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“Fuck,” he moaned, releasing my hair and hips, as he grabbed onto the dresser as well. He fucked me so hard that everything, even that damn bear, fell onto the ground.
“Liam…” I moaned, “I’m Ahh…fuck”
“Come with me, love,” he whispered. “Ride it with me.” He picked up speed. I couldn’t even see straight, let alone speak coherently.
“Fuck, Liam!” Through squinted eyes, I watched as he came, his eyes rolled back into his head, his lips parted slightly to release a pleasurable sigh before his muscles relaxed.
“Great sex while pregnant, check.” I gasped, totally fucked and happy.
“If this is just the pre-opera sex, I can’t wait for the post.” He grinned, as he slowly pulled out of me.
LIAM
God, she knew how to make a man crazy. My plan was simple: get her to the opera house, accept my award for husband of the year, spend the night in each other’s arms and try to ignore the shit that had gone down at her baby shower. But the moment she said ‘I love you’, I couldn’t control myself. I wanted her, and by God I was going to have her any way I could. Our sex life had been placed on the back burner for the last few weeks, but in one moment, one thrust, it came back with a vengeance and I wondered why we’d slowed down to begin with.
It took her an hour to hide the fact that we had just fucked like wild dogs before we could finally leave for the opera. Those who were lucky enough to get tickets would have to wait until we got there. After all, I was funding this production. The entire car ride over, her hands were squarely tucked into mine, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze and I knew it was because she was processing. She was always processing, sometimes overthinking. She was used to being emotionless, cold as ice and yet, her walls were breaking. I could see it. And if I could tell, so could she. She was trying to find a balance between who she had been forced to be, and who she really was. She was forced to be, by all attributes, a ruthless sadist.
But the woman who sat beside me, leaning against the rail like a young girl in a candy store and watching the opera singers below belt out their souls was my real wife. Under her ice, under the screwing, fighting, and bullets, was a woman who held so many different passions. She looked completely amazed by the singers on stage; she smiled effortlessly. Even in the darkness of the booth, I could tell she was completely carefree.
She watched them, and I watched her.
“Love.”
“Shh,” she hissed at me, not even bothering to look up. “Contarino is offering his daughter, Bianca, in marriage to Capellio, who is from a rival family in hopes to end years of feuding between their houses.”
“It sounds like us.”
That caught her attention. She glanced up at me, her delicate little brown eyebrow raised.
“Not exactly. Listen to her.” She took my hand, leaning against the red chaise lounge in which we both sat up.
Breathing in deeply, I listened to the sorrow in her voice as she wept at her fate. It seemed as though she was begging the audience for help. However, my Italian was not fluent enough to understand a word she was saying.
“Why’s she so sad?” I whispered.
“She’s in love with Falliero, a military hero. Her song is called Della Rosa Il Bel Vermiglio,” she replied.
I wasn’t sure why she loved this so much. Part of me wondered if she had once loved someone else and was unhappy that she had to marry me.
“Liam, my hand.”
I hadn’t realized I was squeezing. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”
“You think I like this because I can relate to it?” She shook her head. It was odd how she could read my mind.
“No,” I lied.
Thank God we had a private booth.
Or else we would actually have to see all the dirty looks I know were directed at us.
“This was one the first plays my father took me to,” she said. “I hated it up until he told me this was my, Aviela’s, and his story. He told me he was Falliero, the lengths he had to go through to stop my mother from marrying the wrong man. Ever since then, every time I went to see it, I imaged them on stage acting out their lives.”
“Do you want to leave?”
She didn’t answer; her brown eyes widened as she stared down at the singers on stage.
“Mel? Love, what is it?”
She shook her head and pointed to the red curtain on the side of the stage. She shifted forward in her seat to get a better look. I followed her gaze, watching the small Italian actress dance around the two men pursuing her, but no one was there. Looking over to Mel, she sat back, her eyes void and completely glazed over.
“Mel…”
“I thought I saw her—Aviela—standing in the corner. She was in white and then she was gone. It happened so quickly.”
Again I looked, and again I saw nothing. Luckily for us, the lights slowly brightened as we reached intermission and the curtain fell.
“You’re leaving.” I rose, pulling out my phone. She was here. I would find her, but I couldn’t do that with Melody so close to danger.
She rolled her pretty brown eyes at me. “Liam, I’m not even sure I saw her.”
“When have you ever doubted your senses? If you saw her, she’s here. I trust you.”
“Or it could be baby brain. I swear some of my senses have been totally…”
Her phone vibrated loudly in her in purse, cutting off the rest of her sentence. We both looked at each other before she pulled it out and of course the caller’s ID was blocked. I reached for it but she simply pushed my hand away, answering herself.
“Mother dearest, was that you hiding behind the curtain?”
“You’ve made my job so much harder, Mel bear,” Aviela’s fake sweetened voice travelled through the phone. “You are not going to be safe anywhere.”
“You would know, seeing as you’re the one apparently stalking my every move.” Mel replied.
“Enough of these games Aviela,” I hissed into the phone. “Show me your face so I can bash it in.” I wanted to do more than make her unidentifiable, but unfortunately, she was still my wife’s mother.
“Correte lungo piccolo bastardino irlandese. Le donne stanno parlando.” And with that, she was gone.
Run along, little Irish mutt. The women are speaking.
The fact that I knew what she said proved my Italian knowledge was increasing, and so was my temper.
Mel’s jaw tightened as the lights dimmed and the voices that carried through the opera house drifted off into gentle whispers and then disappeared altogether. Scanning the seats below the stage, I searched for her phantom of a mother who came with no other purpose than to make our lives hell.
“Damn her for ruining this too,” Mel whispered, rising from her seat and grabbing her coat. I held open the mahogany door to find both Antonio and Monte, dressed like they were part of the secret service, waiting on us.
“Ma’am, sir, is everything alright?” they asked, already reaching into their coats.
“Get the car, we’re leaving. Be on guard, Aviela is somewhere nearby,” Mel commanded before I could even get a word out. Even pregnant, she still demanded respect and radiated authority.
Drawing their weapons, we walked as quickly as Mel’s belly would allow through the draped corridors and down the grand blood red carpeted staircase that overlooked the front entrance. Monte walked two paces behind us, Antonio to the right of Mel and I right in front of her. The moment we exited the theatre, the wind blew past us as we stepped into the thunderously loud and frigidly cold Chicago night. Fedel pulled up so fast the tires skidded on the pavement.
