8
LILIANA
I wake before the sun does. The sky outside is a dark bruise, it's soft and heavy. Giovanni is still asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist like it belongs there. His hand is warm against my belly, the weight of it anchoring me to the bed, to this moment.
My body aches, a lingering feel of what happened last night, what I'd let happen. I pull the covers tighter around myself, like they can hide the truth from me, but they can’t. It’s all there. In the folds of the sheets. In the scent of him on my skin. In the soft, measured breath against the back of my neck.
I stare at the ceiling. Count the lines in the plaster. Anything to not think.
But I can still feel him. Everywhere. Between my legs, my thighs, in the soft ache that pulses each time I move. I feel him in my skin, in the way my lips still tingle from his mouth, in the hollow of my chest that clenches with the weight of what I let happen.
What I did.
He murmurs something in his sleep and shifts, his breath brushing my shoulder. I flinch. Just slightly, but it’s enough to tell me to get the hell out of bed before he wakes. I don't know how I can face him.
I slide out from under his arm and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. My robe lies where he dropped it, a crumpled whisper of silk that feels too thin, too delicate. I wrap it tightly around myself as if it'll shield me.
My legs tremble when I stand, and I wince from the soreness. More from what we did than what I’m feeling now. I move quietly across the room. The floor is cool beneath my careful feet.
In the bathroom, I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. It's unfamiliar. My hair is a mess of dark tangles. My mouth is swollen. My neck is blotched with marks from his mouth. I look like someone who’s been thoroughly ruined. I look like someone who should be happy. I press my fingers to the marks on my skin as I look away.
What did I expect? That he’d say he loved me and mean it? That this would change things?
He’s a man who does what he wants, takes what he wants. I was convenient. I was available. I was willing.
Stupid girl.
He’s kind. Gentle, even. But love? That’s something he doesn’t owe me. That’s not something men like him give. Not to women like me.
Last night wasn’t about love. It was about lust. And I gave in. I hate myself for it.
Knowing I can't hide in here forever, I return to the room. When I return to the room, he’s awake. He’s sitting up, the sheets pooled around his waist, dark hair tousled from sleep. He’s watching me.
Despite my vehement denial about what happened last night, I can't seem to look away from him. Dio, the man is gorgeous.
You left the bed, he signs.
I don’t answer. I can't.
Are you alright?
I nod, even though I’m not. My throat is tight, like I have words to say even though I can't form them.
He frowns. “Liliana.” He says my name and I read it on his lips.
I should get my hearing aid, but I can't move. I'm looking at him, watching him intently, as if in doing so, I'll be able to hold myself off from falling headlong for his charm the next time. I try to smile. I fail woefully.
Tell me what’s wrong, he says.
I shake my head.
I won’t know unless you let me know.
I wish I could. But my hands are trembling like they can't carry the weight of what I need to convey. I can’t tell him I feel cheap. Can’t tell him that every time he touches me, it feels like a gift I didn’t earn. That I don’t know what I am to him. That I want more than he can give.
He stands and walks toward me. I take a step back before I can stop myself. He notices and stops short. Something flashes in his eyes. It's quick, and I almost don't catch it. Hurt, maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s just what I want to see.
