Alessandro tips his head at Henri and holds up his fingers as goalposts. “How accurate are you with that finger?” he challenges.
Henri grins and tears off another bit of breadstick, taking aim at Alessandro’s goalposts. He only scores on one of his five shots, but the others don’t miss by much.
“My turn,” Alessandro says, pinching off a hunk of his breadstick.
Henri makes goalposts and Alessandro’s shot misses Henri’s goal wildly.
Henri rolls his eyes. “Nobody’s that bad. Show me what you got. I’m not a sore loser, you know.”
Alessandro grins at him. “Remember you said that, little man.” He scores on three of his next four shots, then makes a roar-of-the-crowd sound, raising his arms.
I crack up. This is a side of Alessandro I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. “Competitive much?” I mutter, and Henri giggles.
“It’s a guy thing,” Alessandro says with a wink at Henri.
“Are you going to marry Auntie Hilary?” Henri asks out of nowhere, and I freeze.
Alessandro’s gaze flicks to me before he answers. “No, Henri. Your aunt and I are just old friends.”
Henri slides out of his seat and jumps into my lap. “When school starts, we’re going on a science field trip where there’s a bird-eating tarantula!”
“Wow!” I say, pulling him closer, thankful that he’s on to another train of thought so fast. “What is it with you guys and tarantulas?”
He hops out of my lap and leans both hands on Alessandro’s knees, proceeding to tell him all about Jeremy Timmons’ tarantula, and how it ate a whole cricket, guts and all. A wet, pulsing lump forms in my throat and I can’t watch them together. I stand and scoop dishes up, carrying them to the counter. When I turn back from the sink, Henri is perched on Alessandro’s knee, telling him how Rufus once killed a squirrel in the backyard.
I ruffle his hair. “Time for your bath, buddy.”
He clambers off Alessandro, and Alessandro cleans up while I stick Henri in the tub and shuttle him off to bed.
“What are you going to read me tonight?” I ask, climbing into bed next to him.
He holds up a thin hardcover book. “Loki’s Revenge.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Loki’s my favorite.”
He settles in and opens his book just as Alessandro appears at the door, his sleeves rolled up, leaning a shoulder into the door frame. As Henri reads, I have to keep swallowing the lump in my throat. Alessandro and Henri connected tonight. They know each other. I never thought that would happen. And Henri really likes him. When he looks up and sees Alessandro in the doorway, he grins and pulls on my arm. “Make room for Alessandro, Auntie.”
I slide up and curl around Henri, and Alessandro comes in and sits at the foot of the bed, leaning sideways on one elbow. He grabs Henri’s toes through the blanket and jiggles them, and Henri kicks and squeals.
I nudge Alessandro’s shoulder with my foot and give him a look. “Bedtime. We’re supposed to be winding down here.”
“Sorry,” he says to me, but then gives Henri a conspiratorial wink and Henri giggles again.
“Read, buddy,” I tell Henri, and he picks his book up from where he dropped it in the sheets.
“When Thor de . . . f . . .”
“Remember that the A makes the E say its name,” I prompt as I point to the word he’s stuck on.
“When Thor defeated Loki, Loki swore he would make Thor pay.” Henri looks up at me and grins, then looks back at the page and reads to us all about how Loki gets back at Thor. When he’s done, I give him a big hug and kiss, then haul myself off his bed. Alessandro stands and ruffles Henri’s hair and I turn out the light. “ ’Night buddy,” I say from the door.
“Good night, Auntie. Good night, Alessandro.” He snuggles down into his pillow and closes his eyes. I watch him for a minute, feeling the heat of Alessandro’s body just behind me, then pull his door closed.
“He’s a great kid,” Alessandro says as we move back to the family room. He picks up a picture of Mallory’s family from the end table. “This is his father?” he asks, tapping Jeff’s face.
That sharp something twists in my gut again. “Jeff.”
He inspects the photograph for a minute longer, a V forming in the creases between his eyebrows, then sets it down without another word. I click on the TV, and settle into the couch, hoping the subject of Henri’s parentage is closed.
Alessandro settles in next to me and loops an arm over my shoulders. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah. Just worried about Max.” It isn’t a lie. It’s just not the whole truth either.
“It’s been a difficult day,” he says, and I know he’s not just referring to Max.
Through all of this, the image of him beating the shit out of Eric has still surfaced in my mind repeatedly. The details of that day are still fuzzy, but I remember Eric handing me a Coke as we sat in the rec room watching TV. I remember the TV blurring and the room starting to spin. The next thing I remember is Alessandro’s bloody fist.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, Hilary,” he breathes into my hair.
I don’t know if he’s apologizing for what happened with Eric, or for leaving me, or what, but whatever it is, I can tell by the aching sadness in his voice and in his eyes as I lift mine to look at him, that he means it. “Me too.”
The electricity that’s always in his touch causes me to shudder. He leans in, very slowly, watching me the whole way. I close the last inch and press my lips to his. His kiss is tentative at first, but the longer it goes, the more insistent it becomes, until his tongue slashes through my lips and takes possession of me.
I press him back into the cushions and straddle him, then start on the buttons of his shirt, suddenly needing to see him—to feel his skin on mine. I kiss him hard and deep as I peel back his shirt.
“Hilary,” he breathes when we take a second for air, and I hear the tortured longing in that one word. It sends desire pulsing with my blood, and I smother anything else he wanted to say with another kiss.
In a back corner of my mind, there’s a voice that’s telling me to stop, but it’s drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears. My senses spin as I’m thrown between worlds. I feel everything that’s happening now, the desperation of Alessandro’s kiss; his persistent hands, no longer tentative, but sure and firm on my body; the taste of his mouth and his spicy scent enveloping me; the taut cut of his abs as I glide my fingers over his perfection. But I also feel what I was feeling then: that certainty my heart was going to explode at his gentle touch; the way he kissed me so tenderly on the lips, his tongue caressing mine, exploring, like he wanted to know every inch of me; the way he made me feel things that no one else ever had.
I pull away and slip his shirt off his shoulders, then look down at him, and can’t help staring. There’s no ostentatious bulk, just perfect lines in classically beautiful proportion. I sweep my fingertips over the smooth olive skin along the curve of his biceps, needing to touch him to be sure he’s real. But as my eyes eat him alive, I see the thin, white scar that extends from his side, just below the ribs, toward his hip, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. I remember it was purple and raised when we were younger. Newer. I glide a fingertip over it and he finches. “What happened?”
I never asked before. When we were kids, I had my ghosts and he had his. We let them lie back then. But now I want to know.
His expression hardens. “I was in a gang. I hurt a lot of people. Some of them hurt me back.”
I reach for him, but he draws away, and there’s so much pain in his expression, right there, so close to the surface. I want to take it from him so he doesn’t have to bear it by himself, but I know he won’t give it to me.
I lift his face and smooth my palm over his stubble. “You are so beautiful, Alessandro. Every inch of you.”
He stiffens as he fights with his desires, but his desires win. His mouth crashes into mine, his kiss deep and urgent. His
tongue twists through my mouth, tasting all of mine. My hands smooth over flawless muscles under flawless skin as I glide my fingertips up the sides of his rib cage and massage his nipples with my thumbs. He closes his eyes and moans as they harden.
That moan undoes me. “I want you,” I tell him, my voice course and thick with sex.
He opens his eyes and looks at me, his expression full of anguish. “I want you too, Hilary. God,” he says, screwing his eyes shut and turning his face away from mine. “I want you so much. But this is wrong.”
“Why?”
He opens his eyes and they find mine again, haunted and unbearably sad. “Because I didn’t come back to take advantage of you again. I came back to apologize . . . to help if I could.”
I press against him so he can feel the need pulsing through my veins. “You’re not taking advantage of me.”
His eyes flutter closed and he tips his head back into the couch and shudders as I lick from the base of his neck to the corner of his jaw. I pull back and lift my shirt over my head. He watches as I unhook my white lace bra, letting it slide off my shoulders.
His hands are fisted into the fabric of the couch cushions next to my legs. He’s fighting so hard with himself not to touch me.
But I want him to touch me.
I slide my hand down his abs to the bulge in his jeans and lean forward, my chest against his, skin on skin, and my lips on his neck just below his ear. “I want to feel you inside me again,” I whisper.
He growls, grabbing me and spinning me onto my back on the couch. He’s propped over me on one knee, the other foot on the floor, and he’s got my yoga pants and thong off before I even realize what’s happening.
The pure animal need on his face sends a shudder through me. And the next second, when he spreads my legs, and his mouth finds the sensitive point there, the sex rush is so intense that everything south of my belt convulses. I turn my face into the cushions as I arch up and cry out.
His tongue moves over me, flicking and teasing, tasting and owning. As he devours me, I gasp at the unexpected jolts of electricity that skitter under my uber-sensitive skin. And just like that, he has me right on the edge of coming. I’m panting out short breaths, my fingers fisted into his hair as he slips his fingers inside me and sucks. And a second later, when he sends me over the edge, I do everything I can to stifle my cry as I fall apart.
The flood of sensations is overwhelming. Whatever just happened has never happened to me before. I don’t know what this was, but it was more than just sex. It was bigger. Louder. Higher. I’ve never felt like I couldn’t get close enough . . . like I wanted to climb right under the guy’s skin. But that’s how Alessandro makes me feel.
As I spin with my orgasm, the flash of insight nearly blinds me. Alessandro makes me feel. Not just physically, but in every sense of the word.
And it scares me.
Because with Brett and everyone before him, sex was mechanical. Predictable. I was in control and it felt good, physically, but that’s all it felt. The purpose was to ground me and remind me I existed. Sex with Brett didn’t reach into my soul and tug at my heart. It didn’t move me to tears. But Alessandro took me there with no pain. No props. I’ve never been able to come like that for anyone else.
But as Alessandro crawls up the couch, and I feel his knees press into the cushions between my legs, I realize this is different. I open my eyes, and see him working the button of his jeans. I reach up to help him and he looks down at me with a question burning in his raw, animal gaze. The same question that was there eight years ago, the first time we did this. In response, I drag his zipper down.
He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and rips the condom out of it, chucking the wallet on the floor. I slip it out of his hand, and he sucks in a sharp breath as I roll it over his length. I lay back and open myself up to him, guiding him to me with my hands on his hips.
He hesitates and lets out an agonized groan, but I don’t want him to think. I just want him inside me. I roll my hips and take him deep.
He moans my name as he sinks into me, and a seriously intense sex rush seizes my body. All the muscles in my belly, my groin, down my legs contract hard around him and my breath catches in my throat.
“Am I hurting you?” he breathes into my hair, concern edging the roughness of his need.
For a second I can’t speak. “God, no,” I finally manage. Nothing has ever felt this good.
He begins to rock, and the feel of him moving inside me, filling me, sets my blood on fire. His pace is slower than I’m used to, so it takes me a minute to catch his rhythm, but when I do, and we move together, hot, aching pressure starts to build in my belly again, like lava roiling under the volcano, preparing to erupt.
He drops kisses over my shoulders and neck as he moves on top of me, picking up his pace as our breathing does the same. With every thrust, I give a little moan, unable to stop myself. I catch his earlobe in my teeth and tug gently and am rewarded with an animal growl from Alessandro’s core.
Something changes with that growl, like he was holding back but now he’s set the beast free. He trails a hand from my left hip down to my knee and lifts it higher, spreading me wide, then groans deep in his chest and plunges deeper, burying himself to the root.
I spin with the sensation of him moving inside me, doing everything I need him to do—bringing me just where I need to go. And the only pain is the ache in my heart for not being able to get close enough.
As he pumps faster and deeper, I feel myself start to spin out of control. I gasp for air as he brings me right to edge of the cliff again, and arch into his body with his last thrust. As I come hard for the second time in ten minutes, I cry out, “Alessandro!”
And his name falling from my lips sounds like a prayer.
I’m ready, I realize just in that second. I’m ready to open up and tell him everything. I want him, and more than that, I need him. I think I always have, on some level, even when I thought I’d never see him again.
“Hilary?” Alessandro pants, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, my eyes screwed shut and my insides in knots. I open my mouth to say it . . . to tell him Henri is his. But then I close it again. Now isn’t the time. It’s too much too soon.
When we’ve caught our breath, he kisses my lips then rolls off me.
I pull myself to my feet and hold out my hand. “Come on.” I tow him up the hall on shaky legs, past Henri’s room, to my old bedroom. We slip under the sheets and I curl into his side, and this time, when he loves me, it’s slow and easy and so tender that it hurts.
And I know without a doubt, this is where I’ve always belonged.
Chapter Twenty-Three
IT’S THURSDAY AND it’s my turn.
And I’m petrified.
Last Thursday, I slept with Alessandro. This Thursday, I’m going to tell him he has a son. We’ve been together every night for the last week, and so many times I’ve opened my mouth to tell him, but I can’t decide how.
What if everything Mallory is afraid of comes true?
She’s been the only constant in my life. Everyone has left me. Mallory is the only person who’s ever come back. I know we fight, and I know I disappoint her, but I can’t risk losing her. If Alessandro finds out about Henri . . . if he wants to tell him—or worse, tries for custody—not only will I lose Mallory, but maybe Henri as well.
But when I search deep inside, I realize I’m much more afraid of Alessandro turning his back on me. Somehow, he’s torn down my walls, and the feeling of being totally vulnerable and exposed to him both terrifies and thrills me. It’s like the rush of free-falling, and knowing I can take the risk because Alessandro will catch me.
Except, what if he doesn’t? What if I tell him this and he lets me fall on my face?
I’m wound so tight trying to sort through this that, when my phone rings, I jump a mile, sure it’s him. But then I realize the ringtone isn’t Creed. I pick my phone up off the nights
tand and look at the screen.
Bedford Hills Correctional.
My heart leaps. I went yesterday, on New Year’s, and Mom refused my visit again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I stab the connect button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Ms. McIntyre? Hilary McIntyre?” a woman’s voice that’s not Mom’s asks.
“Yes.”
“Ms. McIntyre, this is Sylvia Reingold at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Your mother is asking for you.”
For a full minute, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. “Is she okay?” I finally ask.
“She’s being transported to Northern Westchester Hospital as we speak. The doctor says it’s close. You might want to hurry.”
“I will,” I say, numb.
“And she’s also asked for your sister, if you can reach her. We don’t have her number on file.”
My pounding heart flips in my chest. “Okay.”
I disconnect and dial Mallory.
“Hey,” she says, and through the blood pounding in my ears, I hear the boys yelling in the background. It sounds like Max is getting back to himself.
“Mal, we have to go to see Mom. She’s—”
“Stop, Hilary,” she interrupts, her voice a blade. “I told you why I can’t go. Please respect that.”
“They’re taking her to the hospital. They said she’s asking for us and that we should hurry. This is it, Mallory. She’s really dying.”
“Good,” she spits, but then there’s a long pause where all I hear is the TV blaring and the boys fighting. “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and I want you to come.”
“Which hospital?” she asks after a beat.
“Northern Westchester.”
She blows out a breath. “I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up.”
I’M ON THE curb when Mallory’s silver Volvo SUV rolls to a stop next to the parked cars in front of my building. The car behind her honks as I race over and hop in. And when I look at her as she pulls away, I’m surprised to see she’s been crying.
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