Chapter 14
GIANNA
After Matteo left, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t even pace. He didn’t pack any alcohol for me in the bags of food he brought and the low-grade headache that’s been banging at my forehead got a lot worse once I realized how much I’m actually craving a drink.
The books he so helpfully brought to help me pass the time are all crap too. Not that I could concentrate on reading them if they were good either. All of them are old, leather-bound editions, covered in dust and with writing so small and cramped I had to squint to try and read them.
In the end, when the death spiral of my anxiety got so fast I was having trouble breathing, I did start reading one.
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. I vaguely remember watching the black and white movie based on it a long time ago.
I know that the love story in it is very dark and haunting.
Maybe it’ll give me some ideas on how to navigate my current situation.
But a chapter in, I gave up.
Nothing’s going to help me. I’m going to have to help myself. And I have no idea how to do it.
I must’ve fallen asleep in the window nook, because I’m woken by strong arms picking me up and carrying me to bed.
I know the man, I recognize his scent—grass and burning wood—and know his touch.
Know it from countless hours of pleasant daydreams. Know it from the alcove on the beach where I gave my body to him. Know it and hate it.
But I want him to kiss me.
It’s a thought that wakes me right up, makes me sit up in bed as soon as he sets me down, knees and arms pulled into my chest to prevent him getting any closer.
My heart’s thundering in my chest, the two conflicting emotions, opposite desires warring in my mind.
I crave his kiss and his touch. And I hate the sight of him.
It’s so bad my head’s spinning like I’m on a boat in choppy waters.
And thinking of boats isn’t making anything better.
My father and my sister almost made it to the boat.
I almost made it to the boat. Almost made it to safety. Is my family safe?
Matteo’s eyes are so full of light, even in this pre-dawn darkness. His whole body is radiating heat to match the desert sun at high noon.
He grabs hold of my wrists and leans down for the kiss I’ve been craving. The kiss I’ve been fearing.
And I want to kick him away, I do. But my lips and my body, possibly even a good chunk of my soul, just surrenders to the kiss, just melts into it, letting that bright, hot light of his in, letting it warm me. Because I’ve been so very cold since he kissed me last.
All sorts of good things are playing in my mind, dreams of happy summer days, lazy afternoons, water splashing, sun shining, birds singing, waves licking the shore.
My whole body’s reacting to the kiss now, yearning to be touched, my naked skin yearning to feel his close. But as he finally releases my arms and glides his hand softly down the most sensitive part of my neck I finally come to my senses, finally come back to the cold darkness he’s plunged me in.
I push him away and scamper to the other side of the bed, my whole body still tingling, sparkling with anticipation of his touch and the lust it brings. But my mind screaming at me that he’s the enemy, that I’m a traitor.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” I hiss at him, even as he climbs on the bed to get closer to me.
“That’s not what your kiss said,” he says, the light in his eyes scorching, even as darkness envelops him. He grabs my leg and pulls me closer. I’m lying on my back now and he’s suspended over me, and I don’t even know when it happened. It’s his physical strength, so much greater than mine.
In the next moment he’s on top of me, not quite pushing me down into the mattress, but preventing me from moving regardless.
“You’re mine now, Goldie,” he says. “And I’m not done kissing you.”
I don’t return the kiss he gives me this time, keep my lips sealed tight and my eyes shut. But that just makes it worse. Because with my eyes closed, I see not what is, but what I want. Us. Alone in our wedding bed. Happy. In love.
And I can’t stop the moan that escapes as his lips give up on mine and travel down my neck, hitting all the right spots. Even my hips move on their own to be closer to him.
“I will never be yours,” I say, but that’s just my mind fighting, trying desperately to regain control of my treasonous body, put this right. Because it’s not right that I desire this man who took everything from me. Not right that I enjoy his kisses and his touches and his closeness so much.
“You already are,” he says and moves back, then slides his hand over my breasts, my stomach, down to my pussy where I crave his touch the most. I’m fully clothed and he’s barely touching me, but my body responds, rising to meet his hand, trembling with desire.
“You’ll be begging for it before long,” he says and takes his hand away.
“Never.”
He gets off the bed, grinning at me. “You already kind of are.”
I hate it that he’s right. Because maybe I’m just saying all this to make him mad. To make him tear my clothes off and take me even as I fight him. To take what’s his. Because I am.