Chapter 30
ROMERO
I should have listened to Rafael.
Going on this honeymoon might just be one of the most reckless things I’ve ever done. Christ, what was I thinking?
I glance down at my sleeping wife and there it is again—that stinging tenderness that seems to have wormed itself into my chest. She’s everywhere now. Wormed herself into my heart, under my skin, inside my head. Every breath I take tastes of her.
Fuck.
I thought I was being nice. A gentleman. Bringing her out here to make her first time special. And yes, so I could have uninterrupted time and access to her body. What a delusional bastard I was.
I get off the bed in quick jerky motions, careful not to wake her. Then pants on, phone in hand, I slip out of the room. I need air. Space. Time to think.
And a glass of water.
The villa mocks me as I pad down the stairs towards the kitchen. Everywhere my gaze lands reminds me of her—of us. Because over the course of the past week, I’ve fucked her on every available surface inside this place. Every single one.
The walls. In the pool. The couch in the living room. The desk in the library...
My chest tightens, my breath rasping in my throat as the memories assault me. There’s no escape from her, from this feeling.
The cool water does nothing to ease it, nor the stubborn lump lodged in my throat. This trip was meant to change her—to bind her to me, to make her dependent on the pleasure only I can give her. Instead, I’m the one whose entire world has shifted on its axis.
Fuck.
I need to get out of here.
Yes. That’s it. Everything will snap back into place once we’re back in Brooklyn, back on my turf where I understand the rules. Where the familiar weight of my responsibilities will smother this… whatever the hell this is.
We still have two days left in this paradise, but I’m already lifting my phone and firing a quick text to my pilot to have the jet waiting on the mainland by morning.
I don’t give a shit if it means he needs to leave New York right the fuck now to meet my deadline.
I pay him enough to deal with my emergencies, not to get his beauty sleep.
Another text to the seaplane pilot to arrange our pickup, and finally the vice grip around my heart loosens enough for me to breathe.
It’s just this place messing with me. All this tropical air, the isolation, and constant sex and proximity to her naked body.
It’s more than enough to muddle even the strongest man’s head and make him feel things.
Even a cold-hearted bastard like me apparently has limits to what his heart can withstand.
The sex is phenomenal—the best I’ve ever had. So naturally I’m confusing great fucking with actual feelings. But a little distance will cure this temporary insanity. Space will make me realize this was all just an illusion. A honeymoon haze. Nothing more.
I finish my water and head back upstairs, feeling more confident in myself and my decisions.
But when I slip into the bedroom, Leni is awake, those pretty gray eyes scanning the room with a confused frown. The second she spots me, her face lights up like I hung the fucking moon, and just like that the vise clamps down again, squeezing so hard I can’t breathe all over again.
“There you are.” Her voice is honey-soft, still thick with sleep as she reaches for me. “Where did you go?”
I rub my chest as I approach the bed. “Just got some water.” My voice is raspy from all the emotions I’m battling, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
I slide in beside her, and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she snuggles into me, sighing contentedly.
“Mmm, that’s so much better.” Her warm palm spreads over my bare chest, directly over the chaos she’s set off in my ribcage, and my traitorous cock immediately springs to attention despite the fact that I came inside her three separate times just hours ago.
She’s asleep again within seconds, her hair tickling my chin while I lie there stiff as a board, realizing just how royally, completely, catastrophically fucked I am.
Morning light streams through the windows when I wake up, and thank Christ I surface before she does.
I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to feast my eyes on her—the way the emerging sunlight turns her hair to liquid copper and makes her skin glow, the soft shadows her lashes cast on her cheeks, the way her body curves trustingly against mine.
In this moment, I know with bone-deep certainty that I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.
The problem is, I might be the one who does the hurting.
I scrub my hands over my face and force myself to slip out of bed, each step towards the ensuite feeling like I’m walking to my own execution. The shower I take is arctic-cold, yet not enough to freeze out the white-hot pain in my chest from what I’m about to do.
But I have no choice. I have to protect myself. Protect her—by hurting her.
I’ve played this the wrong way all along.
I never should have made her go along with the ruse—pretending to be in love with me, the public proposal, the wedding performance.
Anyone who is anyone in my world believes Romero Lombardi is head-over-heels for his wife.
That means they’ll see her as my weakness.
And they’d be right.
What happens when my enemies realize that getting to me is as simple as putting a gun to this beautiful, innocent woman? What if they hurt her? What if they—
Fuck.
After my shower, I get dressed, my plan cementing with every layer of clothing I put on. My chest hardens, my heart sealing off. I have to do this. For her sake. For her safety.
For my sanity.
By the time I step out of the walk-in closet, she’s awake, stretching on the bed like a cat in a sunbeam. Arms raised above her head, velvet blue sheets wrapped around her waist, and those creamy breasts exposed and inviting in the morning light.
My mouth waters as I drink in her tight nipples. How many times have I had them between my teeth this past week? How many times have I made her arch and scream my name? And still it isn’t enough. Not nearly.
I’ve had her every way imaginable, yet the sight of her now makes my cock thrum like it’s the first time. She makes me insatiable.
“Hey, baby.” She smiles warmly, eying my clothes. “What’s with the suit? Are we going somewhere?”
I don’t return her smile. My throat hurts, my heart throbbing fiercely as I watch her. I haven’t said anything yet, haven’t done anything. I could just say something casual, crawl back into bed, and she’d be none the wiser.
But I can’t.
I swallow. “Yes. We’re going back home.”
She giggles like I’ve just told her the most ridiculous joke. “Very funny. Are you really going to wear that suit to go explore the hot water cave?”
Shit, I forgot about that.
Last night over dinner on the mainland, our server had mentioned the hidden springs where hot and cold water meet in natural pools. Leni’s eyes had lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning, and I’d sworn we’d go there today.
Another promise I’m about to break.
She rises from the bed in all her naked glory, moving towards me with that unconscious grace that makes my hands itch to touch her as my head battles my heart. I can still take it back. It’s not too late.
Instead, I make a show of checking my watch, letting the cold mask I’ve perfected over the years slide into place. “You have thirty minutes to get ready before the seaplane arrives.”
Her smile dies by degrees, like watching flowers wilt in fast-forward. She stops moving towards me, those gray eyes searching my face desperately. “What’s going on? Did something happen back in New York? Is it Elira?”
Of course sweet, selfless Leni’s first thought is that someone else needs us. That there’s some emergency back home that would explain why her husband suddenly wants to abandon their honeymoon. Why else would I want to leave paradise when we’ve both been drowning in pleasure?
If only it were that simple.
“No. Important work came up last night, and I realized I can’t keep lounging here, wasting time.”
She goes perfectly still. The light in her eyes dims, and something inside me withers at the raw hurt. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat roughly, hating myself more with each passing second. “So… get ready.”
Unable to look at her anymore, I take the cowardly way out and flee the bedroom. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My tie chokes me, and I tug at it angrily as I descend the stairs. It’s better I nip this in the bud now. We were getting too close, too comfortable.
Downstairs, I pace restlessly, feeling like a caged animal as I wait for her, the scene upstairs looping in my head on repeat. Every step is a battle against the urge to run back up, pull her into my arms, and apologize for what I just did.
But that’s exactly the weakness I can’t afford.
It was never going to work out anyway. The second she finds out I’m the one who killed her father, she’ll hate me. So yeah, definitely better to stop this—whatever the hell this is—before it gets any deeper.
Her footsteps break through my thoughts, and I glance up. She appears in the living room doorway, her face carefully blank as she approaches me. “I’m ready.”
I nod mutely and spin towards the front door, stepping out just as the seaplane roars up to the small dock. Without sparing her a backward glance, I march towards the dock.
The pilot greets me with a grin. “Hope you enjoyed your honeymoon, Mr. Lombardi?” he yells over the engine’s loud noise.
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, then turn to help Leni into the plane.
The thirty-minute flight back to the mainland is torture.
I can feel her heavy stare boring into me, but I pointedly ignore her, keeping my face glued to the window at the endless blue ocean below.
Why is this so goddamn hard? I’ve cut ties with dozens of women over the years.
Hell, usually, I’m bored after the first night.
But then again, I’ve never remained interested after fucking a woman once or twice, let alone spent a week buried inside someone and still felt like I was dying of thirst.
As soon as the seaplane touches down at the private airfield where my jet is waiting, I’m unbuckling my harness and moving towards the exit. I extend a hand to help Leni out—basic courtesy, nothing more—and try to ignore the electric shock that runs through me when she hesitantly takes it.
She murmurs a quiet thank you to the pilot, polite even in her pain, while I can’t even spare the man a glance. The brief contact with her skin is already messing with my head, so I drop her hand the second she’s on solid ground.
The jet stairs descend as we approach, and I slow my stride, waving for her to go in first.
The atmosphere inside is completely different from our wedding night flight. Suffocating. Thick with unspoken hurt and confusion.
Once we’re airborne and leveled out, I escape to the cabin I use as an office during long flights, claiming I need to work.
What I actually do is pace the small space like a madman for five straight hours, accomplishing absolutely nothing except wearing a path in the carpet. Only when the pilot texts that we’re about to land do I force myself to return to the main cabin, where I find Leni staring morosely at her phone.
The urge to ask what’s wrong is strong as hell, but I already know what’s wrong. Me.
“Seatbelt,” I bark, my voice coming out harsher than intended as I roughly secure my own across my lap. “We’re landing.”
“So soon?” she asks softly.
I don’t respond, focusing instead on the familiar skyline of New York as it rises to meet us. Almost home.
Logan is waiting at the airfield with my SUV, and the sight of my driver and car anchors me. Yes, coming back home was the right call. Staying at that remote island any longer would have really messed me up.
I open the door for Leni and she slips in without so much as a glance. I hate it. My hand tightens, and without conscious thought, I let the door slam behind her.
What the fuck did you expect, you idiot? You just told her your honeymoon was a waste of time. Now you’re pissed that she’s not looking at you?
“Get it together, asshole,” I mutter to myself as I round the car to get in from the other side.
The drive home is silent, oppressive, the air in the car hot with tension. My shoulders knot more with every mile, but when the gates of my house come into view, I nearly sag with relief.
I’m out of the car before it fully stops, taking the steps two at a time like I’m being chased. But as I throw open the front door, a weird sound fills the air—a tiny, plaintive meowing—just as a scrawny orange kitten rushes in between my legs.
Behind me, Leni lets out a pleased gasp. “A tabby cat!” she breathes, genuine delight lighting up her face for the first time since this morning.
Fuck. In all my self-destruction, I’d completely forgotten about the cat I’d ordered Sandro to get.
I wanted to surprise her when we got back from the honeymoon.