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With a quick flick of his wrist, I spin out, then back in again, tucked up against his chest. His fingers cup my jaw, the rough warmth erotic and possessive. I gasp as his mouth finds mine and he kisses me like we’re long-lost lovers, like I’m the very oxygen he needs to breathe. I melt against him. He made me come so hard I saw stars not an hour ago, but when my lips part and welcome him in, a familiar flare of warmth and heat dances between my legs.
I blink when he pulls away, and my mind begins to play tricks on me.
Was that a farewell kiss?
Why would I even think something like that?
I want to hold him to me. I want to wrap my arms and legs around him like a barnacle stuck to his side. He’d never be able to extricate me. The image amuses me, and I mentally blame the residual effects of the edible.
“What’s so funny?” he whispers in my ear.
“I was imagining you were a ship and I was a barnacle, and you couldn’t pry me off.”
I expect him to laugh or teasingly swat my ass or tug my hair, but he doesn’t. I watch the light fade in his eyes as he lapses into the same melancholy brooding he did when we first met. I open my mouth to ask him what’s wrong but can’t bring myself to voice my concern. Instead, I lay my head on his shoulder.
“It’s gorgeous in here tonight,” I whisper. It is. Candlelight flickers on high tables, and large boughs of white flowers adorn every flat surface. At the entrance to the patio, the doors are wide open, and a string quartet plays music so beautiful it makes me want to cry. Couples dance and sway and mingle, and though none stare to avoid being rude, I know they’re all watching us.
Normally, he’d flirt with me, tell me something likeit’s not as gorgeous as you.But he doesn’t. It isn’t just the need for attention or compliments that sets me on edge, it’s his whole demeanor. Detached. Resigned. Angry.
“Salvatore,” I say pleadingly. “Please, tell me what’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” he lies.
I sigh. “I’m not allowed to lie to you, yet you’ve done nothing but lie to me since this evening began.”
I gasp as he holds me tighter, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t deny it, either, but I feel him stiffen when his gaze falls on someone who just came into the room.
“Here, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Have a dance with your brother.”
“Salvatore—”
But he’s gone. Romeo’s in his place.
“Something wrong?” Romeo asks, swinging me out onto the dance floor. It feels like he’s taking on the role of father figure, and we’re having our commemorative dance.
“He’s… acting strange,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“He seems fine to me,” Romeo responds, but he hasn’t really known Salvatore all that long. While he seems “fine” to Romeo, it’s because he isn’t acting like a douchebag. There’s far more to Salvatore than “fine” and “asshole.”
“No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “It started at dinner.”
“Oh?” I’ve got Romeo’s attention now.
“Yeah…” My voice trails off. When exactly did it start? I play back the conversation in my mind. “It was… someone mentioned the quarry.”
Romeo keeps dancing, but I feel a slight stiffening in the way he holds me. “The quarry,” he repeats. “Okay.”
“And then… well, later, in our bedroom, he asked me a lot of questions about the quarry.”
“Did he?” I have the distinct feeling Romeo knows more than he’s letting on.
“Are you just going to keep repeating things to me?”
We swirl past Cristiano, who’s watching me with a steely gaze.
“God, I hate him.”
“Cristiano?”
