by Tara Oakes
One middle-aged couple leaves the shopping area with a stack of brochures in hand and a healthy discussion going about the merits of one bed over the other. She likes one, he likes another.
They continue their gentle argument all the way out the door of the department.
I lean up against one of the mattresses and bounce, testing the inner springs for buoyancy.
Hmmm… nice.
I slip my sandals off one foot at a time and swing my legs up to rest on the sumptuous padding. Closing my eyes, I bask in the relaxation the bed solicits from me.
“Should we test it out?”
His voice startles me but I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I do the only thing I can think to do, and pretend to snore.
He laughs and I feel the bed lower and shift with the newly added weight of his body lying next to mine.
“That’s OK. I’m used to listening to you snore while you sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping. Just bored. And what a coincidence… I’m used to being bored sleeping next to you.” I’m quick to retort. “Besides… you never sleep next to me, anyway. You hightail it out as soon as you can.”
“Ahh…” he sounds enlightened. “So that’s why you’re acting so bitchy. I told you… I had to take care of some business. Some very important business for my boss- your brother? You know… the man who made it very clear he would put a hit out on me himself, not to mention cut off my---” He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, causing the bed to rock.
“I’m risking life and limb to be with you, Tre, doesn’t that count for something?”
His explanation does nothing to soothe the sting his abrupt departure from my apartment at 2am this morning has had on my confidence. Business or not, he threw on his clothes and ran out of my place faster than a whore running out of confession.
The sheets had barely dried and there I was, left alone in the dark, reminded once again of how I always come in second.
We’d been finding stolen moments together here and there ever since he’d recovered from his gunshot wounds. It hasn’t been long at all, but it’s been intense. The nights are intense, the fights are intense… and the making up puts it all to shame. But there’s one constant in all of it. I don’t have all of him, only a piece.
Just like back then, when we were teenagers, I’m only given little scraps of what’s left over after and in between work or whatever the hell he does for my brother.
I remember all too well how it turned out for us last time he eventually had to choose between me and this lifestyle of which he’s so obsessed. I was left with my crumpled clothes in hand and my broken heart in pieces as I left his little apartment above his uncle’s restaurant, crying all the way home and vowing to hate him forever.
Forever turned out to be exactly six and a half years.
Then, fate stepped in and threw this walking orgasm back into my life. I’d stayed strong, vigilant in my hatred for him, but it only took a handful of words to lead to my undoing.
The morning after he was shot doing his duty while protecting my brother and I sat vigil by his bedside, fully expecting each breath to be his last… he broke my heart again, only this time in a good way.
He opened his eyes for the first time since being sedated, looked me right in the eyes and said: “Thank God. I want the last thing I see on this earth to be you, Theresa.”
I don’t know if it was the pain meds or just plain delirium guiding his words, and I didn’t have a chance to ask as he slipped into unconsciousness again for another day after that.
“Tonight,” he breaks into my thoughts. “I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise.”
Vincenza’s voice can be heard trailing from nearby, growing near, and Carmine jumps up quickly before we’re discovered by the group of women approaching.
What a shocker, he’s leaves my bed once again.
~*~
The large packages are stacked and balanced in a neat pyramid in the main foyer and this isn’t even half of what we’ve bought today. Three stores, five hours, and two emergency cups of coffee later, I sit rubbing my feet while V stands and shakes her finger at the items, mentally checking them off some list.
“I think we got everything we needed,” she concludes.
I roll my eyes behind her as she continues to check over the boxes.
“Even if we didn’t, V, I don’t think I can stand to look at another binky, bottle, wipe warmer, or onesie. I’ve gotta bounce.”
“Oh come on, sis… don’t you want to help carry all this stuff to the nursery?” Dom raises an eyebrow in question.
He already knows the answer.
“Sorry, big brother.” I slip my aching feet back into the leather flats. “Thank God for all your muscles. You’re gonna need them!”
I laugh at the thought of the numerous trips he’ll be making up and down those stairs, as I blow each of them a kiss and slip out the front door before I’m suckered into helping them.
~*~
A little more couldn’t hurt.
I tip the green bottle just a bit higher and listen to the glorious splash the contents make against the smooth glass, and it’s as if my body has already somehow reaped the rewards of the drink.
I instantly feel relaxed just knowing that in mere seconds the expensive red drink will help smooth away the stress of the day.
In my family, the fruity drink was a staple at every dining table- consumed by the boat load, literally, as my dad had his favorite vintage sent directly from some friend’s vineyard in Tuscany.
I was allowed to take small sips as a growing child from mom or dad’s rim-filled glass as wine was an integral part of our culture. But, I never really enjoyed the drink until right after college.
Now, I’ll practically finish off a couple of bottles a week. I try all kinds of new ones, but none compare to the kind my dad used to import. I’ve tried and tried but never can seem to find that particular one on any liquor store shelf.
I take a sip of the substitute in my own glass and swirl it around, swishing it through my teeth. I reach for my phone while still swallowing the Merlot and text Dom, although I fully expect he’ll still be carrying boxes of baby supplies and nursery furniture up and down those marble stairs.
HEY DOM, DO YOU REMEMBER THE NAME OF THE WINE DAD USED TO BRING IN FROM TUSCANY? CAN YOU FIND OUT FOR ME? PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP?
I doubt he’ll be able to find out much more than I have over the years, but it’s worth a try.
I raise the glass to take another sip when the doorbell rings, interrupting me and causing me to spill the deep red drink down my chin and soaking into my blouse.
“Shit!” I work quickly to try to sop up as much as I can with the nearby dishtowel but know that it’s futile. The shirt is ruined. Damn, it was practically brand new, too.
I dab and press the equally ruined dishtowel to the material as I make my way to the door. My eyes glance up to the little ornamental clock on the nearby shelf. 10:53.
I roll my eyes. There’s only one person who would have the balls to ring my bell at this time of night.
“You owe me a new shirt, jackass.”
I leave the door wide open with him standing in surprise at my greeting.
“Umm, OK…” he enters cautiously, closing the heavy front door behind him.
I pretend to concentrate on my stained top while secretly checking him out. He’s changed clothes from earlier, no longer wearing his “goomba” suit, and, instead, is dressed in a pair of dark rinse jeans with a button-down shirt, pressed and crisp. I laugh to myself. It must be the European in him, because his version of casual is still suave enough compared to most of us Americans.
He sets down a small paper sack on the countertop while scanning over the half-empty bottle of wine, the red stained towel just thrown down, and then finally the damp shirt on my body.
“Maybe I should buy you some sippy cups instead? Since you can’t see
m to handle a big-girl glass.” His smirk is dangerous. He should know better. That wine bottle is still close enough to reach….
“Is there something you needed? Or did you just think What the hell, I’ve got nothing else going on tonight… let me go piss off Theresa?”
He growls under his breath. We slip into this pattern of sexy banter just a little too easy for my liking.
He steps closer, eyes unwavering. “So… let me get this straight. I own that shirt now, since I’ve got to replace it?”
I scrutinize him, trying like hell to figure out his angle. With Carmine, there’s always an angle.
“Maybe…” I answer cautiously, standing tall and defiant against his imposing form.
His evil little lower lip twitches. “Good.”
The motion is quick as his hands take hold of the material and pull away from each other, ripping the fabric in a loud tear that never seems to end. I fight against it, but gasp aloud.
His mouth swoops in and grabs hold of mine, kissing deeply and powerfully, holding me captive in the middle of my apartment as I squirm halfheartedly to escape. His rough hands finish their wicked agenda and pull the shirt down my uncooperative arms, stopping at the wrists.
“So, are we gonna play nice or are you still pissed at me?” He knows I secretly want his lips on mine, but he doesn’t budge, leaving my mouth free to answer him.
I bite my lip, knowing that he’ll get some smug satisfaction if I admit just how nice I want to be. A second passes, and I keep my words to myself. Another second.
The expensive linen that was once my shirt tightens around my wrists and Carmine’s eyes cloud over.
I whimper in the most delicious way.
“Hmm?” he asks.
I exhale deep, considering myself a traitor as I give in just a little bit and appease him without actually admitting fully what he wants to hear.
“You ruined my shirt.” I sound like a petulant whiny brat. His eyebrow raises, I feel the material twist once more like a vice confining my hands. A shot of electricity shoots down my center to the base of my core where it explodes on contact with the moist heat already growing.
“And you wasted a perfectly good glass of wine,” I add insult to injury.
He thinks on that for a moment. I can practically see the wheels turning. I feel a movement behind my back as his hands readjust, shifting so that all the material is now controlled and guarded by only his right hand, freeing his left to now reach and grab the nearby bottle.
“This wine?” he asks.
“No, the other one.” I roll my eyes, watching him cautiously.
I can see I’m only stoking him, egging him on. He laughs silently and holds the wine bottle high above me, tipping it ever so slightly.
I stare hard at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
I feel the coolness of the wine against my skin as it drips down, having landed on my exposed breasts. I feel the liquid seep between them overflowing once the pressed cleavage has taken the maximum amount of Merlot it can.
A tiny little waterfall of the drink overflows from the mounds of my bra, trickling down my stomach. I shudder as I feel the moistness enter my belly button.
His eyes are relentless, boring into me as the steady stream of deep burgundy continues to escape the bottle. He’s watching for any and every sign of surrender.
I hold out on him, though… for another moment or two at least.
The unchilled drink somehow feels frigid against my burning skin as it rushes further down, with gravity pulling it into every little slope and hiding place.
I close my eyes and hiss as I feel it pool between my thighs, even though I‘ve clamped my legs together in defiance.
I feel the constant barrage of wine against my breasts finally end as the bottle is emptied completely, with one lone drop falling behind. My chest is heaving, my pulse racing, but he seems to be cool and collected.
He replaces the now-empty bottle on the counter and licks his lips as my eyes try their best to burn him.
“There. Now, it’s not wasted. I’m going to give you one opportunity to tell me where you want me to start before I lick every drop of this off of you.”
I swallow hard. He knows this doesn’t come easy for me, but that somehow gets him off even more, as he pushes me way past any comfort zone I may have had.
I make a gurgling noise deep in my throat, some sorry attempt to speak before I shut it down in embarrassment.
I feel the cotton around my wrists pull. “Say it.”
I gulp. “Down there.”
He trails a lazy finger under the lace edge of my bra.
“Down here?” he asks, knowing full well that’s not at all where I meant.
I shake my head no.
“Down here?” his finger lowers to my navel, circling in torment.
Again, I shake my head.
His hand slips into the loose elastic band of my lounge pants, gliding in the trail of wine with ease, inching closer and closer.
“Down here?” he asks, gloating in his power as his finger trails the seam of me, tracing back and forth achingly slow.
I’m screaming on the inside, hidden away.
“No? Not there?” I feel the muscles of his hand contract as he moves to withdraw.
I inhale sharply, “Yes.”
His eyebrow shoots up. “Yes, what?”
“There,” I concede.
His finger once again returns to the mound of wine-soaked flesh, slipping in and parting me. My eyes roll back, and I moan as the wet friction begins.
One or two moments pass with his teasing fingers revving me even more than I already was. His finger disappears as his hand makes its way to his waiting mouth, inserting the exact finger down to the second knuckle.
I feel myself swoon.
His cheeks hollow themselves as he sucks, pulling the guilty finger out slowly as his eyes stay on me. I hear a wet, echoed pop, as he releases the tip of his finger.
“Damn. That is good wine. Can’t wait to have the rest of it.” His lips glisten.
Right there in his arms, I have my very first solo orgasm, shaking in his arms as he watches, his hungry eyes set on me taking in every single twitch and gasp, knowing that his sultry words were largely responsible for it.
“And now it’s going to taste even sweeter,” I hear his words as though through a haze.
I feel my body lift as he scoops me up and carries my wine-drenched body off to the bedroom.
~*~
My exhausted limbs stir, the stickiness of my skin evident as I switch positions to face him.
His eyes are closed softly, the dark eyelashes relaxed and fluttering slightly with sleep. The room is pitch black, yet my eyes have adjusted. I see my usually tidy room ransacked with piles of our clothes all over. The lush and fluffy comforter that once covered my bed is now strewn across the floor.
We lie with nothing but an almost certain wine stained sheet covering our nakedness. It’s been hours since we first ravaged each other, slipping in and out of sleep between rounds.
This last one, though, it left us each nearly on the brink of madness as we clamored for the energy to finish each other off, setting a new record. Four times in one night must be his new personal best, and I doubt we’ll be able to pull it off again for a long, long time.
The muscles of his chest move, with his body rolling over to me, pulling me in close and nuzzling his chin in the crease of my neck.
His skin is just as sticky as my own, and we probably smell like a couple of drunkards.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving?” I ask, with a little sting to my words.
He pulls tighter. “Nope. Got nowhere else to go tonight. Just here.”
“Won’t Dom be pissed if you’re M.I.A.?” I add to my query.
He kisses the ticklish patch of skin near the nape of my neck. “Let me be the one to worry about that.”
I breathe deep, exhaling slowly. A small part of me wonders if he’s staying because he re
ally wants to, or because I made such a big deal about his leaving the last time.
I determine that at this moment, it doesn’t really matter.
He’s staying.
CHAPTER THREE
DOM
Holy fuck I’m getting old!
My back hurts like a mother, and I swear I heard something pop during that last trip up the stairs.
How one person the size of a small watermelon can need so many things is beyond me. I’m not even going to look at the credit card statement, knowing that it will probably leave me even more dumbfounded once I find out how much all these unnecessary things cost.
We had done some preliminary marketing research at ATH last year on the booming sub-industries that would be needing capital infusions, looking for some good investments.
The maternity and baby industry was top of the list, and judging by V’s reaction to, and insistence on, all the individual items purchased, I can now see why. It’s a damn cash cow. Now that I’m free to do some more private investing, without a conflict of interest, I’ll have to look into it more.
Even though I have no ATH business to follow up on, no barrage of emails to answer, no strategy meetings to plan for the next morning, I find that I’m still following old patterns. It’s past two o’clock in the morning and I’m holed away in my office, living the same nocturnal life I’ve lived since taking over the helm of the company years ago.
Some habits are hard to break.
I knew it would be an adjustment, and I should have expected that the first few nights would be intense. I have that burning desire to check on stats, deliveries, and productivity while I know full well I don’t have a right to anymore.
The last thing John needs, as reluctant as he was to take over as CEO, is me looking over his shoulder and checking up on things. I’ve just got to find other things to do.
Once the baby comes, I know I’ll be busier than I could ever have imagined, but for these months before then, I’ll have to find another outlet.
I’ll be leaving tomorrow for Chicago to meet with some of the commission members, but it’s not the same as a board meeting at ATH. There’s nothing to prepare, nothing to organize. Nothing to do except show up, and well, watch my back, of course.