Chapter 9 Viviana #2
The rest of the drive, we spend in comfortable silence as I hum along to the songs from his 1960s playlist. Personally, that was the best music decade. From the Beatles to the Rolling Stones, the songs changed music forever.
Once we reach the beach house, the scenery keeps me rooted in place. There’s something ethereal about this image—wild, untouched nature in the foreground as waves break at the shore, kissing the sand hello before waving goodbye.
This place recharges my soul. It’s out-of-this-world beautiful.
He wraps one arm around me, kissing my neck and stirring butterflies in my belly.
For long minutes, we stay like this—embraced and savoring this blissful moment.
“It would be so hard to choose,” I sigh dreamily. “Between the penthouse and this.”
“You don’t have to.”
He says things like this with such earnestness as if it’s a sure thing.
I squeeze my eyes shut to erase any image that paints our farewell. “Tristan, I…we can’t.”
“There’s no ‘I can’t’ in my vocabulary.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” I whisper, hugging myself.
He can’t keep thinking our secret affair will evolve into something more.
Getting in my face, he cups my chin, his eyes brewing a storm. “I’ll handle it. Stop worrying.”
“Sure,” I mumble, but I don’t wish to fight.
Time is not on our side, and if last weekend was any sign, it goes way too fast.
Inside, he carries my suitcase upstairs to the bedroom, and I follow him.
I quickly change into a bathing suit, the hot tub calling to my soul to play.
He drags a hand down his face, a painted sound thundering in his chest. “Fuck, I’m trying here…”
I love that he has trouble keeping his hands and dick away from me. It emboldens me.
Just for teasing’s sake, I sashay my way out when his hand connects with my ass. “Brat.”
Looking over my shoulder, I bat my lashes in faux innocence at him. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Keep that up and see how fast I go from gentleman to predator.”
Goose bumps erupt on my skin as we lie in the hot tub integrated into the heated pool, the open ocean stretching in front of us. Steam floats along the surface, dancing around us in flimsy, gray tendrils, secluding us.
There’s no space between us, yet he still draws me closer until I end up straddling him.
I shake my head at him grinning at me, realizing what he’s doing. He wants all of me. All the time.
I pepper his face with kisses, his eyelids, the cute little mole, the tip of his nose, before I reach his mouth, pouring all my secret wishes into it.
He’s proficient at snatching my attention, absorbing every thought, and consuming every heartbeat.
The contrast between the heated hot tub and the cool air lulls me into relaxation, and our conversation flows naturally, as if we have known each other for years, not days. With him, I feel like I belong. He’s my person. My home. The realization is both scary and dreamy.
Helping me up, he wraps me in a soft bathrobe, and we go inside.
Heating up dinner, we take the plates with us to the open living and dining room.
There is a record player in the corner with a shelf of albums behind—he listens only to the sixties. I pick one up, and as the House of the Rising Sun plays in the background, we savor dinner, enjoying our at-home date.
After discarding the plates in the dishwasher, we move to the sofa where I lie in his arms, relishing our togetherness.
He brushes his knuckles along the valley of my breasts, each caress a sweet torment that heats me up. I am one second away from climbing him and begging him to ease me when his phone rings, and a woman’s name flashes up on his screen. Calla.
Alarm bells ring in my ears, deafening me. My heart rate picks up, panic flooding my being. I don’t know much about his life. What if he has an entirely separate life from me, and I am the other woman?
A storm gathers in my head, threatening to shatter my composure.
Don’t jump to conclusions, I urge myself to get a grip on my frayed emotions, but it doesn’t ease my nerves.
An inner voice whispers to trust him, but jealousy blinds me—opaque in the face of my greatest fear. That I am not good enough. My insecurity threatens to tear me apart, overshadowing the voice of reason.
He picks up and I take it as a good sign, observing him with a breath lodged in my throat.
His gaze sets on mine, studying me with furrowed brows.
I struggle to keep up the facade that I am unbothered, but I can’t. A ball of dread rolls in my stomach, and afraid I will throw up, I palm my upset belly and, on unsteady legs, I stumble through the kitchen, drinking an entire glass of water in one go, trying to swallow the anguish.
“Sure. I’ll call you later,” he says, hanging up.
He’s by my side in one second and turns me around. I open and close my mouth, but no words form.
It’s like he senses what’s wrong with me, and he lowers his forehead onto mine. “I don’t have any other woman but you. I’ve never wanted another woman but you. That was my friend’s wife and the mother of my godson telling me she’s coming to New York to shop.”
The relief is instant. Common sense returns, boxing jealousy in a corner, banging the hell out of it. It’s just another proof of how deep my feelings run for him. The mere thought of him with someone else turns me into a wreck.
“Nothing like New York, huh?” I ask breathlessly.
“That woman would sell her soul for a high-end piece of jewelry or clothing,” he says as if not understanding the appeal.
I inhale a deep breath, and the pressure on my lungs eases. “How old is your godson?”
“He’s three.” A bright smile arches the corners of his mouth. “He’s something else.”
“Do you want children?” I ask, everything else forgotten.
His features tighten. “No.” The two letters thunder with unwavering resolve, ending the talk.
It’s clear the subject affects him.
He grabs my hand and brings me back to the sofa, pulling me on top of him.
I tilt my head. “What if I want some?”
“I’ll give you anything else, but no children,” he says, sounding resolute.
His words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, souring my mood. I’ve always imagined having children. Not becoming a mother casts a shadow over our intimacy, pressing a heavy weight on my chest. It’s strange, mourning something I could have had but won’t experience.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to process my feelings. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want any.
I will have them. Not with him though.
A deep-seated sorrow guts me—sad about something that hasn’t occurred, nostalgic for something I won’t experience. With him, I undergo the full spectrum of feelings.