Chapter 22
Renzo turnedhis back on me. Literally.
We slept back-to-back last night, and I hated it. The bed wasn’t any more or less comfortable in our new arrangement. We were pressed as close to one another as always, so I was plenty warm. Nothing was physically wrong, yet I was miserable.
The emotional isolation penetrated so much deeper than I could have imagined.
The truth is, I think my period would start soon if I wasn’t stressed and starving. I wouldn’t be surprised if I skip this cycle, all things considered, but hormones could still be amplifying my emotions. It would explain why I snapped at Renzo. I’ve thought about it all morning and have decided six different times that I should apologize and explain, only to circle back and insist the distance between us is for the best. Renzo may be able to keep his emotions separate from sex, but I can’t. Not where he’s concerned. And if we have no chance of a relationship, I refuse to let myself be hurt for nothing.
I will not fall for another person I can’t be with, nor will I sacrifice who I am for the sake of a relationship.
I don’t like hurting him, but I have to protect myself. I have to be smart. Every time I tell myself that, another voice asks if keeping him at a distance is the best thing for me, then why does it feel so yucky? Not only do I miss feeling connected to him, I feel guilty about hurting him and anger over the hand we’ve been dealt. And frustration. So much fucking frustration.
The negativity of it all is so much that I do some shadowboxing in front of the cabin. I should conserve my energy. We’re not eating enough calories to justify exercise, but I need it to clear my head.
Renzo follows me outside. I expect him to grab his fishing pole and head to the creek, but he surprised me by joining me instead.
“You interested in a sparring partner, or you prefer to practice alone?” His gruff tone is intentionally indifferent. I’ve done that. He’s put up barriers to match my own, and the guilt is more than I can bear.
“Sure, training’s always better with a partner.”
He lifts his hands in front of him to serve as targets and spreads his feet to steady himself. “Jab, jab, cross,” he calls out, instructing me of my next moves. I’ll have to keep my touches extra light since we don’t have pads for his hands. The point of the exercise is more about quick thinking and reflexes than brute force, so hitting hard isn’t all that crucial.
I perform the trio of moves in rapid succession. He calls out another combination, this time tossing in a mock swipe of his hand so that I have to add a dip to evade him. We do about a dozen rounds. He’s no stranger to this sort of training, calling out creative combinations and truly challenging my reaction times. We’re both competitive and with all the unspoken tension mounting between us, each set seems to grow in intensity. It’s invigorating—physically and intellectually.
Pretty soon, I have a devious smile teasing at my lips and a burning desire to one-up him. “Come on, is that all you’ve got?”
His menacing smirk tells me he’s more than ready to put me in my place. He calls out a long combination that I launch into, but I only get halfway through when he grabs my fist in the middle of a jab. He yanks my back toward his chest and starts to wrap his arms around me. I instantly drop to my knees, which throws off his hold on me. I quickly transition to a forward roll away from him, leaping right back to my feet and into my ready stance.
We’re both breathing heavily as we circle one another. I can only imagine my eyes spark with the same excitement I see in his because I’m buzzing with energy. My bloodstream is spiked with intoxicating endorphins. The rush makes me want more—more of the thrill. More of him.
I’m planning my attack when he catches me off guard by swiping his hand through a snowdrift against a tree, sending a wave of glittering powder right at my face.
I cry out with mock indignation and try to keep my eyes open, knowing his next move is coming. The second he’s close enough, I drop and swipe his legs out from under him, sending him tumbling to the snowy ground. I immediately launch myself on him to pin his hands.
I’m straddling his middle, laughing as I grab his hands and press them into the snow. Once I have him secure, my eyes finally find his. The heat radiating from those Caribbean blues could melt every bit of snow beneath us.
“Mercy,” he breathes.
A word has never been spoken with such ardent reverence.
I’m stunned speechless. Breathless. I don’t know what to think, but I know how my body wants to respond. It’s screaming for me to give in. To give myself to this indomitable man who will undoubtedly ruin me for anyone else when he returns to his Mafia throne. You don’t fall for a man like Renzo and simply shake off a broken heart when the ride ends. When he leaves you broken, the pieces never fully fit back together again.
And he will leave. He’s duty bound, the same as me.
I leap off him so quickly that I surprise us both. “I, uh … I need to go to the bathroom. Sorry.” I shake the melted snow from my hands as he slowly rises to his feet.
When I peer up at him, I inwardly wince. He’s scraped away every hint of emotion as he walks past me like I never existed. He calmly lifts his fishing pole from where it leans against the cabin and walks away without saying a word.
And just like that, we’re right back where we started.
I feel like I’ve been forced into an impossible situation, and it makes me want to scream. Why can’t I stop wanting him? If I know I’ll only end up hurt, why would I still want to be with him?
Maybe I’m already broken.
Are we serving cake at this pity party?
Ugh. Of course, I’m not broken. Any woman would be nuts not to find Renzo irresistible. My problem is, I’m resisting. To protect myself, granted. But maybe if I let my intuition guide me rather than my logic, I’d find I’m worrying for nothing. I could be completely wrong about how hard I’d fall for him. Maybe he drives like an old lady or sleeps with the TV on in the bedroom.
And maybe, you’re just horny and not nearly as desperate for him as you are for an orgasm.
I want to smack my head against one of the nearby trees. Why hadn’t I already considered that? That could absolutely be the answer, or at least help take the edge off until we get back home.
And this is the perfect time. Renzo won’t be back for at least an hour.
I go back inside and take off my jacket and boots, then add a log to the dwindling fire. Once my jeans are off, I lie back on the bed. I don’t even remember the last time I used my fingers on myself. Not since I was a teenager, probably. After I discovered the delights of a vibrator, there was no reason to ever go back where self-pleasuring was concerned. Why take a horse and buggy when a car can do the job better in every way?
I lie with my knees bent and listing outward while my feet are planted on the bed not far from my ass. It’s been long enough that my body is starving for touch. The thought of masturbating in the bed we share doesn’t hurt, either. It feels so naughty, like a dirty little secret, and I’m here for it.
I imagine Renzo at the window watching me. The bed is situated perfectly across the room so that he’d have an unobstructed view of my fingers diving in and out of my core, then circling madly over the clit’s delicious bundle of nerves. In no time at all, the divine cascade of tingles begins to build in my center. It feels so incredible that I arch, pressing my head back into the pillow. My eyes squeeze shut, and my lips part.
So close. I’m so fucking close.
I need that one last spark to send me over the edge. I open my eyes to bring back the image of him there at the window, only I don’t have to imagine anything because he’s really there, eyes devouring every inch of me.
I don’t fall off that cliff; I’m launched like a rocket into orbit. I’m suspended in time by sheer ecstasy, and the only things tethering me to this world are twin pools of liquid blue desire that threaten to latch on and never let me go.