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“That was worth the goddamn wait.”
We lay in silence for a long time, and I’m very aware that we’re still sweaty and covered in each other’s come, but I don’t want to move. Don’t want to disconnect from the warmth of her body or face the repercussions that might come from not having admitted how I felt before potentially knocking her up.
Fuck.Even though the idea of her stomach swelling with my child makes the blood rush to my dick all over again, I can’t help wondering how she’d feel about that, how it might feel like I’m trapping her, trying to stifle her dreams the way her father did. I don’t want her to associate me with him.
Still, my hand slides down over her abdomen, tracing tiny hearts around her belly button. She tenses beneath my touch, shifting so she’s facing me, eyes wide and fearful.
“What is it, love?”
Chewing on her lip, she taps my chest, sucking in a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”
I’M HAVING AN out of body experience, my brain floating around in space, looking down at my body wrapped up in my wife, struggling to process the words that just came out of her mouth. Tied with “we need to talk,” “I need to tell you something” is one of the most anxiety-inducing sentences in the English language.
She worries her bottom lip, dragging her forearm across her breasts, shielding herself from me. Fear laces her features, and I feel her body go rigid as she starts to pull away and sit up.
Using the hand that isn’t plastered to the mattress underneath me, I brush some hair off her shoulder, leaning to press an open-mouthed kiss along the curved skin. “You can tell me anything, baby.”
Twirling a lock of hair around the tip of her index finger, she tilts her head, turning to study me. Her eyes scan the length of me, resting momentarily on my half-hard cock, bouncing back to my face as soon as she reaches my feet. Instead of offering an answer to a question she’s proposed, she dives in with a different one. “Can you tellmesomething?”
“Anything. I told you I would.”
“Your mom. What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“I—I know that. I mean, how?”
Twisting away from her, I settle on my back, curling my arms behind my head. “Are you sure this is something we need to talk about right now? I can’t think of a better way to kill an afterglow.”
She shifts to her knees, starting to slide from the bed. “No, you’re right. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry, I—I’m going to get in the shower, now.”
I sit up, hand reaching out for her wrist, and tug her back down into me. “I didn’t say you could leave. And I didn’t say it’s not your business—as my wife, a title I’m hoping you’ll want to keep one day, you should know about the woman who shaped me into the man I am now.”
Sinking into me, laying her cheek on my chest, she nods. “I... think I want to keep it.” She turns her face up, blinking those beautiful baby blues at me, looking so goddamn angelic I can’t help but steal a kiss. “The title, that is.”
Her body tenses again, spine stiffening, and I knead her bare hip, focusing on my dresser across the room. Its glass knobs reflect our position on the bed, surreal in appearance, a kaleidoscope showcasing the colors of our love.
Love.Jesus, I’m in this deep. No choice now but to keep digging.
“My mother was an immigrant from Denmark. She grew up pretty poor on Staten Island, managed to snag a scholarship to Vassar in Poughkeepsie. She met my father there; he was being groomed to become an underboss for an outfit in Brooklyn. She stayed away from him at first because rumors were lining every sidewalk in New York about him being dangerous and powerful. A force to be reckoned with, although really, she washisreckoning. He never even saw her coming.”
I chuckle, considering the similarities, ignoring the slight pang in my chest at how their story ended.This won’t be a repeat.My hand winds around her waist, settling on her stomach, and her fingers tentatively fit themselves between mine.
Kind of like how she’s managed to weave herself into the fabric of my life, an integral sew that, upon removal, would destroy the entire foundation.
“Anyway,” I continue, pulling myself out of my inner monologue, “eventually, she gave in to hismanypleas for a date. ‘Just coffee,’ he told her, and if she didn’t fall head over heels in love with him at the end, he’d disappear and leave her alone forever.”
Caroline snorts, her breath skating across my chest hair. “That worked?”
“Us Montalto men can be persuasive.” One blonde brow quirks, as if in agreement. “Still, she wasn’t exactly convinced at the end. She didn’t hate him, but she also wasn’t in love with him. That didn’t come formonths. They developed a quiet friendship—as much as a non-mafiosacan with someone dedicated to the organization.”
“Youhave friends.”
Hooking my thumb under her chin, I tilt her face up, licking the seam of her lips. “I’m not my father,mio amore.Not in the slightest.”
Her cheeks darken, hand falling to my pelvis, stroking the skin there with her soft fingertips. “So, what happened?”
“They attended a Hans Christen Anderson festival in Boston, and when asort soloccurred up above them just as the sun began to set, my mother took it as an act of Fate. Thought it meant she and my father were meant to be.”
