Chapter 10 Sugar and Skin
Sugar and Skin
The cream sweater dress might be a terrible idea.
I smooth my palms over the soft knit, staring at myself in the hallway mirror. Cozy, warm, pretty… and absolutely destined to be assaulted by icing the moment I start decorating cookies.
“Well,” I murmur, tugging the hem down, “at least it’s festive.”
Upstairs, the shower is running, Santo’s heavy steps, the low hum of his voice drifting through the vents, warm, familiar, comforting. I smile to myself and turn back toward the dining room.
The food is already in the kitchen. La Serenata delivered everything early, just like Santo said. Which means all that’s left is the fun part.
Setting the table.
Emerald and gold today. Our colors.
I lay the plates first, deep emerald with thin gold edges, then place the napkins, folded neatly, tied with velvet ribbon. I adjust the candles, shift a centerpiece sprig of evergreens, take a step back.
Perfect.
It looks exactly like the Christmas I always imagined having.
I walk around the table to set the dessert forks and then pause mid-step.
Because she’s there.
The painting.
Hung on the wall directly facing the dining table, because Santo hung it there.
Front and center.
So he could look at his mother every day.
My chest tightens as I walk toward it.
Lucia Amato, sunlight caught in her hair, soft smile on her lips, eyes bright with kindness. I painted her last year as a gift, working late at night while Santo slept, using an old photograph and every story he ever told me to guide my brush.
He lit up when I gave it to him.
My fingertips brush the edge of the frame.
“Hi,” I whisper, warmth rising in my throat. “I haven’t talked to you in a while, but I have big news.”
The room is quiet. Soft morning light pours through the windows. Santo is still upstairs humming, a habit he started when I was afraid of being alone.
I lean in a little closer.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words leave me in a soft, trembling breath. They float into the quiet like snowflakes, delicate, fragile, beautiful.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
“I wanted to tell you,” I whisper. “Before the day gets busy. Before all the noise starts.”
My hand drifts unconsciously to my belly. “It’s just a speck right now, but—”
I sigh, a soft smile slipping.
“He’s going to be a wonderful father,” I whisper. “He already is. But… if you’re listening… if you’re watching…”
My voice cracks into a tiny, hopeful laugh.
“Send us a girl.”
The request hangs between us like a prayer.
“He deserves a daughter,” I whisper, another tear slipping free. “Someone with his heart. Someone he can spoil and protect and… soften for.”
I sniff, wiping my cheek with the sleeve of my sweater leaving behind the mark of my blush.
“I’ll make sure she knows you,” I promise softly. “Everything about you. Everything he loved. Everything I read in your journals… thank you for leaving those.”
The shower upstairs clicks off.
Santo’s footsteps thud.
I inhale slowly and tiptoe to place a gentle touch on the edge of the frame, the mother-in-law I never got a chance to know, and I whisper:
“Merry Christmas, Lucia.”
The room feels warmer as I step away.
Like she whispered it back.
I slip into the kitchen and breathe in the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and ginger; yesterday’s baking still clinging to the air like a hug.
Time to decorate.
I open the container of royal icing Santo bought in absurd bulk, separating it into little bowls. A few drops of red. A swirl of green. Pure white for the base. And gold, my favorite, for the delicate details.
Santo says gingerbread cookies shouldn’t have personalities.
Which is exactly why I give every single one a ridiculous amount of personality.
The cooled gingerbread men, women, and tiny houses line the marble counter in neat rows. My army of sugar children.
They stare at me with gumdrop eyes, ready for their cruel fates.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, smiling as I load a piping bag. “Who needs thirty gingerbread people?”
But I know why.
Some are for the guards staying on the estate.
Some for Luna when she comes over later.
Some because my hands needed to stay busy while my heart tries to catch up with my life.
I’m concentrating on giving one gingerbread man a tiny red jacket when everything in me shifts.
He’s here.
Santo never makes noise unless he wants to. But I feel him—always, like the air thickens around me, like my heartbeat syncs to his footsteps before he even reaches me.
“That one looks like Angelo,” he murmurs against my ear, stealing a gumdrop right off the tray.
I jump, then laugh. “It does not.”
“It does.” His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back into him. He’s warm, freshly showered, smelling like cedar and spice. “Angry little eyebrows. Smug stance.”
“I heard you talking,” he adds, suspicious but amused. “Was it to the gingerbread?”
“Mhm.” I fib immediately, leaning into him. “They needed encouragement.”
His lips brush my neck, slow and soft and devastating. “Did they?”
I glance over my shoulder and almost melt.
He’s wearing a dark green button-down, sleeves rolled, fitted perfectly.
The exact shade of my alternate dress upstairs.
He did it on purpose.
Coordinating us without saying a word.
My heart somersaults. “You’ll get icing on your clothes,” I warn breathlessly, holding up my icing-smeared fingers.
“Worth it,” he murmurs. His lips graze below my ear again, slower this time. “Why aren’t you wearing the green dress?”
“I’ll change,” I manage, cheeks heating. “I’m bound to make a mess of this one anyway.”
He hums, low and pleased, the vibration sliding through my spine. His hands move to my hips, thumbs brushing slow circles.
“You will,” he says, voice deep. “But not because of icing.”
Warmth spills down my neck. His grip tightens, nudging me back into the hard lines of his chest, and I have to force my attention back to the gingerbread man before me.
“Santo,” I warn, though it comes out soft, almost breathless. “I have thirty cookies to decorate before everyone arrives.”
“You have hours,” he whispers, lips brushing that spot behind my ear that makes me melt. “And I’ve been patient.”
I turn in his arms, careful to keep my sticky fingers lifted away from his shirt. “Patient? Santo, you’ve been anything but patient. The crib, the doctor, the child locks—”
He meets my eyes, his mouth curving into that dangerous, devastating smile that still steals my breath. “That was different.”
“How?” I whisper.
“That,” he says, sliding one hand to my stomach, warm and possessive through the soft knit of my dress, “was for our baby.”
His other hand glides up my spine, slow, deliberate, pulling me closer until there’s barely an inch left between us.
“And this,” he murmurs, gaze darkening as it drops to my lips, “is for me.”
My breath catches. My pulse jumps.
“You’re distracting me,” I whisper.
“That’s the point,” he says, his mouth grazing my jaw. “You always look so sweet right before you make a mess.”
I step back just enough to breathe, but Santo follows, crowding me gently into the counter.
“Santo Amato, I have to finish—”
“You will.”
His eyes sweep over me, darkening; intent, hungry, certain.
“Give me your hand.”
Not a suggestion.
A quiet command.
I offer it, and he takes my wrist in a firm, steady hold, guiding my fingers toward his mouth. He doesn’t break eye contact, not for a heartbeat.
Then he leans in and licks the icing off the tip of my finger.
The stroke of his tongue makes my pulse jump because it’s exactly how he licks me when he’s between my thighs, patient, focused, savoring.
My mouth parts on a soft inhale.
“Santo…”
“You make a mess,” he murmurs, licking another finger with the same devastating control. “I take care of it.”
Heat pools low in my belly. My legs feel unsteady.
He sees that. He always sees.
His hands slide to my hips, strong, sure and before I can breathe, he lifts me, turning to place me on the counter, away from the cookies, away from my excuses. The cold marble kisses the backs of my thighs, and a soft gasp slips out of me.
“Santo… my dress—”
“It’s coming off anyway,” he says quietly, stepping between my knees. “I told you you’d get messy. But not from icing.”
My pulse stutters.
He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek with tender devotion even as his eyes darken with something deeper.
“You work yourself to exhaustion for everyone else,” he says softly. “For this house. For this family. For me.”
His forehead rests against mine, grounding me, claiming me.
“Now you let me take care of you.”
One hand trails down, slow and firm, slipping beneath the hem of my dress, warming the inside of my thighs.
I shiver.
“Santo…” I whisper, breath breaking.
His other hand brushes my cheek, gentle, so gentle it makes my chest ache, while his eyes darken with something molten.
“Let me take care of what’s mine.”
His hand slides up mapping the inside of my thighs. I can’t help the soft sound that slips out of me when he parts my legs wider.
He exhales like he’s starving.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Open up for me.”
A gasp slips free. “Santo…”
“You sound so sweet when you need me.”
His fingers drag higher—slow, teasing, devastatingly careful. “Let’s see how much.”
His fingers trace the edge of my panties, and I squirm beneath his touch, unable to stay still.
“Please,” I breathe, my hands finding his shoulders, anchoring myself against the storm building inside me.
“Please what?” he asks, voice like velvet and gravel, eyes never leaving mine.
“Touch me.”
Santo’s smile is dark, predatory. “I am touching you.”
“Santo, don’t tease,” I whimper.
His fingers hook into the edge of my panties, and I gasp as he tugs them aside with practiced ease.
His fingertips find me, slick, warm, and he groans softly, the sound low enough to vibrate against my skin.
“Christo, Dea… you’re dripping.”
His voice dips into that dark, sinful tone that always makes my knees weak. “Look at you,” he growls. “So fucking perfect.”
Heat rushes through my entire body.
“Santo—”
“Hush.” His mouth brushes my jaw. “Let me feel you.”
His fingers slide through my wetness from my entrance to my clit and my hips instinctively rise to meet him.
His breath catches.
Sharp and possessive.
He chuckles darkly then whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Already soaking my hand. You needed this.”
His thumb finds my clit, circling with slow, deliberate pressure. My breath catches involuntary.
“That’s my girl,” he praises softly. “You love that, don’t you?”
My fingers clutch the counter for balance. “Yes! Santo—”
“Then take it,” he murmurs, voice rough silk. “Take what you need.”
Two fingers sink into me slowly, deep, filling me in one steady, claiming stroke that knocks the air from my lungs.
A soft cry catches in my throat. “Oh!”
His forehead presses to mine, grounding me.
“There she is,” he breathes. “That pretty little pussy hugging my fingers already.”
His fingers curl inside me, finding that perfect spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
“Yes!” I gasp, my head falling back as pleasure ripples through me.
His mouth is on my neck instantly, hot and demanding as he works his fingers deeper.
“Mm, just like that,” he whispers before sucking softly at my skin. “Let me work you open.”
My thighs tremble. “Santo…”
“Hold on,” he orders softly.
His fingers work inside me, slow and perfect, while his thumb keeps that steady, devastating rhythm on my clit. Pleasure builds fast, climbing sharp and bright, tightening deep inside me.
“You’re close.”
He says it like a certainty, not a guess.
I nod helplessly. “I—yes!”
“Look at me.”
His tone is soft command. I obey instantly.
His eyes are dark, hungry, devoted.
“That’s it. Stay with me. I want to watch you come on my fingers.”
His pace quickens, not rough, but insistent; his fingers stroking in perfect rhythm.
My breathing breaks. My hips lift to meet every curl of his hand.
“There you go,” he rasps, voice shaking with how much he wants me. “Come for me. Right now.”
I break with a soft, desperate cry, pleasure crashing through me in shuddering waves. My legs tighten around him, my body clenching around his fingers as he holds me, praising me softly:
“That’s it… that’s it, Dea. Give me everything. That’s my girl.”
He slows gradually, easing me through the aftershocks until my body melts against him, boneless, trembling, warm.
He kisses my nose, then my forehead.
“Hold on to me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
I breathe into him, soft and shaken, and his hand strokes the back of my thigh, gentle now.
“You’re done decorating for now,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to mine. “Now you go upstairs.”
My pulse flutters. “To put on the green dress?”
His smile is wicked, warm, certain.
“Yes, so I can take it off later.”