minutes, he inhales a long breath. “Why don’t you want me to put my hands on you?”
My body braces. I evaded this question the last time he asked, but things have changed. He’s beeninsideme.
“It’s not just your hands,” I clarify. “It’s anyone’s hands. I can’t stand anyone’s hands on me.”
He doesn’t repeat the question again but I know he’s waiting on an answer.
“I…” Swallowing, I try to remember the reply I’d rehearsed in my head. “A long time ago, someone touched me when I asked them not to. I kept asking them to stop, but they didn’t listen.”
His body stiffens beneath me, then a growl tumbles from his throat. “Who?”
This is a question I wasn’t anticipating. Why would he care who it was?
“It doesn’t matter now. It was a long time ago.”
“Was it a guy?”
The pause drags out. “Yes.”
“Is he still in your life?”
Unfortunately, yes.“No.”
“Do you know if he’s alive?”
Unfortunately, that’s another yes.“I don’t know.”
