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“You’re naked beneath me, Gina. If I wanted right now, I could fuck you.”
Her breasts swell, nipples piercing my chest. The scent of her arousal is exquisite, tempting me to play dirty. That sexy mouth of hers has finally gone silent. But I’m staring at the glow in her eyes, the sheen of unfallen tears.
“Gina, I could be deep inside you.” My throat hitches in intensity. “I crave more than the physical connection that neither of us can deny. You definitely can’t deny holding yourself back from me in the beginning while I was an open book.”
In a low, envious tone, she asks, “How many women do you have open?”
My hand falls to her throat, thumb brushing across those rebellious lips. “Don’t judge me, Bella.”
“Why?”
“What we have is beautiful.”
I rest my face in the crook of her neck. “You were always mine, Gina, even before I met you. I set aside robbing people, baby. I set aside get-rich schemes.”
Her voice is so tiny. “Then what were you were doing the other—”
“Get fucking richquickschemes so I could be a better man for the women in my life.”
The hostility in her tone fades, sounding more curious, she asks, “The women?”
“Ma, Antonia, and the woman I needed to one day be worthy of.” I press a kiss to her jawbone. “So, I prepared myself for you, Gina. Must’ve been a lot sooner than you expected I’d find you. That’s okay. We will work on more encouraging words coming from your mouth.”
“Have I,” she pauses to gulp, “ever said ‘I love you’, Santino?”
Gina hisses as she ends up on top of me. I clutch her hips, knead them. For a split second, pain flits across my face. I nudge my chin. The woman that I love climbs off me slowly.
46
Gina
Three days sift by, and we’ve hardly said a word to each other. God, I want to talk to him, to forgive him. I want a lobotomy on the part of my brain, which holds the images of him having an orgy.
Yesterday, Santino left the cabin, returning hours later with a thrift store bag. The contents were a couple of pairs of sweats, a pair of size 14 jeans, and a pack of pink thermals. Needless to say, after my days off the grid in upstate New York, those darn jeans fit liketheeglove. Mind you, I’m referencing the leather glove from the famous OJ trial ages ago.
Unsure if the clothing was a peace offering or he’d been giving me an “out,” I’d showered, dressing in the sweats, of course. I walked toward the front door and lacked the strength to leave.
Today, he disappeared early. Now, it’s hours later. With daylight savings in heavy rotation, I’ve exited the steam room I created during a leisure shower. I’m not sure why Santino thought I should be walking around like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. With the pink thermal and sweats, I stroll over to the lamp on the nightstand. I tug the string, and the lamp offers a tiny beacon of light.
“It’s still too dark!” I lurch when an owl hoots.C’mon, Santino . . . you can hate me for being an asshole, but don’t leave me here.I sink onto the edge of the bed. With a mouth habituated with spewing venom, I start to wonder.What if he left me here?
For another half hour, horror stories toppled through my mind. Each one trails off and leads to another terror.
The door opens, and I rush to the banister to look over, gulping down a lump. Thank God, you’re back.
In a split second, I’ve silently eye-fucked Santino. Of course, my gaze has eaten him like my favorite ice cream while I glower. A clean pair of jeans hugs at his thighs, a light blue flannel clings to every ripple of muscle along his chest and arms. The orange construction vest he wears on occasion obstructs my view of where the flannel opens. Damn, I crave another peek. Suspiciously eyeing the alarm clock in his hand, I cork a brow, then turn around and timber into the bed.
Thunderous talking breaks through my musing. Someone with a pristine ‘radio voice’ discusses how a few inches of snow is expected overnight. The channel changes. First, an old Johnny Cash song blares through the speakers, followed by a new one from Hillsong United. Then bold sound vibrates through the tiny speaker, and that sound is coming closer.
I settle against the headrest. From the corner of my eye, Santino is claiming every step he takes up the stairs. He has a wooden chair in one massive bicep held behind his head. At his other side is the radio.
My little traitorous tongue comes out prepared to lick my bottom lip. I reign that troublesome muscle back into my mouth. Next, the disloyal folds between my thighs are tweaking—he can’t see that, and I have no reign over my pussy. This bad kitty owns me.
Every move he makes accentuates his glorious body as Santino places the radio on the ground. Then the wooden chair is moving all around his shoulders, and he sets it down too. Tension swells as our eyes meet. He moves side to side, my immoral gaze attached to him.
Santino’s sliding the orange vest off, and my mouth tenses. That could’ve been his shirt.He’s wearing too many clothes!
Dayum, Gina! Shut up, you idiot.
