Chapter Ten Larissa
Chapter Ten
LARISSA
“COME HAI POTUTO farmi questo?!” How could you do this to me?!
My mother’s hysterical cries echo throughout the house as I slowly walk toward her bedroom.
My father’s voice booms from downstairs as he barks orders into the phone in his study.
Flinching at the sound of breaking glass, Ciro briefly pauses his conversation as I do my footing.
Irritation coats his voice as he calls my mother’s name.
“Che diavolo …?!” What the hell? “Cosima!” he snaps up toward the stairs as I glance down to the bottom of the landing.
As expected, I’m met with a vigilant ice-blue return gaze.
Ciro’s curse reaches me when she doesn’t reply before he continues his rant on his phone. “Fottuta donna!” Fucking woman.
Ripping my eyes away, I drift toward the slant of light at the foot of my parents’ bedroom door, pausing as another shriek sounds. This one is as if she’s being tortured, her voice distorted in a way that has me shaking.
“Come hai potuto ferirmi così?!” How could you hurt me this way?!
She continues to scream as though confronting someone face-to-face, though I know she’s alone.
I open the bedroom door, padding over the soft white carpet.
Carpet that Mama and I imprint our feet on, dancing on the days she is in good spirits.
When she plays her music loud while we twirl until we’re exhausted, falling together onto her mattress before she tells me of her early days with Papa.
Of how they stole kisses when their chaperones turned their heads.
Of how he showered her with affection and gifts.
How he would send her love notes with a slice of torta di neccio, her favorite cake.
Sometimes, she dresses me up as she gets ready for their dinner dates, brushing my cheeks and lips with makeup.
“Le mamme sono le ali che ti fanno volare,” mothers are the wings to make you fly, she always tells me. I admire her beauty—the gloss of her long, dark hair, her equally lengthy lashes, and her light brown eyes. Her olive skin, from her smooth face down to the curves of her body.
“You will have a great love, my beautiful girl, from a man who will make you believe in the stars. And once you see them with him, you will never view them the same way again.”
From the outrage and pain coming from her, I know those days are long gone. The stars he made her believe in have now been snuffed dark.
Standing outside her bathroom door, I call her name softly and push it open.
Fear cripples me as my eyes fix on the writing on every wall. The word scratched into the fabric of the black-and-white orchid wallpaper. A jagged shard of glass falls from my mother’s limp hand. Bloodied fingerprints smear across the white tile behind her—Mostro.
Monster.
Gasping, I move to sit and splinter with the onslaught of the pain, palming my side before nausea hits. The ringing in my ears is now replaced by the infuriating sensation of headphones with no sound. The inability to hear—combined with the darkness—sends a surge of panic through me.
Within a blink, I’m caged in pitch dark, walls closing in as a hitched breath fuels my soundless scream. Just as I release it, warmth surrounds me. Tyler engulfs me, his scent invading my nose, breath hitting my neck. At the feel of it, I know he’s speaking to me.
“I still can’t hear you,” I expel, no doubt sounding weak.
A light flickers on, cloaking the space in a soft amber glow.
As Tyler sets a lit camping lamp down, I realize the tent is much larger inside than I thought.
His sleeping bag rests next to mine, mine higher due to the stacked quilts he arranged for my comfort.
Setting down the lantern, Tyler palms my ribs, and I damn near jump out of my skin, throat vibrating with what I’m sure is another mewl. “Stop doing that!”
In response, Tyler lifts a tiny syringe for permission. I glance at it.
“Morphine,” he mouths, and I shake my head.
“Tylenol?”
He counters with a shake of his own.
“Seriously? Strong narcotics are my only choice?”
He nods.
“Just a little. A microdose, okay?”
His expression flits with indecision as he runs his hand along my side before pulling down the top of my shorts and exposing some of my ass cheek. I glance back to see his clinical expression before the pinch of the needle, and he dispenses a dose.
What seems like a second later, warmth envelops me. All pain is hurried from me in a soothing undertow as I collapse into him, arms limp.
His body bounces with what must be a laugh, but I’m too warm, too comfortable, too painless to care.
Whatever makes up his scent beckons me as I ride the wave into another. Lust crashes back in the undertow, overtaking me. Cocooned, I run my nose along the base of his throat and again inhale.
More. I need more.
The need to get closer overwhelming, I press into him.
Fingers itching, I grip his shirt to bring him closer.
Running my fingers down the soft fabric, when I reach the hem, I drag his shirt up, splaying both palms along the ridges of his taut stomach, up his abdomen and farther, over every hard bump while pressing my lips to his warm skin.
After a few passes of my lips, I flick out my tongue, the need to taste all-consuming. His hands grip my shoulders, squeezing gently to stop me.
Hell no.
The vibration rattling against my tongue only spurs me as I revel in the salty taste. I trail my kiss over his neck and jaw, pulling the collar of his shirt down to savor more.
“More,” I demand, licking again and again, laving all of the salted skin within reach. Desperation floods my veins, lust blinding me as I continue to lick and suck his neck. His groan rattles against my lips as another wave sweeps me.
I decide I want to take him with me. I have to. Palming every hard inch of him, I flick my tongue along his Adam’s apple, filling the divot with my tongue, seeking more.
“Did I taste this good?” I whisper.
Unable to handle another second, I gather one of the hands tightly gripping my shoulder and guide it into my pants. Gripping his fingers beneath the silk fabric of my panties, I lead them to my drenched pussy. Mouth still latched to his neck, I suck feverishly as he goes utterly still.
A moan escapes me as the pad of his finger grazes my clit. He withdraws his hand. A second later, I’m pushed down to the mattress. Distant pain flares up my side as he pins my wrists, angry bronze stare boring into me before his lips mouth “stop.”
“No.” I shake my head. “We need to start. Don’t move your lips if you’re not going to say the right things.”
His breath hits my lips in fast exhales. I swear I see a hint of a smile before he releases me, but nothing about this is funny.
“We should fuck,” I say, the idea becoming a necessity. “Yes, yes, let’s fuck, right now.” Hands free, I palm the bulge in his jeans. “Touch me like you did that night,” I beckon.
Feeling the resistance in his rigid body, I can’t stop. “Forget my name,” I implore. “I’m so wet for you … and you’re so …” I relay, firmly palming his utterly massive dick.
Gawking, I move to peer down at it for confirmation when my hand is forcibly removed. Shaking his head, his full lips form the wrong word. “Sleep.”
Ripping my hand free, I palm his jaw. “You kissed me back.”
His eyes lower as he moves his lips once more, jaw hardening.
“Forget my fucking name, Tyler,” I repeat. “Because I have since the first time I saw you … I want this, you.”
His eyes intently hold mine, brows furrowing in confusion at my confession as I get lost in the heat of his return stare. Another wave crests, overtaking me while sweeping me into darkness.
The fear I typically feel from the lack of light is not present, as his warmth and scent remain. Surrounded by him, I blissfully and freely give in.
* * *
My screaming bladder edges me out of the heavy fog I’m under, but it’s the pulse of pain that flares up my side when I lift to sit that has my eyes popping open.
All confusion disperses with a fast blur of successive visions—the deafening boom, the ringing, and the disorienting silence.
The flashes of gunfire. Gliding in and out of consciousness.
The campfire. Being spoon-fed.
The morphine.
The … licking.
As in, last night, I tried to lick Tyler into licking me back.
My pride takes a temporary battering, humiliation stinging my cheeks before I do a mental shrug. I was on drugs and could have done much worse.
Side smarting, I scoot to the edge of the stack of quilts and attempt to push off with my legs. Pain blinds me, and I instantly topple over and roll to my back, furious with my new limitations as I stare up at the pitch of the tent.
Determined, I manage to get to my knees, unable to help my outburst after my second failed attempt to stand. “Fuck!”
As I suck in a breath for recovery, Tyler appears next to me. As he hoists me gently to my feet, I let out a colorful mix of Italian curses, and his body bounces in response. Frustrated with the fact that I need his help, I state my issue. “Just, please get me to the bathroom.”
Tyler’s expression morphs into one of utter amusement as he meets my prodding eyes.
“Of course I know there’s no toilet,” I snap as his lips upturn even more. “I’m just … all mixed up because I’m pumped with dope and can’t hear shit!”
He ducks under my morning wrath—and likely my morning breath, my throat and tongue more noticeably dry—as I attempt to get my shit together, to somewhat resemble Tula’s carefully architected masterpiece.
One she spent close to a decade constructing.
A more put-together version of me, who is hard to summon for the moment.
Squaring my shoulders as best I can, I try to mute myself against the pain as we clear the tent.
Tyler slowly guides me into the woods surrounding our campsite, and once we’re far enough, I pull out of his hold, instantly regretting it.
“I’m good,” I lie.