Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  The woman presses her fingers against her temples, scrunching her face and closing her eyes tight.

  “He is sorry,” she says.

  “Who?” I fold my arms, chuffing. “There are a lot of people with a lot of reasons to be sorry.”

  “He is sorry he could not be the father you deserved. But he is happy for you. He is proud. You make him proud. You all do.”

  There’s a tightness in my throat. A burn in my chest. My eyes water. Hell, I didn’t even know they could do that. Can’t remember the last time I shed a tear over anyone or anything. Sure as hell have never cried over that drunk bastard, at least not in my adult life. As a kid, I was too young to be broken. As a teenager, I was too rebellious to care. As an adult, I’m too intelligent to waste my time mourning that sorry son of a bitch who couldn’t keep a roof over our heads or his hands off my mother.

  “Also, are you going to a wedding soon? I’m being told there’s a wedding and that you’re a very important part of it.” She cocks her head to the side, peering down her nose. “I feel like you have reservations about this marriage, but it’s important that you show your support to the bride and groom. Their day isn’t about you.”

  Chills run up and down my spine and my arms are covered in gooseflesh.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.” I rise, pushing the chair out, and make my way back to the booth.

  12

  Daphne

  My cheap ballpoint pen drags along a pad of hotel paper, my mind ignoring the bright blue logo across the top. Making crosshatch after crosshatch, I sketch Cristiano’s likeness, and when I’m done, I’ve captured his mood.

  The sullen look on his face.

  The furrowed brow.

  The flare of his nostrils as he exhales.

  He’s seated beside me, staring at the flickering hotel TV, though I’m pretty positive he’s doing anything but paying attention.

  “What are you thinking about?” I break the silence between us.

  He’s been in a mood ever since his psychic reading. Maybe he’s thinking about his late father? Maybe he’s thinking about the wedding he’s trying to get to? I have no idea because he’s been quiet since dinner, offering little more than a few, “Mm hms,” and grunted yesses when I try to engage in conversation.

  Cristiano’s chest rises and falls as he pulls in a deep breath, like I’ve woken him from a trance, and then he turns to me, his gaze narrowing on my face first and then falling to the pad of paper in my lap.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  Handing it off, I say, “It’s you.”

  He pulls it closer, examining my masterpiece. “You did this?”

  “Who else would’ve done it?” I half-chuckle.

  “I mean, you did this with a cheap hotel pen and pad of paper?” He scratches his temple, staring at his sketched image. “I’m impressed. It looks so . . . real. But do I really look this pissed off?”

  I swipe the drawing from him and nod.

  “Yeah. You do. You mad about something?” Before he answers, I sign my name in the corner and hand it back. “Here. Keep it. Maybe someday when I’m a famous artist, it’ll be worth something to someone.”

  The corner of his mouth pulls up. It’s good to see him smile. He hasn’t smiled in hours.

  “Not going to answer my question?” I circle back to that.

  “Not mad, just thinking.”

  “About?”

  He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip and turning his attention to the TV screen once more. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions, Daphne?”

  My lips curl. “Pretty much everyone since the dawn of time. Yes. I ask questions. It’s what I do. There’s nothing wrong with being inquisitive, but since you’re not in the mood to tell me what you were thinking about, forget I asked.”

  Gripping my pen, I scan the room for something else to sketch. I’m bored. And despite the fact that we’ve been driving all day, I’m not nearly as tired as I expected to be. Drawing relaxes me, and tonight it’s my Ambien.

  “I’m not mad,” he says a few beats later, exhaling with a soft groan. “Just thinking about things . . . people, mostly. People you don’t know. Things you don’t know about. My thoughts would bore the hell out of you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Anyway, we’re getting up in six hours.” He shuts off the TV before reaching for the lamp by the bedside. The room has two queen-sized beds, and the plan was not to sleep in the same bed tonight, but he hopped on mine earlier because I had a better view of the thirty-two-inch flat screen.

  Scooting down, he shoves two pillows under his neck and clasps his hands over his chest, staring at the popcorn ceiling.

  “Oh, um.” I place my pen and pad on my nightstand and click off my lamp. “I could take the other bed if you want.”

  “I thought the other bed was your bed.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just thought since I put my stuff over on this side of the room . . .” I exhale, placing one foot on the floor. His silence is making this awkward. Or maybe I’m making this awkward. I seem to be good at that these days.

  “Fuck it. We can both sleep in this bed.” He pulls the covers down and scoots over.

  Fighting a smirk, I say, “Don’t act like you’re annoyed. It’s not like you’re doing me a favor. There’s another bed, and I’m perfectly capable of sleeping by myself for the first time in days.”

  The AC kicks on behind me, sending a quick chill into the air. I have to admit; it’s been nice sleeping next to someone for the first time in a long time. And tonight is our last night together. Forever.

  “Okay, while you’re over there weighing your options, I’m going to be over here sleeping,” he says, rolling over. He punches the pillow, tucking it under his neck and situating his body under the blankets, silently conveying a “now or never” message.

  Sucking in a lungful of stale, air-conditioned air, I climb under the covers beside him. There’s a dent in the blanket marking the space between us void of human contact. You could fit another person in that space, easily.

  The sliver of light between the drawn hotel curtains illuminates our section of the room and highlights the contour of his rounded, muscled shoulders, and his body slightly shifts as he breathes steady, quiet breaths.

  The AC unit kicks off, bringing silence to our room, and I immediately miss the droning hum because I’m wide awake, and white noise would be welcome. Rolling to my side and facing away from him, I close my eyes and try to relax. I’d love to text Delilah right now, but it’s late back home and I’m sure she passed out hours ago.

  Moving to my back, I can’t seem to get comfortable. I stare at the ceiling, whipping my attention toward the curtains, when I see flashing red and blue bleeding through. Someone must’ve been pulled over in the parking lot.

  Exhaling, I twist my body back toward Cristiano, burying my cheek against the cool, white pillow, only this time he’s facing me, eyes wide open.

  “Daphne,” he says, voice low and calm. “Go to sleep.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re tossing and turning. Shut your mind off and close your eyes. You should be exhausted by now.”

  He’s such a know-it-all.

  “I think it’s that rum and Coke from earlier. It had caffeine in it.”

  “You mean the two rum and Cokes?” he corrects.

  “Yeah. I’m wired now.”

  “Just try.” He closes his eyes, pulling in a breath and pushing it through his nostrils like he’s frustrated with me. I know he’s tired. I should be more compassionate. I should hop over to the other bed and let him get some rest. He did most of the driving today, but it was purely by accident. The first day we had a system. A schedule. Today we played most of our stops by ear, and we got better gas mileage than we expected in Nebraska and Iowa because it was so flat, so we only had to fill up twice.

  A gradual relaxation claims his expression, and I get the s
ense that he’s well on his way to dreamland right now, so I take the opportunity to stare at him. Really stare at him. I study his features, mentally sketching them out. The curve of his jaw. The hint of a dimple in his chin that I hadn’t noticed until now. His chiseled cheekbones. The tufts of thick dark hair that hang over his forehead. His perfect brows. Those long, chocolate-hued lashes. Those lips. Those full lips with the cupid’s bow arch.

  No wonder women go nuts over him.

  He’s literally a work of art.

  Slowly scooting toward my edge of the bed, I quietly slide my phone off my nightstand and Google the name Jax Diesel. I have a wild hair to check out the romance covers he’s graced. It doesn’t take but a few clicks and I’ve hit the jackpot. There’s one indie romance author, Hadley Caldwell, who seems to have used him for multiple covers. Clearly she’s a huge fan. I even find a photo of the two of them from a signing in Colorado Springs last year. She’s young. And pretty. And smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen anyone smile before.

  I continue clicking through Google images and come across a photo of him at a book convention, signing autographs and taking pictures with fans. There’s another picture of him with a whole group of ridiculously attractive men. I’m assuming they’re all cover models. Studying their faces, I keep going back to Cristiano’s.

  He blows the other guys out of the water.

  No contest.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cristiano’s voice sends my heart sailing into my throat.

  Clutching my lit phone against my galloping chest, I turn to him, breathless. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Why are you looking at pictures of me?” he sits up, resting on his forearm.

  “I wanted to see some of your book covers.”

  “Didn’t look like you were looking at book covers. Looks like you were Googling me.”

  “So?” I defend myself with a single word that means absolutely nothing in this argument. I did it. I Googled him while he was lying next to me because I couldn’t sleep. I’m sure I look like a freaking weirdo. Guilty as charged.

  “Why would you want to look at pictures of me when I’m right in front of you?”

  I don’t know how to answer that question. It’s a damn good question, too.

  “No reason, really. I told you earlier. I’m just a curious girl.” I shrug, placing my phone on the nightstand and slinking back under the covers. “Goodnight, Cristiano.”

  “No, no, no,” he says, scooting closer and closing the gap between us.

  “What?”

  “You tired all of a sudden?”

  “No?” I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “You should probably go back to sleep.”

  “I’m wide awake now.” He lies back, running his hand through his messy hair and blowing a breath through his lips. “So thanks for that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Rolling on his side, he props himself up again. I meet his gaze and even in the darkness of our hotel room, I know his stare lingers on my mouth.

  “It’s going to be different,” he says, voice low. “After tonight, I mean.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is our last night together.” I pick up on a hint of something bittersweet in his tone.

  “You getting all sentimental on me?” I fight a smirk. “Doesn’t seem like your style, Amato.”

  “How would you know my style?”

  “I don’t. But you don’t seem sentimental. You seem like someone who’s stuck in the moment. And maybe that’s a good thing. But I don’t think you think much about the past. And people who don’t think about the past can’t be sentimental.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He licks his lips, eyes locked on mine. “I think about the past every single day, Daphne. Sometimes I wish I could forget it.”

  My heart hammers in my ears, and in some ways, I feel like I’m looking at him for the first time all over again. He’s not just a beautiful man. He’s a complicated man. Broken. I couldn’t see that before, but I see it now.

  “Did you do something bad?” I ask, my voice a sheer whisper. The second the question leaves my lips, I’m doubting whether or not I want his answer. “Don’t answer that. Sorry.”

  “Daphne?” he asks, brows narrowed. Somehow he feels closer now, like he’d moved my way without me noticing. The space between us is tight, and his warmth brushes lightly against my skin without us touching.

  “Yes?”

  Cristiano brings his hand to my face, cupping my cheek in his palm before his gaze lowers to my lips. My heart hammers in my ears. A ripple of tingles passes through my core, radiating through to my fingertips. So much for sleeping tonight. My body’s alive and electric, completely entranced from the way he’s looking like he’s about to devour me.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he says, his voice steady and unmovable like a freight train.

  Swallowing, I try to speak, but forming a response feels insurmountable at this point.

  His mouth crashes on mine, his soapy scent invading my lungs as I breathe him in. Fingers cupping the side of my neck and tangled in my hair, he presses his lips against mine with a feverish need.

  Our bodies meet in the middle of the bed. In a matter of seconds, I’m pinned beneath him, anchored. His hips press against mine, and my body drinks in the comfort of how good it feels to be wanted, even if it’s only temporary.

  With his hands gathering my hair, he tugs until my mouth is again lifted to his, bringing his lips down on mine all over again.

  I run my hands along his sides, feeling the subtle ripple of his muscles beneath his t-shirt as his body moves atop mine. An unquestionable hardness pressed against my sex takes this entire thing to a whole new level. He’s hard. For me.

  I’m completely immersed in this moment. I think he is too. I wonder if this is what he does: stays locked in these moments as a way of running or hiding from his past. From the intrusive thoughts that steal his joy out of nowhere.

  There was a certain sadness in his dark gaze earlier. Whatever it was, whatever he refused to talk about, I have a feeling it’s always there . . . residing just beneath his polished veneer.

  Cristiano grinds his hips against mine, and I release a moan into his mouth. My core tingles with a palpable ache. It craves his touch. His fingers inside me, stroking. I imagine the way he might tease me with feather-light strokes first, building with hurried penetrations. First one finger, then two, and then . . . whatever else he’d like to do to me. Just looking at this man, I’m one-hundred percent certain he knows how to rain all kinds of pleasure down upon me.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful, Daphne,” he whispers, his lips grazing mine. His minty breath fills my lungs, and all I can think about is whether or not he can feel how fast my heart is beating in my chest. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

  His hips press harder into mine, grinding with a slow rhythm that tells me we’re straddling a very fine line here. This could easily go one of two ways. Grinding my hips against him, I nudge us in the only direction that feels right in this moment.

  It’s official. I want to sleep with Cristiano.

  No.

  I need to sleep with Cristiano.

  A hot ache in my throat accompanies the fever pitch of anticipation. I’m doubting whether or not he’s picking up what I’m putting down, but the moment he slides his hand beneath the covers and his cool fingertips graze the warm flesh of my belly, I struggle to breathe.

  In an instant, his hand slides beneath the waistband of my panties, sliding down my wet seam. My stomach caves and my body tenses at his touch. I’m hyperaware of every breath. Every move. His finger presses harder, inviting itself inside of me one teasing inch at a time, and the sudden awareness of his touch is a sensation I welcome, my thighs falling limp and powerless. His strokes are soft and gentle at first, and his eyes meet mine. When he plunges a finger deep inside me, I release a held breath that may as well symbolize his name on my tongu
e.

  This man is all over me. Inside. Outside. I’m fully immersed in the Cristiano Amato experience and loving every second of it.

  My mind travels, thoughts racing through my mind at warp speed. Does he enjoy this? Is he watching me? Does he like the way my body reacts to each plunge of his finger? My eyes squeeze tight. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking anymore. I only want to feel. I only want to enjoy.

  His body lifts slightly above mine, and the covers have fallen. My body trembles, and I’m not sure if it’s because it’s freezing in here or because he’s making my body feel things it hasn’t in well over a year.

  Rising on his knees, he tugs my pajama bottoms down all the way before pulling my panties off. Sitting up, I yank my tank top over my head before working on my bra. The sooner I’m completely naked with this Greek Adonis, the better.

  He smirks, the hint of his white teeth lighting the dark. “God, I could never get tired of looking at you.”

  His fingers return between my thighs, slipping down my slit as his thumb circles my clit with gentle pressure. His caresses are restrained, but the glint in his eye tells me he doesn’t intend to rest until he’s enjoyed all of me. Closing my eyes, I sink back into the pillow, feeling the shift of his weight on the bed and, suddenly, the warmth of his tongue dragging the length of my seam.

  “Oh, god,” I say, exhaling. Wasn’t expecting that.

  His warmth and wetness mixing with mine is sheer heaven, and I reach for a fistful of sheets to gather as my jaw unhinges.

  Cristiano, quite simply stated, is amazing at this.

  His tongue circles my clit, his free hand pressed flat against my tensed stomach, holding me down. He devours me, and yet, at the same time, there’s a gentle sensuality in the way he touches me.

  Within minutes, I find myself getting close, pulsing, throbbing, craving the real thing. I suck in quick breaths each time I feel that tingle between my thighs. Staving it off isn’t easy, and I’m not sure how much longer I can fight it.

  Rising to his knees, he leaves the apex between my thighs. Moving closer and holding his body over mine, he brings his lips down on me once again. I taste my arousal. I taste the sweet musk of what he’s done to me as he deposits an owning kiss on my waiting, wanting mouth.