Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
ARRIANA
“ T hanks for what you said back there,” I murmur after a minute into the car ride.
Nico seems different. He grips the steering wheel hard, and his jawline clenches. In the club, Enzo’s words hurt. But I was ready to take them. I didn’t expect Nico to defend me. When he did, it felt so good. He likes my build, my curviness. It shouldn’t matter. But somehow, it does.
Also, there was that weird stuff Enzo was hinting at. Third meeting? Nightmare? Barbarian? None of it makes any sense.
“Nico?” I say when he doesn’t reply.
“Hmm?”
“I said thank you.”
“He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” Nico growls.
His wife, my aunt, she is conventionally attractive. She’s nothing like me. She hasn’t got my build at all. I know what I look like. Though I’ve been called names before, I’ve never let it get to me. I never cared enough about the opinion of boys to care. But with Nico, a silver-haired fox, I can’t lie. I care—a lot.
“Do you think that went well?” I ask after a pause.
“Yeah,” Nico mutters.
As we were leaving the club, it seemed that Nico was rushing me. My mind was pulsing with thoughts, and my body was aching as he led me from the club, his hand on the small of my back. Despite my coat, I felt the warmth of his burning hand. I want to ask Nico about the weird stuff Enzo was calling him. I want to tell him what I saw between Giancarlo and Aunt Lucy. But I sit here silently.
Soon, we’re home. Nico doesn’t even look at me. It’s like he’s angry with me. Or maybe at himself for standing up for me?
“I’ll see you around,” he says.
“Okay.” I feel unfairly stung and rejected. “Bye, then.”
That night, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Aunt Lucy and her secret lover, or I see and hear Nico when he was defending me.
Some men like the curvy build…
When he said that, his voice got low and husky. I’m sure he was talking about himself. I’m sure he was saying he likes my shape. My curves. My fullness. When I roll over, trying to get comfortable, it’s like the sheets become his hands massaging me. My body aches. I almost want to slip my hand between my legs and touch myself, thinking about him.
But that would cross a major line. I sit up, unable to sleep, pick up my book, put it down, and pick up my phone instead. Barbarian, Nightmare—why would a club owner call a lawyer those things? I don’t understand it. I should probably just let it go.
It’s like I’m standing at a fork on a metaphorical road. To my left, there’s one path, probably the reasonable one. Go on with my life, pretend I didn’t witness Aunt Lucy’s affair, pretend I didn’t sense something ‘off’ with Enzo and Nico. Forget I ever had this hot, curious feeling for my uncle.
To the right, there’s pure craziness. I let myself obsess over the way Nico defended me. I indulge in fantasies of telling him about the affair, pressing my hand against his solid chest, looking up into his intense green eyes, and whispering, “Choose me instead…”
It turns out I might be nuts.
Me: What did Enzo mean when he called you ‘Barbarian’ and ‘Nightmare’? I text.
I don’t expect a response right away, especially after he left me hanging last time. Then my phone buzzes almost immediately. It’s two am. I guess he can’t sleep tonight, either. What’s he thinking about? What’s he doing? Who is he with?
Nico: I don’t know how his mind works, Arria. If I were you, I’d put this entire experience behind you.
Me: You don’t know how his mind works, but do you know why he used those words?
Nico: Am I under cross-examination? Anybody could see that he’s trying to dance around the question. Before I can reply, he continues.
Nico: Just be glad we could settle this out of court. Now, you can forget about him, forget about me, forget about all of it.
Me: How could I forget about you? You’re my uncle. We’ll probably see each other again at some point. Why would I never need to forget about you, Nico?
That I could let him go feels unfair and absurdly difficult. I might even say it was devastating if I wanted to be melodramatic—and honest—about it.
Nico: It’s late, Arria. You should be asleep.
Me: There you go again, savior, getting bossy.
Nico: You need to stop calling me that. I’m nobody’s savior. I never have been. That was a stupid article. It never meant a damn thing. I’m just a man who’s trying his best. Got it? That’s all I can do—I wake up each morning, do the best I can, fall exhausted into bed, wake up a few hours later, and repeat. Understand?
My mouth actually falls open, so it seems like I’m going for top melodrama points tonight—or this morning. But whoa, that response is wild. It’s like I can hear his husky tone and see him glaring at me with those electrifying eyes.
Me: You’re doing a good job, Nico. Everybody knows about your pro bono work. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. I was just curious, that’s all. Nightmare and Barbarian. It was weird that he’d call you that.
Nico: Maybe he thought he was being funny.
Again, he’s dancing around it. At no point has he just come out and said he doesn’t know why Enzo said it.
Me: Do you remember that thing he said about us meeting for the third time, too? He was grinning at me as he said it. Almost like he was baiting me.
Nico: Like I said, maybe he was trying to be funny. Or perhaps he wanted to make you do what you’re doing now—lose sleep obsessing over it.
That’s not the only thing I’m losing sleep over, though. There’s also the fact that we’re not together when I want to be and the guilt that goes along with that.
Nico: I need to get back to work. Try to get some sleep.
I don’t reply. Petty? Maybe. Do I give a damn? Nope. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb mode and then place it on my desk on the other side of the room. It’s a desperate measure, but I know I’ll only end up checking it a bunch more times if I don’t.
Back in bed, I close my eyes and try to sleep. But trying to sleep never made sleep any more likely. I keep seeing my uncle standing in that office, his muscles looking like they might burst out of his suit. “That’s enough.” His voice had been a growl as he said that, filled with certainty and a hint of violence. It was almost scary. It was as if he was ready to do whatever it took to protect me.
I slide my hand down my body, knowing this is wrong and I’ll likely regret it in the morning. However, I can’t stop. I imagine him walking into my bedroom, peeling back the sheet, sliding his hand up my leg, and pressing down on my core. “You’re already wet for me,” he’ll say in that husky tone like he’s impressed, hungry. “You know this is wrong, Arria. I’m your uncle. We shouldn’t…”
“I know…”
I stroke my hand up and down my folds, over my clit, the pleasure coming much, much faster than I expected. It’s like I’m suddenly thrust into a fantasy. It’s like it’s his strong, confident hand gliding over me. He pushes his hand firmly against me, and then, suddenly, he’s shirtless, his muscles swelling. His eyes push me closer to the edge as they watch me.
No one else matters. Not my aunt. Not any other conventionally attractive, billboard-worthy women like those checking him out in the cafe.
Just me. Only me.
“I love how curvy you are. That wasn’t just a general statement. I was talking about you, Arria.”
Suddenly, he’s inside of me. This comes as a vague rush of heat and sensation. I quickly move my hand up and down, chasing the pleasure, biting down so I don’t make any noise. I end up biting my pillow when the orgasm shatters through me. My clit is throbbing.
I gasp, letting my head fall back.
Crap. What the hell did I do? What’s wrong with me?
The regret hits immediately, without delay. A first-class package slammed right into my psyche. I open my eyes, staring at the shadowy ceiling, telling myself that’s the last time I’ll ever do that—the last time I’ll ever think like that.
He’s my uncle. Even if he wasn’t, I’ve got plans for the future that don’t involve finding a relationship at this point in my life. He’s twice my age. I don’t really know him.
Okay, that’s true. I don’t. But I want to get to know him. Every part of him. That’s the problem.