I gasp into his mouth, my eyes wide with wonder as I feel him hit a spot. He swallows my cry. He swallows everything that I am as he leaves me no room to breathe, or simply be.
I lose all notion of space or time, of anything but him and his body as it touches mine. It's only when we break apart, breathing hard, that we look into each other's eyes again and realize what just happened.
The enormity of what just happened.
As if burned, I jump off him, in the process losing my balance and ending up on my ass in the grass. Still it's better than the alternative. Than...
Contrary to what he seems to think of me, I don't go around kissing strangers. I don't go around kissing anyone. And that kiss...
I bring my fingers up to my lips to find them puffy and swollen.
"Already regretting it?" He asks, taking a seat next to me.
I don't dare look at him. Not when he could see everything written in my features. I'd lost control over myself and... I shake my head. I can't dwell on that.
"Of course. You know how it is. Spiked adrenaline levels got the best of me. It could have been anyone," I shrug, not wanting him to think he is in any way special.
"Is that so?" he drawls, that dangerous sound that seems to emanate from deep in his throat.
I shiver.
"Yes." I push my chin up. "Do you really think I'd go for you?" I tilt my head towards him to show him a disgusted expression.
Before I can blink, his hand is on my jaw, his fingers digging in my flesh as he brings my face closer to his.
"Tell yourself what you want, sunshine," he whispers, his breath on my lips as I clench my thighs at the memory of his body under mine. "But I know you want me. Me, not anyone else." He holds me captive in his grasp and I can only stare into his eyes.
"You can tell yourself that too," I retort sweetly, "if it helps you sleep better at night."
"Oh, don't worry. I have enough to help me sleep well at night," his lips curl up, "like these pretty lips," his thumb brushes across my lower lip, "wrapped around my cock. You have no idea how many times I've jerked off picturing you on your knees."
My breath catches in my throat, the image vivid in my mind.
"Well, continue to imagine it," I smile, "because it's never going to happen again."
He chuckles, the sound almost as arousing as his touch. God, what's wrong with me?
"Oh it will. Many, many times."
"Keep dreaming," I huff, wrenching myself from his hold and turning my head away.
"Why do you fight it?" He asks, his tone serious. "I know you feel it too, this attraction. This maddening attraction between us."
When he sees I'm not answering he continues. "Fuck, you're such a vexing woman," he groans. "I don't understand why you're so against me when I see the way your body reacts when I barely touch you. You're driving me insane, Gianna."
"I don't like it." I answer quietly, bringing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. "It makes me feel out of control. You make me feel out of control," I admit, the most I'm willing to share with him.
Leaning my head on the top of my knees, I turn my gaze towards him.
"You think you're the only one?" He asks, his brows pinched in the middle. "Hell, woman, you have no idea how out of control you make me feel. I've never met someone like you. Someone who defies me at every turn yet melts at my touch. Someone who makes me feel..." he trails off.
"Makes you feel what?"
"Not like myself." His confession manages to elicit a smile from me.
"You make me feel not like myself too," I admit, and for a moment there seems to be an understanding in our gazes.
"Why do you need the Xanax?" he eventually asks, like I knew he would.
I sigh. It's not an easy question to answer without opening a can of warms I'm not ready for. So I reply with a deal.
"Quid pro quo," I suggest, and he raises a brow. "You tell me something and I tell you something."
"Good for me," he readily agrees. "What do you want to know?"
I pause for a moment, really studying him.
There are so many things I'd like to ask. How did you get your scar? Where did you get all those marks on your body? Why are you so strong and...
Good Lord, but my mind is going in the wrong direction.
Again.
Instead of going for a more complicated one, since he'd expect a similar answer from me too, I decide to ask something more basic that could give me some insight into his past.
"Why are you so obsessed with STDs?"
His eyes widen slightly and initially he seems taken aback by my question.
Not only had he taken me to a clinic to have my blood tested for all possible STDs, but in the days following that, he'd kept making snide remarks as if he expected me to be riddled with syphilis and other similar ailments. More than anything, his reaction to seeing the negative results had been extremely telling, and he'd brought that up repeatedly afterwards.
"Why do you think I'm obsessed?" He counters.
"Come on, we both know you're a little OCD about them. God, I bet you test yourself weekly with how concerned you are about that."
He smiles.
"I don't. I don't need to test myself weekly because I'm not fucking anyone," he says, his eyes glinting as if he knows I was fishing for information.
Which I totally was, but I'm not about to show him that.
"And I've never not used a condom. You were the first one."
I frown at his words.
"What do you mean?" I'm a little confused because people talk, and I've never heard anyone use a condom for a blowjob.
"Exactly that." He smirks in that arrogant way I've come to expect of him. "Your mouth's the only thing I've ever been bare in."
The urge to gloat at the fact is overwhelming. But I keep my mask on as I nod thoughtfully.
"That doesn't explain why you were so adamant about the test," I continue, mentally cringing at my words. I hope he's not about to throw my reputation in my face.
I've gotten used to the way people talk about me, but somehow him believing it and scorning me for it would hurt more than anything.
He sighs deeply, leaning back on his elbows as he raises his face towards the sky.
"My mother used to cheat on my father a lot," he starts, and I can tell it's not something he likes to talk about. "With anyone, really," his lips form a sad smile. "She ended up giving my father HIV. This was some time ago, and there was a lot of stigma against HIV. My father was a proud man and he never wanted to admit to the disease, thinking people would brand him a gay man."
I nod. It's true that in the past the disease was mostly associated with homosexuals, and it breaks my heart that someone would prefer dying than facing the stigma.
"He ignored it for as long as he could, until it turned into AIDS. His immunity was so compromised, he died of a common cold," he gives a dry laugh.
"I'm sorry." I say softly, not knowing how to comfort him.
"Don't. It was his choice. But it was sobering enough for me to never want to put myself in that position in the first place," he continues, and somehow I feel that he's not telling me the whole story.
But he's opening up to me and... It feels good. I can't believe I'm even thinking this, but there's a warmth that seems to unfurl in my chest.
"Your turn now," he turns towards me, his eyes a quiet challenge.
"I have chronic anxiety and panic attacks, or at least that's what I think I have." I admit, a little embarrassed. Since I don't have access to a doctor, I'd self-diagnosed myself on the internet.
"You think?"
"My father doesn't believe in mental illness. He thinks it's bogus and an invention of the modern era. He also doesn't believe in depression, or," I snort, "homosexuality. He doesn't really believe in science either." Or education. Or women being independent. But I don't say that too.
"But what's happening to you isn't normal," he frowns. "When I saw you..." he shak
es his head. "Hell, you were trembling uncontrollably from head to toe. You couldn't even form words."
"I know," I purse my lips in a forced smile. "I've been living with this for years. And after a bit of research I found out about Xanax. I know it's not ok that I'm taking it without prescription," I sigh, "but it's the only thing that calms me down. The only thing that makes me feel normal."
"That's why you were willing to do anything for them." He adds quietly.
"Yes. I can't imagine what life would be like without them. The attacks," I take a deep breath, unable to believe I'm confessing my biggest weakness to my enemy. "Sometimes they are so bad I can't function properly. Whatever I have, it's debilitating."
"You should still get a proper diagnosis."
"I wish. You have no idea how much I wish I could do that. But my father won't have it. Especially now that he needs to find me a husband, he can't afford to sell a defective product."
"Gianna..."
"Don't. Don't pity me. Please." I turn to him. "It's the way our world is, and I've long been resigned to my fate. The pills..." I give him a sad smile. "They are the only thing that make me able to withstand it."
"You're eighteen. You're an adult. Surely you can..."
"And do what? I don't know if you've noticed, Sebastian, but my father's kept me on a very tight leash. I depend on him for everything. As for me?" I shake my head. "I barely have any education. No credentials. Nothing to make it by myself in the real world. Nothing except..." I trail off, the truth bitter on my tongue.
"Except what?"
"Except my body." I whisper, my eyes suddenly moist. "And I would never resort to that."
Somehow we make it back home before dawn. My father is scandalized when he finds out about the attack and the bomb in the car, immediately starting to plan the offensive against whoever dared to threaten his life.
When he realizes that both Sebastian and I are unharmed, he just nods, appeased. And if anyone doubted how much he cared about me, he squashed those doubts when he sighed in relief at still having a bride to sell.
Sebastian noticed too, and he shot me a worried glance.
I don't know why, but since our little chat in the grass, the air seems to have shifted between us. Even as we walked home, we talked amiably without resorting to fighting anymore. It had been a nice change.
But also bad because it had served to emphasize my attraction to him even more. If before it was easier to ignore it because I thought he was an ogre, now that I know there's an actual person behind his tough guy persona I find myself confused and a little too intrigued by him.
After we leave my father to deal with whatever he needs to deal with, we head upstairs to our rooms.
I don't know why, but when we reach the landing of the stairs, I'm a little reluctant to go inside, a part of me craving his company.
He sees me teetering in front of my door, and a strange look crosses his features.
"Sunshine?" he calls out, and my ears perk up immediately.
"Yes?" I ask, my voice a little too breathless.
In two steps, he's in front of me. His big hands cup the sides of my face as he leans down, his lips a soft caress on mine.
I'm too stunned to react, the action taking me wholly by surprise. I can only soak in the contact, wishing he would do more, but knowing how unwise that would be.
"From now on, call me Bass," he whispers against my lips.
"Bass," I test the name, wetting my lips as I look in his eyes.
He has a satisfied smile on his face as he gazes down at me.
"Dream of me, sunshine. I sure will," he winks at me and before I know it, he's gone.
I barely find the strength to enter my own room, my feet sore, my entire body tired from tonight's exertion.
Yet I can't help the silly smile that's spread all over my face.
"Bass," I repeat, a little too giddy.
Even his nickname sounds hard—like him.
A blush envelops my features at the thought, and as I drift off to sleep I do end up dreaming about him.
Chapter Nine
A pretty blush stains her features as she promptly looks away from me.
"You're not very subtle, sunshine," I remark, fairly amused.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she feigns a shrug, even though the corner of her mouth is slightly raised.
Since our conversation in the middle of nowhere, Gianna has started to relax more around me. Certainly, she's stopped using her favorite nickname mutt. To hear my actual name on her lips might just be the highlight of my day.
"And you're staring," she replies, still not meeting my eyes.
"I find it hard not to stare, all things considered," I tell her, my eyes roving over her body. She's dressed casually, but even casual looks stunning on Gianna.
A pair of high waisted dark jeans and a pink cropped top, the outfit emphasizes her tiny waist and her long legs.
And I'm not the only one who's noticed. I caught at least a dozen men turning their heads around to get a better look at her, and it had taken everything in me not to remove their eyeballs from their sockets.
But then again, she does have that effect on people.
"Just because I'm not actively trying to kill you anymore doesn't mean you have permission to stare," she raises an eyebrow at me.
"So you were trying to kill me," I reply, referring to the archery incident.
"Maybe," she shrugs. "You do have a way of getting on people's nerves, you know."
"I think I have a way of getting on your nerves. Although I don't think it's your nerves you should be worried about," I drawl suggestively as I let my eyes move over her chest. Even she can't hide her reaction to me, and her pebbled nipples are proof enough of how much I affect her.
"Eyes here, big guy," she motions towards her eyes before crossing her arms over her chest to hide the evidence of her desire for me.
"Don't worry, sunshine," I lean in, brushing my mouth over her hair as I breathe hot air on her ear. I feel her shuddering at the close contact, but she still keeps herself upright, trying to show me I don't affect her. "I'm not about to ravish you in the middle of the street. No matter how much you may want it," I whisper, letting one finger trail down her front, barely touching her.
"I still hate you," she retorts, her voice breathless, her eyes already glazed with desire.
"Good," I smirk. "Keep on to that hate," I say and her eyebrows draw up together in a small frown. "I hear hate sex is better than regular one."
Her mouth parts, at first on a whimper, before she regains control over herself, schooling her features to reflect feigned outrage.
"You're an asshole," she grumbles, promptly turning her back to me and continuing to walk.
"Damn, sunshine. And here I thought you liked my assholishness," I call after her.
She turns her head back, a sheepish smile on her face as she shrugs, continuing on.
We walk in silence for a while, enjoying the sunny weather. She'd insisted on parking the car a small distance from the location of her lecture, saying a walk would help her clear her mind.
"You promise not to tell my father?" She asks as we get to the car. Only her profile is visible, but even so, I note her lower lip trembling as she nibbles at it—the only sign of weakness.
One thing I've noticed about this other Gianna is that she has a hard time trusting people. It's not the first time she's asked me something similar, trying to ascertain whether I will betray her or not.
"No. I told you I wouldn't."
She nods thoughtfully, but doesn't seem entirely convinced.
Since Gianna's schedule is always packed with a myriad of activities, I've never really paid attention to whether it's dance, or golf, or pottery or whatever. I know that these classes are part of her networking routine and the way she keeps in touch with a lot of her so-called friends.
By chance, though, I'd stumbled upon the fact that her dance practice was not a dance practice at a
ll. Hosted in the same building, instead of going to her dance lessons, she's been attending some psychology lectures.
At first I'd simply been baffled about the discovery, and I hadn't brought it up with her simply because I wanted to observe her more.
Soon, though, more and more inconsistencies started appearing, more cracks showing in the perfectly crafted façade Gianna shows to the world. And I slowly started to realize that I'd been wrong about her.
But even as I find more things about her, I don't think I'm anywhere near to solving the puzzle that is Gianna Guerra.
"Why risk it, though?" I ask. I'd been wondering about this for quite some time, and I've never been able to figure out why she'd go through so much trouble just to attend a lecture. She's already running a risk with the books on her phone, since, by all accounts, Benedicto detests the idea of education for women.
She sighs, suddenly looking distant.
"Because it's the only thing that's mine," she raises her finger to her forehead. "This," she taps her temple, "is the only thing that no one can take away from me."
I frown.
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes I forget you're not used to our world," she shakes her head ruefully before proceeding to explain. "I've known since young that one day I was going to marry a man of my father's choosing. And over the years it's become increasingly clear that my father was going to sell me to the highest bidder, since, let's face it, he's not doing well financially. My first engagement fell through, and now he's scrambling to find a replacement. He's desperate, which doesn't bode well for me." She takes a deep breath, her small fingers balled into fists.
"I'll just switch hands from my father, who may not be the worst tyrant, but he's certainly no walk in the park, to God knows whom," she shakes her head, her lips curled in disgust. "I'll become that man's property and I'll have nothing."
Hearing her call herself another man's property doesn't sit well with me. Mostly because I can't imagine her with anyone else. Anyone but me that is.
"I don't know what I'm going to walk into for that marriage, or how strict my future husband will be. Who knows, he might not even allow me a phone," she gives a sad smile. "As long as everything is in my head, then no one can take it away from me."
Frivolous: A DARK MAFIA AGE-GAP ROMANCE Page 13