Page 32 of I Would Beg For You

A lump closes my throat as I think of Mamma. I saw her die, right there in front of me—she stepped up from the table to go to the fridge. Five steps away, and she didn’t make it. A brain aneurysm. She was gone within a few seconds, nothing we could do about it.

“I’m sorry,” Naomi says. “I heard what happened to her when I was away at college.”

I focus back onto her. “Thank you.”

“We should eat,” she says, and I nod.

“Wine?” I ask. When she acquiesces, I get up then pour us both a glass of Chianti Classico.

“Wow, this is delicious,” she exclaims after her first sip.

“It is. At least eighty percent Sangiovese grapes.”

“You’re very knowledgeable.” She smiles and takes a bite of her food.

I shrug. “Check out the gallo nero on the neck of the bottle. Black rooster,” I add when she doesn’t seem to pick up what I’m talking about. “It’s officially required to label a true Chianti.”

The food is getting cold, and we both focus on eating the delicious meal before the mozzarella becomes a gloopy mass. With empty plates before us, I refill our wine glasses and sit back in my chair to gaze at Naomi.

“What?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

“I meant it. You truly do look beautiful tonight.”

A light blush colors her cheeks.

“This color suits you,” I add.

“I’ve never worn purple before, didn’t think it’d work for me. How did you know it would?”

I take a small sip of wine. “I imagined it would.”

And that’s true. I still remember her hands clutching that purple pillow all those years ago. I wanted to see the contrast with her creamy skin again.

“Do you…imagine things about me?” she asks softly.

A slow smile stretches my lips. “You give my imagination a lot of fodder, gattina.”

Like the little show you put on last night.

She gasps, the sound hitching in her throat as she watches me with parted lips.

Fuck, it’s getting hot in here all of a sudden. And uncomfortable in my pants, too.

“I can see a lot from my window,” I tell her, wanting to see where she’ll take this.

She licks her lips, and I’m about to combust on the spot.

“Show me,” she says, and I can’t hear her at first because of the blood pounding in my head.

My turn to blink. “You want to see what I see from my bedroom when I look into yours?”

“Yes.”

It’s just one word, but there’s everything inside it—permission, consent, request, dare.

In a swift move, I’m out of my chair and grabbing her hand on the way as I pull her in my wake towards the stairs which I want to take two by two, but Naomi’s strides aren’t as long as mine, so I have to bide my time and wait for her to follow me.

The bedroom is bathed in moonlight when we enter it. The curtains are wide open, giving a prime view of the house nextdoor. Naomi didn’t leave a light on in her room, so we can’t see inside, but I bet she can picture it.

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