Page 166 of Bitter Poetry
Yes, and no.
I always wanted to be Mrs. Barone, but which one? It’s not like Christian has ever made any allusions to something more between us. He told Dante not to fuck me while he wasn’t here—hardly an indication he wants to marry me, or even of commitment. But it’s darkly possessive, and this changed version of me likes it a lot.
My lips curve into a smile. My mother would be horrified at me having feelings for Christian.
“He’s not what I expected,” I tell my reflection. “Nor is he the man you thought he was, Mama.” Also, he kind of is, but there’s more to him than the facade he presents. He’s not cold, nor is he callous toward me.
He doesn’t hate me despite how he told me that he did.
Despite him fucking me like he did.
Why do I only realize this now?
I can’t make eye contact with my reflection anymore. Turning away, I pad through the bedroom to the door, opening it a little wider so I can listen.
All I hear is Dante’s voice. The long pauses make me think he’s talking to someone on his cell phone.
I slip into the corridor, drawing closer so I can hear what he’s saying.
He’s standing before the big window, staring out into the darkness. A few lamps are on, casting soft illumination over the room. His suit jacket is tossed over the back of the couch, andthe sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up. His dark hair is a little longer on top and messy, as if he’s had his hands in it.
“How did we miss that?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair as if to confirm my assessment. I bite my lip to stifle my giggle.
“Has he been compromised? Should we pull him out?”
My smile drops. Why do I think he might be talking about Christian? It could be anyone and anything, yet my heart still slams against my rib cage.
He sighs heavily, listening to whatever is being said.
Then he turns slowly, like he can sense me watching, and his eyes settle on me. “Can we get a copy of it?” He walks over to the couch, and beckons to me as he sits down.
My steps are slow. When I reach his side, he captures my wrist and tugs me down onto his lap. His warmth and cologne envelop me. I press my nose against his throat and breathe him in, instantly calmed.
“Okay, keep working on that. I can’t believe it will give them anything useful from that distance, but I’d rather be able to assess that for ourselves. We should consider pulling him out, either way. I’ve got to go; she’s awake…. Yes, call me.”
He hangs up and drops the cell phone onto the couch at his side.
“You should be sleeping, Carmela.” He presses a kiss to my temple… who knew temple kisses could feel so good?
“I had a nightmare.”
His hand slides up and down my back in what ought to be a soothing gesture yet stirs the ever-present need I feel around him to life. His hands are big and warm through the T-shirt. Suddenly, I wish I had that sinful red Victoria’s Secret babydoll that I shoved to the back of a drawer and swore I would never wear for Ettore.
“Does that happen often?”
I don’t want to talk about my nightmares. I want him to peel my T-shirt off and tease me until I’m panting and wet, and then I want him to fill me how I need—damn Christian and his double standards. Damn Dante for listening to him. “Often enough.”
“Are they recent, or have they been happening for a while?”
I sigh. “Recent.”
His hand curves around me to draw me in tight. “Want to talk about it, baby?”
“No. It’s gone now.”
The arousal that never fully dissipates around him lowers to a simmer. This is nice, too, the sense of closeness, of being held and cherished. I never experienced cuddles with Christian. Maybe he’s not that way inclined, even if there had been time. Dante does the best cuddles, and I’m already becoming addicted. “What’s happening, Dante? Where is Christian? Is he okay?”
