Page 99 of Ricardo

Before Harrison made every want feel like evidence.

Before he could turn my body into something to be judged, corrected, rationed back to me in pieces.

Ricardo’s hand slides up my thigh, slow enough that I can stop him, firm enough that I know he wants me too much to pretend otherwise.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

His eyes are dark. Patient, somehow, even with his jaw tight and his breathing rough.

“What’s the matter, cuore mio,” he murmurs. “Why can’t you say it? Why can’t you tell me what you want?”

The question cuts through the heat so cleanly that it almost leaves me gasping.

I do not have a good answer.

Or rather, the answer is humiliating and makes me feel stupid.

I am a grown woman. I should be able to be in bed with a man and tell him what I want.

But being with Harrison was so… clinical. Even sex had to be appropriate.

Hell, moaning too loud was deemed inappropriate, depending on his mood—not that I had much cause to moan too loud with him.

That thought almost makes me laugh.

But the laugh catches somewhere in my throat and turns into something much closer to panic.

Because this is not clinical.

There is nothing appropriate about me half-undressed on Ricardo’s sofa, his mouth still warm on my skin, his hands braced against my hips as if he can reach deep inside me and feel what’s there.

Or what’s missing.

And somehow, that makes me feel more vulnerable than if I were completely naked.

My palms press against his shoulders, suddenly wanting space.

“Forget it,” I say quickly. “Okay? This is—This is a mistake.”

Ricardo stills, and his hands leave me at once. They settle on the sofa on either side of my hips, close but no longer touching me.

The absence is instant and awful and makes me feel about a thousand times worse.

I drag the front of my dress higher over my breasts, suddenly exposed in a way I did not feel exposed a minute ago. “I’m sorry. I can’t— I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do, actually.” My voice shakes, which makes everything worse. “Because I’m the one who said I wanted this, and now I’m acting like—”

“Like what?”

I look away from him.

Like someone broken.

Like someone who still hears another man’s words in her head.