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BECKA
Istepped into the room and my heart stopped.
There was a four-poster bed with a fluffy, pale olive-green comforter and violet accent pillows. The room and bathroom had splashes of purple and greens everywhere. There was even a live plant in the corner by one of the large windows.
What is a room like this doing in a man’s house?
It was beautiful, but I couldn’t enjoy the idea of staying in it.
When he said, your room, my heart splintered. I couldn’t stop thinking that it was just proof that this isn’t a real marriage to him. He would share his home but not his bed full time? Was he planning on having other women here?
As I stood in the doorway, I cringed. I should be happy to have my own room, where I could have space without pressure. But it was no comfort at all. The idea of rejection was a whip to my fragile confidence. There was enough desire in Luca’s eyes and in his touch to drowned me; so why was he doing this? Is this what he meant by, come when called and leave when told? My heart sank to the polished floor. Would he just use me and send me away? The thought made my stomach sick. I didn’t want it to be like that, no matter how unorthodox our marriage started out. I didn’t want to live my life as a whore.
“So we won’t be sharing a room?” I no longer tried to hide my worry.
He looked at me and softened with a sigh. “No. Not yet?”
“Why?” The word barely came out.
He walked up to me until we were only inches apart. His brown eyes took me in with deliberation, gaging me. “I won’t share my bed with you until you are willing to give yourself to me.” His tone was hard with open honesty. “All of you… every inch. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman. I can be a patient man when it comes to something I want. And I want you. I want to make you scream my name as I show you just how good I can make you feel. I want to fuck you for days; over and over again, until you’ll be able to feel me for a week.”
My eyes bulged out of my head, my body trembled, and my breathing stopped. Slick heat pooled down low. The feel of his hot minty breath on my face made me flush. Oh, God. His honesty was appreciated, and entirely intimidating.
He reached up to thumb the bruise on my cheek that was still fading. “But I know you are not ready. Until you are, we will sleep apart. But you are going to have to get out of your own head. I know you want me Becka, and there is nothing wrong with that. I am your husband after all.”
With that said he left the room and me standing there in shock.
I slumped down on the bed. Luca’s words threw me into a hurricane of indecision. Yes, I did want him and apparently it showed. Am I right to want him? He was a stranger, a criminal. I shouldn’t want him like I do. Then again we were married, and there was no reason on any level for it to be wrong.
But once I crossed that line there would be no going back. Crossing it would be the final step in the ladder of accepting my fate. This was still my life and I was going to make the decision on how fast to move forward. When I am ready. Ready to sell my soul and very likely lose my heart.
Am I ready?The question burned like wildfire. I had already been failing the fight against my attraction to Luca, but now faced with the reality that I would indeed be having sex with him terrified me. He must have been with dozens of women; I was nearly a virgin.
What if I’m not good in bed? What if he’s a selfish lover? What if he gets tired of me? What if, once he sees all of me he changes his mind?All those things would crush me.
I had no idea what kind of women Luca had been with, but I had zero apprehension in concluding they were all probably tens on the attractive scale. And no doubt confident in bed.
Rows of sexy women appeared before me, shaking their heads to indicate that I was no where near their league. I had always been confident in my own skin but Luca stood an incredibly sexy man and it made me unsure. He could have any woman he wanted, so why me?
What am I too Luca, really?
What-ifs and preconceived notions went in circles around my brain like a carousel. And just like the horses, each question was unique and detailed and all demanded attention. Around and around it went until I felt my head would explode.
I couldn't take it any longer. I had to do something to escape my own mind.
Hurrying over to my violin case I left by the door, I flung it open hard enough to break it. Then pulled out the precious instrument, walked to the window where I could feel the sun on my face, closed my eyes and played. Everything but the music faded away.
When my grandmother taught me how to play it wasn’t just for the culture. She taught me how to use it as an escape when the dark crept in. When the feelings of loneliness and fear reached out to drag me down into the past. It was a way to channel all the anger and hate I carried for so long, letting the music siphon it away. Because of that, I spent hours playing when I was younger, sometimes for days. Only stopping to sleep, eat and shower. Stuck in my room playing and praying for God to take it all away.
The result, I became one hell of a violin player. I never wanted to go professional, it wasn’t about playing to be heard. It was about the bond I shared with my grandmother and the benefit to my soul. The only time I ever played in public was at the request of a friend.
As one of my grandmother’s favorite classics, an F. Schubert, filled the air, I could feel her in the room. I imagined her standing next to me playing her own violin, just like we’d done countless times in the past. The constricting binds across my chest slowly loosened as some of the fear drained from my body. A hot tear rolled down my cheek.
I wish you were here.
