“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groaned.
I tensed when his finger inched into the wrong hole.
“Nico,” I gasped.
Beneath my palms, a tremor rolled through his chest. He slowed, kissed my cheek, and murmured against my lips, “Tell me to stop and I will.”
I didn’t believe I was an adventurous girl, but I suddenly knew I would do anything to feel this man shudder like that.
His gaze liquefied when I didn’t say a word. He watched my face as his finger pushed further inside of me. It was a strange feeling, but I grew hotter than I’d ever been at the way his breathing turned ragged and his body grew tense, as though he struggled with holding himself back.
Two of his fingers slid inside while one still filled my ass. I groaned when he began to move them in and out slowly. The fullness was intense, delicious, and close to tipping me over the edge. He kissed my throat, and I shook beneath him as his fingers fucked me agonizingly slow.
I fisted the sheets, dug my heels into the bed, and when I came he swallowed my noises in his mouth. The finesse of the kiss faded. He nipped at my lips and jaw. Sucked on my tongue. Clinked my teeth.
It was messy and dirty. And everything him.
“I’m going to fuck you slowly,” he breathed in my ear.
He did as he said.
And in every possible way.
The kitchen. The living room. The shower. The hallway. His bed.
Seven days passed, and I grew very familiar with Nico, sex, and every possible place and position to have it.
I didn’t think it was healthy.
I breathed, slept, and consumed everything Nicolas Russo.
The first time I attempted to leave his bed after we were married, he grabbed my wrist and watched me with that lazy stare again. This time, he would hold me there forever. Not once had he complained about the ring, and I could only assume he felt better about it now that his was on my finger as well.
I slept in his bed. Sometimes with my face in his chest. Sometimes with his body spooning mine and his arm around me. Always with him pressed against me. Always with his hands on me and his smell everywhere. I didn’t know how or even when it happened, but somehow, he’d found a way to tear down my boundaries and embed himself in every piece of me.
Something touched me deep in the chest.
Something warm and fragile.
Something unraveling like a rope.
He didn’t go to work those seven days.
He taught me how to cheat at cards. How to fuck. And how to make an omelet.
His mamma was a good cook, he said. When she wasn’t high, he was quick to specify.
I soaked up any and all information he shared, no matter how small it was. Soon I would have every piece of the puzzle.
Slowly but surely, I was learning how to cook.
“I’m telling you, Mamma, it’s all watery,” I sighed into the phone.
“You didn’t make the roux right.”
“I did it exactly how you told me!”
“My recipes are buono, Elena. It is you who’s the problem.”
After a few of those similar conversations, I learned Google was a much better teacher. Nico might be able to make an omelet, but he was just as inept at everything else.
We ate a lot of takeout, but he never complained. In fact, he never complained about anything. Not when that itch for his attention began and I bothered him in his office, and not as I sat on his lap when he was on the phone talking business. While that bossy, totalitarian side of him was never going away, I was beginning to learn he was more laidback, more gentle, than I’d ever imagined a man like him could be.
I wished he was awful. Because I would soon deserve it.
He kissed me soft and slow. Ran his fingers through my hair. Let me pick the movie, though we never got through one film the entire week. Once his thumb started tracing circles around my belly button, I was dying for his hand in lower places and he always gave me what I wanted.
His body covered mine, so heavy, so perfect.
Skin against skin. The demanding way he tilted my head to kiss me deeper. The roughness of his palm sliding down my throat. His handprints burning me like brands.
It was all a blur. A feeling that coalesced in my chest.
I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in. His smell was like nicotine, the drug burning through every capillary and spreading through my bloodstream.
The last thread of the rope snapped.
And then it was nothing but me, him, and a long way to the ground.
Thrilling, she’d told me.
She never said it would hurt.
“I fell off my pink cloud with a thud.”
—Elizabeth Taylor
THE SUN SHONE A WARM glow against my skin, but it couldn’t thaw the coldness that had slid into my stomach throughout the night. I’d lain awake for hours, listening to Nico breathe and debating what I would do.
For my conscience, for my sanity, for him, doing nothing wasn’t an option.
I wished I was a different person, one who could put it past me and forget, just so I didn’t have to ruin the small amount of trust Nico had in me and push him into another woman’s arms. Just so I didn’t have to destroy the contentment that filled me whenever he was near.
He was awake and, by the dip in the mattress, sitting on the side of the bed. His gaze touched my skin, but I didn’t open my eyes. What if he saw everything I was thinking?
His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “You gonna laze the whole day away?”
I nodded.
“Been craving your famous runny soup, though.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” I murmured.
He chuckled.
“I told you I couldn’t cook, and you still chose to marry me,” I complained.
“You also said you spend a lot of money and you haven’t.”
“Just wait until I go shopping.”
He laughed, and then I gasped when he ripped the covers off me. My eyes flew open. “Nico, it’s cold!”
I was naked. If I wasn’t naked in the past week, I was only wearing a t-shirt and panties. Best days ever.
His body came down on mine. I slid my arms beneath his white t-shirt to steal some of his warmth. I was sure this man could survive a night in the Arctic without a coat by the amount of heat he put off.
I loved how big he was and how I always felt small and safe with him. The truth was, I loved everything about him and there was no going back. It was full speed ahead, like a train that couldn’t stop for the girl standing with wide eyes on the tracks.
Bliss hummed beneath my skin as he lay on top of me. He ran a rough palm across my cheek and cupped the nape of my neck. His lips brushed mine. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
The rasp of his voice wrapped around my heart and squeezed. Seared it with warmth and the acidic bite of guilt. I used to hate that word, beautiful. How dirty it sounded no matter which language it was spoken in. However, the deep, sincere way it rolled off his lips was how my romantic heart had always imagined it to be said.
He kissed me, and I melted beneath him, running my hands over the smooth muscles of his back.
His lips trailed down my neck. “You know what you mean to me, don’t you?”
My heartbeats slowed to nothing, while my conscience spun so fast everything blurred.
Why?
Why was he doing this to me?
So many feelings, from happiness to anger at my situation, roared to the surface and vibrated beneath my skin. Tears burned the backs of my eyes. I was so tense there wasn’t a chance he didn’t notice, but he only kissed my throat as though he’d anticipated this reaction.
An ache cut through my chest.
His forehead rested on mine. Inhaling a breath from between my lips, he kissed me softly. And then he was on his feet, saying he’d be in the garage, before walking out of the room and leaving me cold in his wake.
I’d lain in his bed for two minutes af
ter he left, listening to the tick of a distant clock and letting the cold seep through my skin until a numbness spread.
If I didn’t do it now I never would.
Not if he kept saying things like that to me.
Especially not if he said them as though he’d never been more sure about anything.
With trembling hands, I slipped on a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a jacket while watching through the spare room window. Nico had grease up to his elbows as he walked to his worktable. He hadn’t been in his garage once in the past seven days, but last night he’d said he needed to finish rebuilding the valve train, or something like it. That sounded like a project. Hours, maybe, with Nico busy, without Luca watching me like a hawk. I knew it was the best shot I had.
Digging through my duffel bag, I found the note I’d copied and a letter I wrote months ago and slipped them in my back pocket. My heartbeat matched the patter of my steps as I trod downstairs. I grabbed some cash from the counter and then stopped to eye my cell phone nearby. A strong desire demanded I take it; I told him I would always keep it on me. I also promised not to leave the house without telling him. It felt like I was going to be sick by not listening, but I knew he’d have GPS on my phone.
Leaving out the front, I shut the screen door quietly.
I headed down the steps but froze as my gaze clashed with a man’s, who stood on the porch of the house to the left of us, smoking a cigarette. The neighbor who always had baseball filtering through his open windows. He had the Cosa Nostra in his eyes.
My stomach swam with unease.
He let out a breath of smoke and watched me.
If I didn’t make this look normal I was going to be stopped before I made it to the sidewalk. I gave him the shy Sweet Abelli smile, as though I’d been caught doing the walk of shame. I didn’t think Nico had announced our marriage yet, but it was all over if he had.
After a second, the man gave me a small nod.
The tiniest amount of relief spread through me, but I didn’t trust him yet. He worked for my husband, after all. As I headed down the street in the most normal pace I could muster, his gaze touched my spine with every step. The hair on the back of my neck rose.
Once I was past sight of the house, I speed-walked around the corner to the bus stop. Only two Asian girls and one black man with his headphones in waited. According to my app, the bus was scheduled to be here now, on the dot.
Three minutes passed.
I shifted. Come on.
Two more minutes.
A cold sweat drifted down my spine.
A small part of me believed Nico might have helped me with this if I asked him—but there was also a larger possibility he wouldn’t. And in that case, I would lose the opportunity for good.
I could never forget who my husband was, that if it was his female relative found with a man, Nico would’ve been the one to shoot him in the head.
I could taste the respite when the bus pulled up to the curb with a screeching grind. I climbed on and sat far in the back.
Slipping the ring off my finger, I turned the piece of jewelry in my hands. The relief I believed I would feel was now mixed with regret as I watched home fade from view. But I had to do this, to remove the weight pressing on my shoulders, to right a wrong in the only way I could. I put the ring in my pocket and prayed Nico would understand. He had to.
I stood in front of Francesco’s double green doors. The window was already replaced and most likely now bulletproof. The Closed sign hung in the window and the bread rack sat empty, but when I tried the doorknob it was unlocked.
My eyes adjusted to the dim room. Goose bumps ran up my arms as the memory of rapid gunshots filled my mind. The restaurant was immaculate, however. Nothing to hint at the shooting that had taken place. The clank of pots and pans came from the kitchen and I heard my uncle’s voice amongst the commotion.
As I took a step toward my destination, a girl with a swinging blond ponytail came out of the back room, carrying a tub of new glasses. “Elena. Hi!”
I internally cringed. Her voice was loud enough to be heard in Korea. “Hi, Sarah. Is my uncle around?”
“Yes! He’s in the kitchen. I’ll go get him!”
“No, that’s okay,” I blurted. “I’ll go surprise him.”
“Oh, perfect! Mum’s the word!” She locked her lips and threw away the key. Setting the tub on the bar, she smiled at me like we shared a big secret before disappearing into the back room. Sarah had worked here for a few years. Zio liked to say she was sole che cammina. Walking sunshine. It was the best way to describe her.
No matter the whole display of locking her lips, I didn’t believe she was going to keep quiet long. The secret would burst from her like pure sunlight. Heading into the hallway near the bathroom and private dining rooms, I stopped before a wooden door.
Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked.
The door pushed open and I exhaled, taking the stairs two at a time. The apartment was half the size of the restaurant below and always a bit too warm with how heavily the sun streamed in. I found my way into Zio’s office and sat at his desk.
A drop of sweat ran a lazy path down my back.
Tapping a few keys, I woke the computer up. When the screen asked for the password, I said a quick prayer that Zio hadn’t changed it in the past six years.
Dulce. His late wife.
The rainbow spinning wheel went round and round, and as the computer opened to the home screen, another heavy breath rushed past my lips.
When Adriana and I were younger and Mamma and Papà had dinners to attend, they’d drop us off here. Most kids watched Disney movies and ate fruit snacks at the babysitter’s. I sat on Zio’s lap at his desk while he cooked books and let me have tiny sips of scotch.
I’d watched him transfer money a hundred different times, but I didn’t remember there being so many programs as there was now.
Please, Memory, don’t fail me now.
Five minutes later, I found what I was looking for just as my nerve endings threatened to jump out of my skin.
I typed in the information from Nico’s personal bank account and then mine.
Entered a seven-digit number.
And pressed Transfer.
On my way out of the bank, my shoulder collided with another’s. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, giving the man a glance. My stomach dropped like an anchor to my toes.
Sebastian.
“My, my, what do we have here?” Intrigue glinted in his dark eyes as he ran a hand down his navy blue tie.
My heart beat in my throat. This was probably the worst thing that could have happened—running into one of my husband’s newest business partners—but I didn’t come this far to stop now.
“You know you sound like a cliché villain, don’t you?” I responded, continuing down the sidewalk and into the bustle of the city.
Sebastian caught up to me, his Ferragamos in sync with my sneakers. “Oh, Elena. I am the villain.” A dark undertone slipped into his light Colombian accent. His gaze coasted the area. “Why do I have a feeling you’re out here all alone?”
I ignored his question. “Have you gotten laid yet?”
A soft laugh escaped him. He ran a thumb across his bottom lip, his gold watch glinting in the sun. “Sí. I found the most accommodating ladies.”
“Ladies, huh? Not prostitutes?”
“Ay, Elena.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me. Give me twenty minutes and I could charm you out of those . . .” His eyes drifted down. “. . . Jeans.”
“And you’re starting by stalking me?”
“No. I’m stalking you because I’m beginning to believe you really are alone, and if I didn’t, my new business partner would try to shoot me.”
I raised a brow. “Try?”
“I’m hard to kill.” He winked.
We stopped at a stoplight and Sebastian rolled his shoulders in the smooth lines of his gray suit as the corner filled with people.
“
How do you speak such good English?” I asked. If he was going to be invasive by following me around, so was I.
He slipped his hands into his pockets. “My mother’s Australian. I went to school in Sydney.” That made sense. No wonder Oscar was so fair. His brother received the goldenness of a Colombian, however.
I scrunched my nose. “They have a lot of snakes and spiders there.”
“They do. But I think you have bigger problems here,” he said, grimacing as a taxi driver screamed at a man on a bike to get out of the way.
The light turned green and Sebastian continued to follow me all the way to the bus station. I stopped at the kiosk to get my ticket, but my fingers faltered on the screen when Sebastian coolly said, “Two.”
“No,” I breathed. “Thank you for offering though.”
“If that’s how you want it, Elena. I was planning to give Ace a call anyway.” He reached for his pocket, but before he could get his phone out I turned and grabbed his hand. A smirk pulled on his lips. “See what I mean? I’ve hardly begun charming you and you’re already dying to touch me.”
I swallowed. “Don’t call him.”
Darkness flashed through his eyes. “Why not, Elena?”
“Just . . . you can’t.”
“Are you running?”
“No,” I insisted. “I swear it. But there’s something I need to do.”
“With thousands of dollars in your pocket?” he asked with a sardonic tone.
I only nodded.
“And a thoroughly pissed don on your trail?”
Another nod.
He gave his head a shake, tightening his jaw. “What the hell,” he muttered. “This city was beginning to bore me anyway.” His hand dropped from his pocket and his dark gaze met mine. “Two. Tickets. Elena.”
With no other choice in the matter, two tickets it was.
The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1) Page 32
