16. SCARLET
So many emotions swirl in my head, making me dizzy. Holding on to Antonio is the only thing grounding me right now, but at the same time, he's making me fly. A volcano of heat erupts in my core, spreads through me, and devours me just like his tongue is doing.
I wasn't prepared for a kiss, wasn't prepared for him, and yet it seems as if it was inevitable. His kisses push all thoughts of guilt and vengeance away. Strange sounds leave my throat, sounds I've never heard myself make before.
One of his hands is buried in my hair, pulling, massaging, pressing me closer to him. The other moves from my back to my hips, up my ribcage, and a deep, deep moan escapes me when his thumb brushes against the outline of my breast.
Inexperienced need grows as the furnace inside me keeps heating my blood. I want Antonio to cup my breast. I want him to…
His hands move lower and raise my shirt. Reluctantly, I let go of the death grip I have on his shirt and lift my arms so he can pull mine over my head; the next instant, my panties are gone, as well.
My heart hammers wildly in my chest as I'm laid bare in front of him. Dark, burning eyes peruse my torso leisurely. His tongue darts out, and he licks his lips as his gaze lands on my nipples, making them pucker and sending shivers of excitement through me. I want him to touch me.
"So fucking beautiful," he rasps. "You are like a fine piece of art." His hands move up, cup my breasts, and I lean forward to give him more access, throwing my head back to absorb the touch of his calloused hand on my skin. It feels so damn good.
Every knead of his hands on my flesh is torture and bliss at the same time. I want more, and yet I want him to continue exactly what he’s doing. His palms nudge my nipples, and the sensitive buds send out electrical currents running up and down my body, culminating in my clit and making it throb.
He leans forward, his mouth latches on to one nipple, and I about become undone as he sucks on it, teases it with his tongue, and nips lightly with his teeth.
A sharp breath escapes me when he bites a little bit harder, my eyes fly open as sensations of pleasure play havoc with my already overstimulated nerves.
He laughs hoarsely, "You like that?"
His pointer finger and thumb replace his lips, and he pinches slightly. Fuck me, "Ahh," I moan.
"So fucking perfect," he grunts, claiming my mouth once again. He pushes me down on the bed, and my legs automatically open in invitation below him. Another deep chuckle escapes him, "So greedy. Are you wet for me?"
His hand moves between my legs, brushes up the inside of my thigh, leaving my flesh trembling in its wake. He cups my pussy.
"Fuck, you're drenched, my little passerotta. Tell me, are you this soaking wet for me?"
A mewl escapes me, my throat feels too tight to form a word.
"I need you to answer me, passerotta," he insists.
"Yes," I manage as his fingers move through my folds, parts them. I've never been this wet or ready for a man before. When the pad of his thumb brushes my clit, I'm ready to explode.
"Ah fuck, oh God." I belie my earlier thoughts that I'm incapable of uttering words.
"Hmm, tell me what to do with you, passerotta. Do you want to come on my mouth or my dick?"
Ah, hell, choices. Why the hell does he have to give me choices like that? I can't choose. I can't even think.
"Let me help you decide," he mumbles, his hot breath caressing my pussy.
This need for him is beyond anything I've ever felt before.
My legs part wider, and shudders of undiluted bliss rush through me when he blows against my clit.
Then he pulls the little bud into his mouth, and memories of what he did to my nipple have me shuddering in anticipation.
"Oh God, oh God," I moan incoherently.
"Not God," he stops, looks up at me from between my legs. "It's Antonio who is giving you this pleasure."
To emphasize his declaration, his lips take possession of my clit once again, his tongue presses it against his teeth, and I nearly come off the mattress.
Three fingers move up into my pussy, expertly curl at just the right spot, and I come.
I explode all around him with a fierceness that robs me of my breath and makes my heart beat out of my chest. Bright stars appear in front of my vision; inside me, there is so much pent-up steam, I worry I will burst if I don't let it out.
"Antonio!" I scream.
"Fuck." He rises between my legs. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch him take off his shirt, only peripherally aware that he was still fully dressed while I was stark naked under him.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he rasps. His eyes roaming my body are dark with desire. He pulls off his shirt. Talk about beautiful. His chest and abs are as honed as his biceps. Hard and unyielding, like him.
He leans forward to press a kiss on each of my breasts.
"Those are mine now," he states matter-of-factly.
I'm still way too much in a state of incoherent thought to protest his caveman statement.
His eyes move down to my stomach, my thighs…
Oh God, my thighs. How could I have forgotten?
Over the years, the scars have faded, but they're still there.
Covering my stomach, my thighs, and, as I've been told, my back and ass.
I don't think I can take it if he's as repulsed by them as my ex, Rob, who always made it a point to let me know what a sacrifice it was on his part to be touching someone so disfigured as me.
He mostly only wanted to have sex in the dark, and it took me four months before I broke it off with him.
I might have rebounded had my second boyfriend, Les, not been as—or even more—disturbed by the scars than Rob.
It wasn't as if I had been in love with Les, but Les had been good for my self-esteem after Rob.
He had been asking me for a date for nearly a year and told me over and over how beautiful I was.
When he finally saw all of me, revulsion didn't even come close to describing the expression on his face.
He acted like a museum curator whose favorite item had been broken.
He never touched me after that, and we only went out a couple more times before he broke it off.
I think he only took me out because he thought it was the polite thing to do.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I mumble, trying to reach for the sheet to cover myself up, but he snatches it from my grip.
His voice is but a growl, and when I look into his face, it's a mask of fury. "Who did this to you?"
Tears gather in my eyes. Why had I been so stupid? I should have told him to turn off the lights, like I learned to do a long time ago. The worst part is that my body is still humming from his touches; my flesh hasn't gotten the memo from my mind yet that we're in panic mode.
"I'm sorry," I mumble again, trying to roll up into myself, to hide my scars.
"Scarlet." He sits down next to me, grabs my arms, and asks through clenched teeth, "Who. Did. This. To. You?"
"I… my… I…" I can't form the words. My dad is the only person in the world who knows about this, and he only found out recently. He didn’t know about it before. Even now, I can't find the courage to talk about my mom.
"I'm sorry. I know I'm repulsive," I finally manage.
"Repulsive?" He rears back, outraged. "Repulsive?" I don't think he realizes how hard he is holding my arms right now. "Who in the fuck would have made you feel repulsive? Hell, look at you, you're gorgeous."
"You… you're not disgusted?" Do I dare hope? But why wouldn't he be?
"Whoever put that notion in your head, I'll carve his heart out, you have my word."
His words shouldn't make me feel better—they really shouldn't—but a teeny, tiny part of me swells my chest. The idea of Antonio carving out Rob's and Les's hearts makes me feel something that I know I shouldn't.
He places his knuckles underneath my chin. "Passerotta, who did this to you?" I realize that he's trying to soften his voice for my benefit, but the barely contained fury is still reflected in it, and I realize he is furious for me, not because of me.
Neither Rob nor Les ever asked about the scars, let alone where they came from. All they cared about was that their prize had been spoiled. I try to lower my lashes to veil my eyes from him, but he slightly increases the pressure on my chin, repeating, "Who?" I open my eyes, meeting his fully on.
"My mom." My voice is just a breath. I'm not even sure he can hear me. Guilt rages through me for saying it.
"Your mother did this to you?" He looks incredulously at me. "Why? And where was your piece of shit father when that happened?"
I let the piece of shit slide because… In my darkest hours, I've often wondered that myself.
I sit up, pulling the sheet up to cover my nakedness. I can't have this conversation with him, sitting here naked while he… is still dressed in his pants, looking sexy as hell.
"She needed… wanted to teach me to behave like a lady, and I didn’t always listen. I was a handful as a child… she didn't know… how to handle me," I confess, biting my lower lip and staring at my clasped fingers. Nervous, I peel at a loose piece of skin until it bleeds.
"Stop that." His tone is hard, and I immediately let go.
His hand is still underneath my chin, and he pushes me to look up at him again, at those incredibly green eyes, the hard set of his angular face that screams male. "How old were you when this started?"
I don't remember a time when she didn't , I think. Out loud, I say, "I don't know."
"What did she use?"
"A switch." She would cut a new one every six months from the large birch tree in our backyard—a tear slides down my face. I want to wipe it away, but my arms feel too heavy. I don't think I can lift a finger.
"This wasn't your fault," he says forcefully, his eyes boring into mine.
I nod unconvincingly.
"I want you to say it, Scarlet."