She tenses. "You're joking."
"Nope," I say. "A man came out to watch the show."
"Oh, God." As soon as she says that, I pin her against the wall to free my hand again, slipping it between us to stroke her clit. She barely has time to inhale before the words come out yet again in the form of a moan. "Oh God."
It doesn't take long for her to come again, her legs shaking, body quaking around me, as a loud cry vibrates her chest that she can't restrain. It's an agonizing shriek of pleasure that rocks me to the core, exploding somewhere deep inside of me so I can't hold back my own anymore. I grunt, slamming her against the concrete as I thrust hard, coming inside of her.
After a few thrusts, I can't take anymore and have to pull back, slipping out of her. I quickly tuck my cock away and grasp her hips to make sure she's stable as she drops to her feet, wobbling. Instead of slipping past me, rushing inside or dodging for her clothes just feet away, she collapses into me, wrapping her arms around me as her head comes to rest against my chest. I hug her back, engulfing her in my arms, and press a kiss to the top of her head.
A catcall cuts through the night air, a loud whistle echoing across the street. My eyes dart that way as the man claps. "Bravo!"
"Oh my God," Karissa groans. "I can't even…"
She slips out of my grasp, darting away, leaving her clothes discarded right where she took them off as I call out "Can't even what?" but she's gone before I even get out the first word. The man across the street shouts out something else, the fast and fluent Italian lost on me as I watch Karissa's shadow move around.
Laughing, I wave at the man and head inside. "Ciao."
"Do you want to—?"
"Nope."
I stall, standing in the middle of the hotel room, a cold sense of dread sweeping through me when Karissa cuts me off mid-question, not letting me finish what I was going to ask.
Déjà vu.
I thought we were past this nonsense. Yesterday had been better than ever. I've never felt as close to her as I did laying in bed last night, holding her, no clothing between our bodies, no secrets separating us anymore.
I expected to wake up to a new day, a fresh start, but instead she does this?
Karissa's stretched out on the bed, wearing only one of the big white robes supplied by the hotel, her hair still damp from her shower. She's flipping through channels. There are only a few, mostly in Italian. She doesn't know a damn thing that's happening on any of them, but they're stealing her attention.
I don't like it.
The urge to punch the television nearly overwhelms me.
My hands clench into fists involuntarily. Almost like she can sense it, Karissa stops on one of the channels and tosses the remote down, her attention turning to me. Her brow furrows as she takes in my stance before she smiles. "If it requires walking, abso-freaking-lutely not. After yesterday, I am beat. The only way I'm going anywhere is if you carry me."
"I offered to carry you yesterday and you refused."
"Yeah, well, not today," she says, relaxing back against the pillows as she gazes at the television again. "The only way you're getting me to move from this bed is if you pick me up and physically move me."
"Ah, well, lucky for you, I can think of plenty of ways we can pass the day without leaving the bed," I say, sitting down beside her. "And I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast. I was going to order room service."
"Uh, yes, I take it back... that would be amazing. Do they have bacon and eggs? Oh, and French toast, or does France have a monopoly on that in Europe?"
"Actually, the French didn't invent French toast," I reply. "That was probably the Ancient Romans."
"So I can get it here?"
"No."
She pouts dramatically as I grab the bedside phone and press the button for the main desk. I ask that some espresso and cornettos be sent up. It only takes a few minutes before there's a knock on the door. I answer it, letting the man wheel the tray in, and wait until he's gone again before bringing it over to Karissa. I hand her an espresso and set the tray near her feet.
"Seriously? A croissant?" she says, picking one up and eyeing me as I sit down beside her. "Now this I know is from France."
"I think they originated in Austria, actually."
"Jesus, Naz, next you're going to tell me pizza isn't Italian."
"Oh, no, pizza is certainly Italian, just not pepperoni pizza. You order that on your pizza here, and you'll get peperoni, with one 'p', instead."
"What's the difference?"
"They're sweet peppers."
She scrunches up her nose. "Way to kill the fantasy."
"It's what I'm good at. One of the many things, anyway."
Before she can respond, I reach over and run my hand up her inner thigh. She squirms, taking a sip of her espresso, and moans just as my hand reaches her bare pussy. I graze her clit, lightly stroking it, as she continues to sip from her cup, throat muscles flexing as she swallows. Her moans grow louder, throaty groans of pleasure, as I rub circles a little harder, caressing her beneath the robe. I can't see what I'm doing, but I know her body better than my own.
Even blind, I could rock her world.
I set my own drink aside, moving the tray of food out of the way, and shift in the bed to settle between her legs. She doesn't move an inch as I shove her robe up, starting at her knees and trailing kisses up her thighs, my hands settling on her hips.
Bringing my mouth to her pussy, I slide my tongue along her center before licking her clit, lightly sucking on it. She cries out, the sound muffled as she still sips on that goddamn drink. She guzzles what's left of it, throwing it back like it's nothing, before flinging her hand. The small cup goes flying across the room, slamming into something before hitting the floor.
"Oh God," she groans, her hands resting on the top of my head. "That's it."
I lick and suck, nibbling on her inner thighs, pumping two fingers inside of her, curving them to hit her g-spot. She comes apart, easily, quickly, her legs shaking as she grips my hair tightly. Her back arches as an orgasm sweeps through her. I can feel her pussy contracting from the pleasure, squeezing my fingers, her body practically begging for more of me.
Before it even subsides, I'm on top of her, my knees pushing her legs apart wider as I pull my cock out of my boxers, shoving my pants down just enough to thrust inside of her. She wraps her arms around me, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved in a sly smile. I kiss her, my tongue meeting hers, and grin against her mouth.
I know she can taste herself on my lips, but she tastes like espresso.
"Was it good?" I whisper.
"Best fucking coffee ever," she mumbles.
Karissa's running around again.
Dodging from room to room, tugging on her curled hair, slathering on lotion, putting on jewelry, and changing her shoes a dozen times.
I stand out on the balcony, holding my phone, and watch her curiously. I wonder if this is how she acted in the past every time I invited her to dinner or told her I was coming over.
It amuses me.
She seems so nervous.
Like I make her nervous.
Not in the way I'm used to with people. It's the kind of nervous energy that radiates off of her and soaks straight through to me, the kind that makes my chest tight at the sight of her. She doesn't have to try to be beautiful. It comes naturally.
But she tries, anyway.
She tries because of me.
The glass door to the balcony slides open. She appears there, wringing her hands together.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" she asks. "The dress is too much. I shouldn't have picked it."
I sent her out on her own earlier--with an escort, of course, a translator provided as a courtesy by the hotel. I told her to pick a dress for tonight, that I'd made us plans, and acted as if I couldn't care less about what she did. I cared, though, and I would've rather gone with her, but I had business to attend to.
Business forced onto me by Ray.
One of his Sicilian contacts was in Rome for the afternoon, and Ray wanted me to meet him to get some files. I don't know what it's for, nor do I care.
Not my business.
It never is.
As much as I didn't want to leave Karissa alone, I preferred it to bringing her around those guys. We can be brutal in America, but the kind over here are savages.
I tried to call Ray, to tell him it was handled, but he didn't answer.
"You look beautiful," I tell Karissa. "It's not too much."
"Really? You like it?"
"I like you."
She smiles, looking down at herself. "But what about the dress?"
Sighing, I slip my phone in my pocket. "Let me tell you a secret, sweetheart."
She glances at me, her interest piqued. "What?"
"Most men, myself included, don't notice the clothes. We just notice how you look in them. The wrapping paper is nothing compared to the toy inside. So the dress matters not to me. It's pink..."
"Purple."
"And it's some sort of satin."
"Silk."
"Proves my point," I say. "It's just a dress. But you? You're beautiful. Dressed up, dressed down, not dressed at all. You're beautiful every way you come... especially when you come."
Her cheeks flush. "Thank you."
"No need to thank me. I'm just speaking the truth."
She twirls a bit, eyes down on her dress, before she looks at me. For the first time since arriving in Rome nearly a week ago, I'm wearing a black suit. I almost feel out of practice, like a different person pulled it on this afternoon.
I don't know how to feel being this man again.
"You look handsome," she says.
"I look like I always do."
"I know. Handsome."
I smile, stepping toward her, grasping her hip as I motion for her to go ahead of me.
There's a car waiting downstairs, a sleek black Mercedes limousine. Karissa eyes it peculiarly before sliding in the back when the driver opens the door for us. He greets her in Italian, and she smiles sweetly, avoiding responding. I return his greeting, climbing in after her, settling back into the leather seat as we get on the road.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" she asks.
"La Bohème," I respond. "Teatro dell'Opera di Roma."
"Say what?"
"To see La Bohème the Rome Opera House."
"An Italian opera?"
"Yes."
Her eyes light up excitedly. "What's it about?"
"It's a tragic love story, as most of them are."
"Is it good?"
"It's supposed to be. I haven't seen it, though, so I guess we'll find out."
The car takes us to the Baths of Caracalla, to the outdoor theater where they put on the shows in the summertime. It's a fair night, not a cloud in the darkened sky, the stars twinkling high above us. The ancient ruins tower high around the stage. Karissa stays right beside me, slipping her hand into mine as soon as we're out of the car. I glance at her, seeing her shy smile as she tucks in at my side.
Our seats are front and center, the best possible at the flat outdoor venue. We slip into them, and Karissa resists when I try to let go of her hand. I put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her toward me, as I relax in the seat as much as I can.
The opera's sung entirely in Italian, but it doesn't seem to inhibit Karissa in any way. She's enraptured, staring at the stage in awe from the very first note. Chills dance along her skin—I see them creeping up her arms as she absently fiddles with the material of her dress.
Halfway through, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket.
It stops periodically before starting up again, over and over. I can't hear it, the ringer off, but feeling it is driving me up the wall. I'm on the verge of losing my cool when it finally stops.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
I'm only vaguely paying attention to the show, my thoughts drifting, when Karissa slouches against me, sniffling. I glance down at her, confused when I see tears in her eyes.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, concerned.
"No."
I shift in my seat, grasping her chin. "What's wrong?"
Her brow furrows before something seems to strike her. She laughs, despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's sad, Naz. She's dying."
I look from her to the stage, to the woman on her deathbed, the music haunting. Huh.
Karissa rolls her eyes, looking back away.
The opera is over not long after. The crowd erupts in applause. Karissa is on her feet, excitedly cheering, louder than the rest. Her enthusiasm makes me smile. I stand up, clapping a few times, before grabbing her elbow and motioning for us to leave. She doesn't seem to want to go, too caught up in the moment, but obliges, taking my hand once more as we head out into the aisle.
I pull out my phone, calling for the car service on our way out. The man tells me it'll be thirty minutes. Hanging up, I shift through my missed messages, seeing Ray called me twelve times.
"It'll be a half hour," I say, slipping my phone away before looking at Karissa.
I'll deal with Ray later.
"We can walk, can't we?" she asks, looking around.
"I thought you were done with walking."
"That was days ago," she says. "I'm good as new."
"It's two miles."
"That's fine. It's a beautiful night."
Shrugging, I tug on her hand, and we stroll away from the theater. The streets are fairly quiet at this hour, most tourists gone inside for the night.
"You didn't think that story was sad?" she asks.
"I wasn't really paying it attention," I admit.
She's quiet for a moment before asking, "Are you okay?" Her eyes are on me. I can feel them, but I don't look her way. "You seem… off."
"In what way?"
"I don't know," she says. "It's hard to put my finger on it. I'd say you were depressed, but that's not really it. You're not sad. You're just… not really there."
"I'm thinking."
"Thinking?" She gasps, grabbing her chest in mock horror. "You? Mr. Less Thinking, More Feeling?"
I smile at her humor. It's nice to have her so at ease, but it unnerves me that she caught the change in my demeanor. I've been feeling off all day. I let myself be me again, let myself slip back into old habits, succumbing to old desires, and lost sight of the here-and-now, and the reality is our little bubble can't last forever, can't remain in tact once we step foot back on American soil. I can't be this man there, can't be this man and still survive the life I've chosen to live. I've made promises to Karissa, whispers when we were alone in the dark that are going to be hard to keep come daylight.
We walk in silence for a while, just strolling along.
I expect her to ask me what I'm thinking about, but she lets it drop.
We're still a mile from the hotel when her footsteps slow. I can tell she's tired, her feet hurting from the shoes she's wearing. I stop, offering her another piggyback ride.
This time, she accepts.
She squeals as she hops on, her arms tightly around my neck, hands clasps together at my chest, and her legs around my waist. Her hip is right on my wound but it's barely noticeable, nothing more than some soreness. She rests her head against the side of mine as I carry her. She's light, and feels so right clinging to me.
I think I could carry the woman forever.
Her breath is warm against my ear as she laughs, whispering after a moment, "Do you think we could get married here?"
I damn near drop her.
My grip slips, her legs sliding, but her hold is so tight she keeps herself from falling. I clutch ahold of her again, pulling her up, steadying her. Before I can even think of what to say to that, she continues.
"I don't mean, like, right now, but someday."
My words are tentative. "If that's what you want."
I carry her the rest of the way to the hotel, not putting her down until we
reach the front door. She drops back to her feet, laughing.
I haven't ever heard her laugh so much as she has this past week. She's happy, happier than I've ever seen her. Despite it all, despite knowing the man I am, the man I have the potential to be, she finds it in her heart to be happy with me.
That's something I never want to lose.
Something I never want to destroy.
But I have a feeling, when we get back home, her happiness may not last as long as I hope.
And later, after she's asleep, when I stroll out onto the balcony and dial Ray's number, hearing his voice when he picks up on the first ring, I'm sure of it.
"I don't like what that girl's turned you into, Vitale."
No hello.
No warm greeting.
He's unhappy.
Maybe rightfully so.
But I know now, no matter what I do, I'm going to lose one of them. I'm going to disappoint either the woman who loves me, who breathed life into me, or the only man who ever really gave me a chance.
Either way, I fear, will be the end of me.
Custom made and tailored to my frame, my suits all fit me like a glove.
I have fifty of them, every single one a similar shade of black. Most people, looking in my closet, would think they're all the same, but I can tell the differences. Different weights and different fabrics, some for winter and some for summer, a couple with vests, most with three-button jackets and the rest of them with two. I rotate them, rarely wearing the same suit more than once a month.
They've survived years.
Some have lasted decades.
I bought my first black suit nearly twenty years ago. Until then, I dressed like an average kid from Hell's Kitchen—jeans, t-shirts, sneakers. You couldn't have paid me back then to put on a tie.
But I had a funeral to attend.
I needed a suit.
The fabric was heavy, or maybe that was just my heart. I felt constricted, weighed down like my body was made of concrete, my insides a block of stone that the world was steadily chipping away at. I was suffocating, but there was something strangely reassuring about the sensation, something soothing about wearing the dark, heavy suit, like a coat of armor, keeping the world from stealing any more pieces of my soul.
Torture to Her Soul Page 22