by Sam Mariano
But Mia couldn’t even look at me. She completely avoided me after they danced tonight. That’s not normal.
And then there was after our dance, when Mark hauled Mia out on the dance floor while Vince sulked. We all know each other from the bakery, so it wasn’t exactly remarkable, but Mark kept her out on the dance floor for a long time. He held her close for slow songs, goofed around with her during fast songs. He got her laughing. The sad cloud that seemed to hang over her earlier was replaced with cheer, because despite apparently also being mobbed up, Mark is fun. Mateo sat at our table and watched them. Not casually, not his gaze sweeping the floor and occasionally landing on them—he watched unceasingly, like a predator with his prey in sight.
It made me uncomfortable.
Me.
Rolling my shoulders, trying to ease out the tension, I remark, “Long night.”
“Yes,” he agrees, stripping off his shirt.
“I wish we would’ve been home to read the girls their bedtime story,” I remark.
Smirking, he says, “I doubt Francesca would’ve found that a suitable reason to miss her wedding.”
“I’m glad she’s happy. Even if she and her hubby tried to get me killed,” I add brightly.
He comes up behind me, catching my shoulders, and starts dropping kisses along my nape. It’s a small comfort, but it shouldn’t be a comfort at all. It should be a given that this man, my man, wants me.
I would like to hop in bed with him and forget about tonight. It was probably nothing. That’s probably the right thing to do. But I need to take the temperature of this thing.
“Mia and Vince seemed… not good,” I remark.
The kisses stop. His hands remain on my shoulders, but he’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I don’t think that’s going to last much longer.”
This makes my heart sink for some reason. I blame the baby. Not for moving my heart, but for the emotional vulnerability of this damn pregnancy, putting me in this icky emotional place where I stand here like a goober, wondering if my fiancé is as devoted to me as I am to him.
Gross.
I glance across the room at the bed, reconsidering this whole talking thing. Maybe I should stop looking for trouble and just jump into bed with this sexy man, and just… you know, ignore.
God, it’s like Rodney all over again, just with better sex. This time, instead of ignoring his gambling, his debt, I have to ignore this?
No.
It’s shamefully tempting, but no. I won’t do that.
Turning to face him, I ask, “What happens then?”
Mateo watches me carefully. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re paying for Mia to go to college because she’s with Vince, right? So, if she’s not with Vince anymore…?”
His eyes remain on me, searching. I have the feeling I’m taking a test, only I didn’t study for it and I’m not sure what subject. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t have to anymore. But I don’t have to now. I still do.”
That doesn’t answer my question. And it doesn’t make me feel better. “So, you’d keep supporting her? Would she stay at the house? It’s Vince’s lease, right? So she would probably have to move.”
“Would you like her to move back here?” he asks, point blank.
No. I don’t say it, because it’s impulsive and colored by this evening. If I had a chance to sleep on it, to recover from this horrible episode of doubt I’m currently experiencing, I don’t know what I’d say. There was a time I wanted Mia to move back here—but with Vince. With her boyfriend. Not unattached, when I’m ballooning out like a pregnant whale, and my fiancé is giving her bedroom eyes on the dance floor.
Jesus Christ, what is this life?
“What if I don’t?” I challenge, holding his gaze.
He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter. His gaze slides away from mine, his handsome face the very picture of casual acceptance. “Then I’ll get her an apartment in the city, somewhere near campus.”
Why does that make me feel worse?
It brings to mind Victorian mistresses, kept in townhouses, lavished with gifts, visited by the married men who fuck them on the side. I don’t want him to get Mia her own place, where he has access to her anytime he wants and I would never even know.
Manufacturing a playful smile, I toss out, “Would you visit her there?”
“I imagine she’d visit us here, like she does now,” he replies, intentionally misunderstanding.
Oh, my god. Is this what normal women feel like? Is this jealousy?
Since I’m frowning off at nothing, Mateo takes hold of my shoulders, bringing my attention back to him. “You’re being weird tonight.”
I feel sad. Insecure. Ew.
Shaking my head, trying to keep those icky, unattractive feelings off my face, I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Mateo.”
That’s weird, so it takes him a minute to put his arms around me and answer, “I love you, too.”
“Please don’t make me regret trusting you.”
He tenses when I say this. I know it’s a ballsy thing to say to him—in so many ways. He’s not a man you want to challenge. He’s not a man you tell what to do. He’s also not an idiot, so he knows why I’m saying it.
Finally, as if I’m somehow the one in the wrong, he says, “You love Mia.”
It doesn’t feel like a statement, but a question. He wants to know why I’m acting like such a head case, when I’m usually the cool one. He wants to know if I still love Mia, or if his renewed interest in her has shifted my feelings. The thing is, I’m not sure myself. I don’t know what he’s warming me up for, and I don’t know what page she’s on. It’s actually the last thing I want to do right now, but I’m going to have to meet Mia for lunch tomorrow to see if she’s still behaving suspiciously, then go from there.
Instead of answering his question, I pull back and offer a light, breezy smile. “So do you.”
Since my tone is casual and I haven’t said this like a shrill, suspicious fish wife, he cautiously nods. “Yes.”
That’s probably good. He’s not lying. It’s worse if they lie, right? If he got defensive and angry, started denying and gas lighting me? At least, that’s what Rodney used to do when he was guilty. But Rodney was a coward who couldn’t take responsibility for his actions. Mateo isn’t.
Does Mateo Morelli experience guilt the same way? Does he experience it at all?
If he does, I can’t tell.
He drops this topic like an item of clothing as he undresses, gathering his discarded items and placing them on a chair for someone else to deal with tomorrow.
I grab a sleep shirt and slip it on. As soon as I do, I wish I would’ve grabbed something sexier, but I’m not feeling sexy. I know logically that’s when I should step it up, not sink into it, but I’m also feeling annoyed by the baby bump. It didn’t pop so fast with Lily, so I thought I’d stay slim longer. Maybe I’ll make Mia meet me for a walk instead. We can go to the mall. I’ll buy the bitch some shoes.
God, I’m grumpy.
I need to get some sleep. I do feel completely exhausted. Just existing while pregnant is hard enough, and today with the wedding and the weird feelings… I need to just call this day and start fresh tomorrow. Get my shit in order.
I’m allowed to have an off night. That’s all this was, for all of us.
Just an off night.
Everything is fine.
Mateo shuts off the lights and I climb into bed. I watch the moonlight on his bare chest as he comes around to his side and climbs in beside me. He’s so beautiful. He still makes my stomach do somersaults.
Once he’s lying beside me in bed, tenderness sweeps over me. Memories of all the nights we’ve spent here, of the nights spent reading to the girls, of the nights spent making this baby—we’ve had a lot of good times in this bed. I’m lucky. And I love him. I love him so much. And he loves me.
I reach out and caress his face, leaning in to kiss him goodn
ight. I just want this. I just want his love. I don’t want to consider any unpleasantness. I just want him.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I tell him.
He offers me a smile, his fingers curling around my wrist. “Of course. I can start taking you out again, now that all this shit’s behind us.”
I brighten. “I’d like that.”
“I never did take you to that speakeasy.”
“Maybe after the baby,” I suggest, since I can’t do much at a speakeasy right now.
His hand leaves my wrist, coming to rest on the curve of my belly. I snuggle up close to him, not dislodging his hand, but then impulsively I cover it with my own, guiding it lower. Catching my drift, he smiles at me, moving between my legs to see if I’m wearing panties. I’m not. Just the touch of his fingers turns me on, and then he climbs over me, that sensual, sexy smile on his lips before he comes down to kiss me, and my heart is so. Damn. Full.
I will not give this man up.
Not for anything.
Not for anyone.
Chapter Three
Mia
His big, strong hands close like shackles around my wrists, pinning me to the bed. I exhale shakily, bringing my eyes to his. Those warm brown eyes that haunt my dreams, amusement dancing in their depths, somehow coexisting with his dominance as he leans down and buries his face in my neck. I moan as he leaves a trail of kisses, shuddering with pleasure. I pull at my wrists, wanting to free them, wanting to explore his body, but he doesn’t let me.
“Uh uh,” he murmurs, pulling back to look at me. “I want to take it from you, Mia.”
It’s sick, the throb of excitement that shoots through me. “We can’t, Mateo.”
“Sure we can,” he says, like it’s easy. Like there’s no reason he shouldn’t be pressing his hard cock against me, no reason for him not to lean in closer, his face hovering mere inches from mine. It’s like I’m waiting for his permission to breathe, and he won’t give it.
And then he kisses me, and my eyes close, my brain fogging over with desire. I know there are valid reasons why neither of us should be doing this, but his tongue sweeps into my mouth, silencing all of them. I push against his grasp again, desperate to touch him, and he presses down harder. He moves my arms higher over my head, holding them at the wrist as his other now-free hand skates down my side, inching toward my closed legs.
“Fight me, Mia.”
I can’t breathe with how much I want him, but I’ll do whatever he wants. If he wants a fight, I’ll give him a fight.
I twist away, struggling against him as he forces his hand between my clenched legs. “Mateo, stop it. Please.”
He smirks, liking when I beg, even a little.
So I beg some more.
His fingers move inside me and I forget to fight, forget to pretend I don’t want him. I get one of my hands free, clutching his torso, trying to pull him closer. “Please, I need you inside me,” I whisper.
He practically growls with pleasure, and excitement courses through my whole body. I want to please him with the same level of ferocity as always, and it doesn’t make sense, but I want it. I want him.
He lets me touch him for a moment, but then he pins me down again. “Now, now, Mia. Be a good girl.”
“Too late,” I mutter.
He chuckles at that, and my heart fills up. His eyes meet mine and I see the warmth, I see that I matter to him, I see his affection for me, and my desire only grows. How I could have captured the interest of this man is beyond me, but I never want to let it go.
And then suddenly, like a bucket of ice water dumped over my prone body, I recall why we can’t.
“Wait,” I say, not playing. He can see I’m not playing, and even though he can take when he’s not playing, he stops. Lingers near me, his fingers caressing my jawline.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
It’s almost painful to get the words out. I don’t want to, but I don’t want to hurt anyone, either. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” His lips move nearer my face and he drops a little kiss where his finger was just a second ago, leaving a trail along my jawline, inching closer to my mouth. I have to stop him before he gets to my lips. If he kisses me again, I won’t be able to say no. I won’t be able to mean it.
“You have Meg. I have Vince. We can’t do this to them.”
Instead of seeing reason, instead of stopping, he lets his hand drift between my legs again. As he enters me, toying with my body, he makes an even bigger play with my heart. “They don’t have to know.”
---
I jerk awake, disappointment striking me like a damn lightning bolt.
I groan quietly, squeezing my legs together, turning in bed. Oh, god, that was so mean. Why?
Worse than the frustration is the guilt that hits me next, when I look at Vince asleep next to me. In our bed that we share, because we live together; I’m a monster.
I’m so tempted to wake him up and make him fuck me, just to sate the desire that stupid dream has stirred, but it’s too fucked up. So I lie here awake, aching and miserable, frustrated beyond all reason, wanting the man I can’t have.
The man who wants me, apparently.
God, life isn’t fair. Why can’t anything with Mateo ever be easy? Or at least not traumatizing? I would take just slightly less life-ruining. But no. It even hurts when he’s nice. Everything has to be completely impossible with him.
Though it would’ve been significantly nicer if he’d have bothered explaining what it means that he wants me. Nothing? Everything? Does that change anything, or did he just decide to throw a bone at my unrequited love for him? Just enough to keep me on his hook, since I have been avoiding being alone with him lately?
I have no idea.
And it’s Sunday. I have to go over there with Vince tonight and have dinner at the table with Meg and Mateo. Not to mention Vince, who is so completely pissed off at me right now that I’m honestly shocked he doesn’t explode with the pent up rage. It wasn’t bad enough that I danced with Mateo, or that I pined while he danced with Meg. After that, after Mark comforted me in the hall, he hauled me out on the dance floor. And for a little while, I rejected the reality of my Morelli life, of the unending sentence of some variation of torment, and I had fun. There was no stress. No angst. I didn’t feel torn apart. I didn’t want to cry. Nothing hurt. Everything felt okay. I felt my age.
I feel like being a Morelli has aged me dramatically. And I’m not even a real Morelli. I’m not even as much one as Meg, because she wears Mateo’s ring.
That at least cools the fires of my sexual frustration. Boy, is it not sexy to think about your best friend wearing the ring of the man who starred in your sex dream.
This is gonna suck.
Since sleeping is a lost cause, I get a head start on the day. My GPA benefits from my lack of sleep and I do some extra studying for an exam I have coming up this week, going over review questions I didn’t think I’d have time for since I was busy helping with Francesca’s wedding. After that, I make us some breakfast. My stomach is still feeling a little icky, but it’s probably just the ulcer I’m inevitably developing by living my life.
Vince emerges from the bedroom while I’m cooking. I take a moment to admire how cute he looks, all sleepy and shirtless, not yet remembering how much he hates me.
I should’ve woke him up and made him fuck me. Since he’s furious with me, he would’ve been rough. I could’ve pretended he was Mateo.
That’s so fucked up. I shake my head at my own depravity, then turn my attention back to the eggs.
We don’t speak. I sort of hope he will. Maybe he hopes I will. But in this, like so many other things, neither of us bends.
Since he wants coffee and I didn’t make any, he joins me at the counter to make some.
I finally do speak, glancing at his hands as they measure out the coffee grounds. “I would’ve made some.”
“I’m capable of doing it myself,” he states
.
I nod, turning the burner off. “Well, the eggs are done.”
“Thank you for making breakfast.”
It’s reassuring that he’s still thanking me. Last night was so awful. I swear, I expected him to leave me today. That he’s thanking me for making breakfast makes me think he won’t.
“Of course,” I murmur, reaching over him to grab us some plates.
We fall quiet again. He gets some food and heads to the breakfast bar. I remain at the counter, keeping an eye on the coffee. I’ll at least pour him some once it finishes brewing since I didn’t think to make any. Last night being so bad, I’d like to do something nice for him.
We’re about halfway through breakfast when my cell phone rings. Dread becomes me when I see it’s Meg’s cell phone.
Then the guilt hits me, because I shouldn’t dread hearing from my best friend. But Vince is right, I’m a shitty friend. Such a shitty friend.
I don’t answer. Vince notices and lifts an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything.
A text flashes across the screen a moment later. Vince peers over to read it before I can even reach for it. He snorts.
Then I read it and see why. “Stop humping your sexy boyfriend and call me.”
Yeah, that deserved a snort.
But it was normal. I wasn’t sure what to expect after that dance, after she watched me the way she did, so I just wanted to avoid it. I hate confrontation. I’d rather ignore someone for the rest of my life than have to face them if they’re pissed at me. Which makes Vince my perfect match, obviously.
Obviously avoiding forever isn’t an option with Meg.
I hold the phone, debating which excuse I should send back. I don’t want to call her.
Vince speaks up now, smirking into his coffee cup. “She’s trying to remind you of your place.”
“What?”
Indicating himself, he says, “That you’re taken. You know, since you act like you’re not.”
“If I’m such a shitty girlfriend, you can leave me,” I tell him casually, dropping the phone on the counter, deciding not to even respond to it.
