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The vulnerability in her voice reaches into me and twists that part of me I’ve tried to protect for as long as I can remember.
I’ve put up barriers against the world, so I wouldn't be hurt. Every time I've let someone through, they’ve only hurt me. I was wise enough not to let my guard down against Dennis. But with Rick, he bulldozed it all without trying. He crawled under my skin and imprinted his scent in my cells. He wrote his name on my heart. And any remaining resistance I might have had was knocked down by the sadness in Grams’ voice.
I never met my grandparents or my father, and my mother wasn’t known for her maternal instincts.
It’s why I learned to be independent at such an early age. It’s why, when I met Grams, I fell for her as much as I had for Rick. She’s been more loving to me than my own parents had ever been. She’s the closest I’ve come to having a family. It’s why I have to do this. "Sorry we didn’t answer the phone, Grams. Rick is with me."
I open the door, and his cerulean gaze locks with mine. The helplessness, and the anger, and the frustration I’m feeling is mirrored in his eyes. It convinces me, this is the right thing to do. "As soon as the paperwork is arranged, we’re getting married."
63
Rick
"You may kiss the bride." The registrar from the local town hall agreed to come to Grams’ place to wed us, and I managed to get him in without arousing the interest of the paparazzi.
After a week in the hospital, as soon as Dr. Kincaid gave his all-clear, Grams, herself, insisted on being discharged. For someone with three stents in her heart, she’s chipper. If the doc hadn’t updated me on the operation, I’d be sure she pulled this entire stent—I mean, stunt—of being unwell to get me married and settled down. Okay, I’m being uncharitable. Though Grams is savvy enough to try something like this, in this instance, she really was unwell. Although…she did use the condition to coerce me into getting married.
In a way, I need to thank her for bringing Gio into my life, and for ensuring she agreed to marry me. The same Gio who moved out of the room we shared and into Mira’s place. The same Gio on whose finger I slid a wedding ring which had belonged to my mother and which compliments the engagement ring she already had on. The same Gio who offers me her cheek when I lean in toward her.
"If you think you can deprive me of what’s mine, you’re mistaken," I whisper.
She stiffens, but before she can reply, I wrap my fingers around the nape of her neck and tug with enough pressure that she has to turn her face in my direction. There’s a mutinous expression on her face. Her lips are pursed.
"All the better to kiss you with." I close my mouth over hers.
I mean for the kiss to be hard, to show her who’s in charge. To show her I’m as pissed off as she is at the turn of events. This was supposed to be my revenge, but somehow, the tables have been turned. I’m the one who should be pissed at her for how her actions affected my sister. Instead, she’s pissed at me—and she has reason to be. I realize now, I can’t lay the blame for my sister committing suicide on her shoulders. It was my sister’s actions that led to what happened.
And if I’d been there, I’d have stopped her. If I’d known what she was going through, I’d have helped her. So, really, I’m the one responsible for what happened. The buck stops with me. But no part of this realization is going to bring my sister back. Anger squeezes my guts. My shoulder muscles bunch. I tighten my hold on her, tilt my head, and lick up the seam of her lips. She parts them on a groan, and I plunge my tongue inside her mouth. The taste of her goes to my head, the scent of her sinks into my blood, and as always, my cock is erect and ready for action when she’s involved.Why am I so in thrall to this woman?She can make me do anything she wants. Does she know that?
And now I have her where I want her—in my arms, married to me, she’s my wife.My other half. Mine.The realization sweeps through me. The knots inside of me she’s unloosened dissolve completely. A quiver undulates my spine. I soften my lips, gentle my kiss, and she melts into me. I wrap my arm about her waist and draw her close. She moans against my mouth, I absorb the sound, then haul her up to her toes, bringing her closer.
"Look at me while I kiss you, wife," I demand against her mouth.
She raises her heavy eyelids, and the gold in her eyes lightens to silver. She’s aroused, alright. She might want to hate me, but her reaction to me tells the true story. She swallows, a look of helplessness seeps into her eyes, and my heart stutters. And when she beseeches me without saying a word, I understand her frustration, her pain, her need for me, and the self-recrimination she levels against herself for feeling the way she does. It mirrors the contradictory emotions that crowd my mind, my heart, every cell in my body. The need to continue kissing her, yet to release her. The need to claim her, knowing she’ll never love me the way I already love her. Knowing I’ll never confess how much I want her and what she means to me, for the ghost of my sister will always be in the background, making me feel guilty.
Once more, I turned my back on her. Once more, I failed her. I release my wife, and she stumbles. A flash of satisfactions zips through me. I kissed all thoughts from her mind. I ensured she couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the sensation of my lips pressed to hers, my fingers on her skin, the hard lines of my torso digging into her curves, my palm-prints imprinted into the dip of her waist, marking her as mine. Too bad I’m not going to follow through on the satisfaction my kiss promised her.
I squeeze her shoulder until I know she’s steady, then step back. Her forehead scrunches, a look of confusion on her features, and I want to soothe her and reassure her and tell her it’s okay. Only, I'd be lying. We’re married, my grandmother is on her way to recovery. Now, all that remains is to ensure her ex never lays eyes on her again, and my work will be done.
I wrap my arm about her and turn to face Grams. "Happy?" I ask her.
"Very." She rises to her feet and walks over to us. Her steps are slow but steady. She’s lost weight since the operation, but the paleness on her features is slowly fading. She’s still weak, but she wouldn’t hear of us waiting another day. Her eyes are bright, her face wreathed in smiles as she leads Tiny over to us. She's insisted on having him by her side every second since she came home.
The Great Dane, for his part, has been very gentle with her. He slept by her bed, and dogged her footsteps, and never barked once in her presence. It’s as if he knows not to do anything that would put any additional strain on her heart. I checked with Doc Kincaid about it, and he said, if the mutt helps calm her, then there's no reason she can’t spend time with him. Now, Tiny looks from me to Gio to me. Then, of course, he brushes his head gently against her.
Goldie pats his head, and Tiny makes a purring sound. One touch from her has turned him into a cat, apparently.
Grams giggles, then claps her hands and looks between us. "I’m so happy!" She turns to me. "I can’t believe you’re married."
Me neither.
"She’s too good for you, obviously." Grams sniffs. "And if you do anything to upset her, you’ll have me to contend with."
Too late.
"Whose side are you on?" I frown.
"Giorgina’s, of course," Grams chuckles.
