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I’m still anxious even with her gone. A different feeling though. This one doesn’t have that Josie signature on it.
It has Armando’s.
Because I’m trying to figure out what to do. Do I call him to ask when he’ll be home? I actually don’t even think I have his phone number, which is lame. Will he be at my house when I return? He should be. He left a duffel bag of clothes there.
But what if he’s not?
Why did he leave this morning? He said he had to work, but I don’t even know what he does. He is the least forthcoming person I’ve ever known.
Probably because he has the most to hide.
Not that I think he was off robbing banks this morning or anything, but you never know. He’s in the mafia. It could be anything.
The memory of him grappling with the guy trying to kill him flashes through my mind. His calm but deadly offensive. He was magnificent. Is it weird that I’m not overly bothered by his career or what he’s done? And there was a shooting yesterday that, yes, rattled me, but oddly, I’m already over it. I should be terrified, but I’m not. It could be due to the suited men standing outside my shop all day, but the fear I had this morning has mostly dissipated.
The only true emotion I’ve had all day is longing. I miss Armando.
To me, the danger just makes Armando all the more appealing. He’s the bad boy who lives by a code. There’s honor to him. He’s killed, yes, but it was in battle. Like a soldier.
Only his army is a Sicilian family, not a government troop.
Maybe I’m trying to rationalize it all, but the fact remains—I can’t muster many misgivings about it. Because I like the way it feels to be consumed by him.
And that’s when he walks in my front door.
My heart skips to the jingle of the bells. He looks sharp in a suit jacket and slacks, one hand shoved casually in his pocket.
I freeze, breath caught at having him in here again. He strides right over to me without a word, grips the back of my head and stares down.
“Hey,” I breathe.
His gaze roves over my face, examining the nose jewelry he gave me as a gift right before Marco was shot. I forgot to thank him for it with all that happened, but when I saw it on the counter today, I put it in.
“Pretty.” A man of few words.
And then he kisses me. It’s not the desperate sort of kiss we’ve engaged in—the kind where he consumes me, and I burst into flames. This kiss is more sensual. Like a Hollywood movie kiss. The kind at the end of the film where the guy gets the girl, the music swells and the camera circles around them.
I don’t lift my arms, I just leave them dangling at my sides, loving the feeling of receiving what he’s delivering. Letting him take what he wants without trying for more.
When he breaks the kiss, the shop spins in that panning camera feel, and he looks down at me and at the nose ring. “You like it?”
I find my breath. “I love it.” And then, stupid me, my eyes fill with tears. Because, as usual, I make the gift mean way more than it probably does. “I meant to thank you before. But with everything that happened to Marco, I—”
He kisses me again. Hard. Claiming.
He’s unmoved by the tears. Not in a bad way, but he doesn’t react at all, just keeps looking down at me like he’s trying to peer into my soul.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. Because I desperately need to get into his head right now.
“I’m trying to figure out if I should take you home to wear out your bed or take you to dinner.” My expression must reveal my pleasure because he says, “You want dinner, huh?”
I actually don’t care which he picks, I’m just looking forward to being with him, but a date does sound nice. I reach for him, looping my arms around his neck and initiating a kiss.
And then it’s on. His dark hunger rears again, and his kiss and touch turn aggressive. He slides his hands up my dress, squeezing my ass, and his fingers are in my panties in the next breath.
I’m already wet. Maybe I was the moment he walked in that door. My body seems to belong to him. He commands it, and all I want to do is give it over to him.
But this is all so dangerous. I’m in way over my head. Any day now I’m going to figure out that he has no intention of continuing with me.
And dammit—isn’t that just the insanity of relationships? You don’t get a guarantee the other person wants the same thing you do. You just hope and wish and do your best as you fumble through. And yeah, it’s messy. Yeah, it usually ends with a broken dream.
