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For a moment after he left, Jillian did nothing. Her legs were jelly. Her limbs shook. It was as if a bomb had exploded and she’d been left in the shattered aftermath.
Seconds passed and then she roused herself, forcing herself to move. Biting her lip, Jill straightened and began to gather her clothes strewn across the cabin floor, stepping into her panties, then her skirt before holding the torn blouse closed.
Numb, so numb, she walked quickly to her room, air bottled in her lungs, her throat raw from holding in all the emotion.
But in her room a tear fell, and then another, and she dashed them away with a furious fist.
She hated that she cried, but she cried not out of pain, or helplessness, or despair, but fury.
Fury with herself. Fury with him. Fury that she enjoyed the lovemaking as much as she had. Because she had. So very, very much.
Yet how could that be possible?
How could she allow herself to feel anything with him, much less pleasure?
And God forgive her, it’d been exquisite.
His hands, his tongue, his mouth…she shuddered with pleasure all over again even as her mind railed against her body.
She was weak.
She was pathetic.
And she’d loved it all—the wildness, the rawness, the passion. It’d been primitive and carnal and hot. Very, very hot. She could still feel the heat of his skin on hers, the weight of his body, the pressure of his hands. He’d held her, shaped her, taken her as if she were his to possess, and apparently she was. Because instead of shutting him down, she’d become hotter and wetter, responding to him with a feverish desperation.
Horrible.
For a moment Jillian felt like her father—a traitor. She’d betrayed herself. Her father had betrayed his mob family. And maybe their sins weren’t of the same magnitude, but still, the genetic link was there, as well as the same weakness of character.
Her stomach cramped at the thought. She couldn’t bear the idea that she was like her father. He’d hurt so many people. He’d destroyed their family. She refused to be like him.
Walking into the small ensuite bath, Jillian let her clothes fall and then stepped into the narrow shower, turning the water on full force. It was cold. She felt icy. But icy and cold was so much better than the last lingering effects of her feverish desire.
Taking the bar of French lavender soap, she scrubbed her skin, washing away Vittorio’s scent and imprint, telling herself she was not his, that she did not belong to him even though everything inside her whispered, you will always want him.
She feared it was true. Despite everything, there was something about him that connected with her. Something about him that mattered so much to her.
Biting her lip, she rinsed her thighs as she felt the soreness inside, where Vitt had been. He was large and he’d taken her hard and this was the first time she’d had sex since Joe’s birth.
But Vittorio didn’t know that. Vittorio thought she’d been with dozens of men because that’s what she’d told him.
Scalding tears burned the back of her eyes but she wouldn’t let them fall. Instead she tipped her head back and let the water course down, drumming strength into her, drumming confidence.
There’d be no more tears.
She needed to be focused and smart and think about what would happen when they reached Sicily.
She was entering Vittorio’s world tomorrow morning, arriving in Catania as his wife. That should make her feel protected. Respected.
Unfortunately the rushed ceremony made her feel exactly the opposite. The ceremony did not seem binding. Never mind honorable. Maybe the marriage gave Joe Vittorio’s name, but it did nothing to ease her fears, or her sense of isolation.
She was still vulnerable.
In Sicily, she’d need Vittorio’s protection.
How to get his protection and his family’s respect? It wouldn’t be with a quickie wedding, she knew that much. If Vitt’s mother was as devout as Vitt said she was, she’d never accept Jillian as her daughter-in-law, not unless she believed their union had been sanctioned by the church. But how could their union be blessed by the church, if they hadn’t even married in a church, or by a priest?
Her stomach did another nervous flip as she realized she needed a public acknowledgment that she and Vitt had indeed exchanged vows, and that they viewed their vows as holy and binding.
