Page 117 of The Ruin I Chose

I walked over to Marcello and adjusted his collar.

“Looking good, Mr. Vitale,” I said—voice low, fingers grazing his neck, lingering longer than necessary.

He smirked. “Not better than you, Mrs. Vi…Talati.”

The pause was deliberate. My heart stuttered. My walls rose—fast, instinctive, protective. I blinked.

Was he about to call me by his last name?

Mrs. Vitale?

Mrs. Roxanne Vitale?

No. No. No.

I’d been down that road once. Burned my fingers. Scorched my heart. Not again. Marriage changes everything—we take each other for granted, we stop trying. Sex fades. Resentment blooms.

Everything crumbles.

I liked what I had with Marcello. Loved it too much. I wasn’t going to let a stupid norm of society ruin that for me.

But did he want that? Marriage?

We hadn’t spoken about it. Hell, we hadn’t done much talking at all. Just fucked all night. Hard. Desperate. Like silence was safer than truth.

I didn’t know what the future held. And I wasn’t going to let this slip ruin this moment. I wanted to stay in the now. In the ache. In the want.

He leaned in, fingers tracing the curve of my waist to the edge of my blouse. He knew just the right way to snap me out of my spiral.

“This outfit,” he murmured, “gives me more access to you.”

My skin lit up under his touch like it had been waiting all day. I smacked his hand even though I loved his touch, but the tingling stayed. Even after a night wrapped in him, I still missed him. Missed the weight of him. The way he anchored me. The way he made the world disappear—until it was just us.

My body was greedy. My heart, worse. I wanted him again.

And again.

And again. Until I forgot what alone felt like.

“Thinking about last night?” he whispered, voice low, breath warm against my ear.

I looked at him through the mirror—cheeks flushed, lip caught between my teeth. He could read my thoughts. The filthy ones. The ones I didn’t say out loud.

“Can’t wait to do it all over again,” he said—voice hoarse, halfway between a promise and a moan. “Every day.”

His voice was honey—slow, thick and sinful. Eyes heavy with want, already undressing me. And the tent in his pants? That was all me.

Me.

A chubby, curvy woman.

Who had the power to break his restraint. Undo him. And he held the power to undo me. We were each other’s salvation. Each other’s sin. Each other’s sanctuary. We weren’t perfect. But we were perfectly wrecked for each other.

My mother called us over for a photo. Marcello pulled me close, his hand resting just above my hip bone. Like he was staking his claim in front of the world.

Kyra came running in, eyes bright. “I want a picture too.”

Marcello scooped her up, placing her between us. I reached for his waist to anchor myself to him. My mother smiled, eyes softening. Like she saw the family forming.