Chapter 12 Bambalina
Bambalina
Being partially nocturnal means I usually sleep through the early bird song and sunrises, preferring the darkness of dusk and the haunting silences of night.
But this morning I wake early to the sound of a dawn chorus and a strange, repetitive snipping. My watch says it’s still only five a.m.
I throw back the comforter and slip out of bed, walk to the window overlooking our back yard and pull back the curtain.
My heart leaps into my throat.
There’s a tall, broad, half naked man standing with his back to the house, yanking back tangles of leaves and slicing through them in a temper.
As the surprise ebbs, I realize the naked back I’m staring at belongs to Nicolò.
My mouth is suddenly as dry as a desert.
There’s so much bare skin and muscle I can’t construct a thought.
But really, there’s no need to think when I can just look.
Thick muscles move beneath the damp skin.
Biceps swell and shoulders inflame with each snip of the shears.
His broad back slopes into a narrower waist and a hint of ink curls up the base of his spine.
I think that’s what takes me back the most—the thought that Nicolò has tattoos on his body.
He’s so clean and untarnished in every sense I’ve always assumed the skin he never reveals in public is the same.
As he drags a bunch of vines out of the way, I notice the cuts on his arms. The thorns have got him good.
Where I had one gash across the palm of my hand, Nicolò has hundreds all the way up his forearms, and he doesn’t seem to care.
He attacks another set of vines, dragging them away from the rose bush.
He does it with such exposed aggression I wonder if this is what his victims see.
If he ever ‘loses’ it just before he takes someone’s life.
Up to now, I’ve found that hard to imagine.
Nicolò always conducts himself so flawlessly one could be forgiven for thinking he isn’t actually human, but this display in front of me completely contradicts everything I once thought.
Nicolò Di Santo possesses full capability of being unhinged, losing control.
This is so real, so human, it makes my nerve endings pulse.
A low growl from outside the window makes me straighten. His anger is palpable and I wonder what has caused it.
But then, whatever has made him do this, I’m grateful. Finally, I can see Mama’s rose bush again. It’s free of all the invasive overgrowth. It will live to flower another year.
A tear slides down my cheek as I press my forehead and fingers to the glass.
I can’t believe Nicolò is doing this. He knew how sad I was that it had all overgrown.
I thought the most he was going to do was hire a new gardener who will actually do the work they are paid to do.
I did not expect him to go out there and cut everything down himself.
Especially not at the crack of dawn and half-dressed.
He takes a step back to admire his handiwork. It’s clear the cuts are deep when he runs a bloody hand through his hair.
Just as he begins to turn around, I step to the side, letting the curtain fall.
My cheeks heat merely at the thought of being caught watching.
With my back pressed against the wall, I hold my breath.
I’m not sure why—he didn’t catch me staring and he can’t hear me through the window.
But somehow, even though the bedroom door is closed and the curtains are drawn, I feel like he can see me. Every line and curve.
When I’m sure he’s retreated back into the house, I tiptoe back to my bed and sneak under the covers. Unable to sleep, I reach for my journal and sit up, switching on the reading lamp by my bed.
I have to get these feelings off my chest. They’re too heavy, too chaotic. If they’re left unattended, they will swell, and that can only make the fact I have to share a roof with Nicolò Di Santo even harder.
So, I write.
Seeing Brodie in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, his back all sweaty and salty, makes Ava feel all kinds of hot.
She wants to put her hands on him and feel the muscles move beneath her palms. She wants him to turn around, dig those beautiful gray eyes into her and kiss her on the lips.
And she doesn’t want it to stop there, either.
If he walked into her room right now, she’d step up to him, reach her hand into his sweats and feel him so hard.
Why does her stomach feel like it’s collapsing when she imagines things like that?
Why does she get so hot and sore between her legs?
Whenever she thinks of Brodie this way, she has to touch herself.
She pictures his sharp cheekbones and intense gray eyes bearing down on her and her whole body gets tight and wound up.
Touching herself is the only way to unravel the feeling.
Sometimes, though, when she has an orgasm to thoughts and fantasies about Brodie, she comes down utterly exhausted.
It’s like she has all this energy crackling around her system and it’s all for him.
So when she takes a flame to it, and lets it burn, she’s left with nothing but ash. She has to sleep it off.
She wonders what it would be like to feel his tongue on her. The fantasies up to now have only involved his eyes, lips and fingers. What if he put his tongue to her body?
An urge to touch myself throws me backward and I let the diary fall from my grasp.
It takes hardly any time at all to work myself up to boiling point, and just as I hear footsteps on the landing close to my room, I jam my fist into my mouth.
My fingers rush over my center, the peak of my climax just a heartbeat away.
A shudder wracks my spine and a small sound works its way out around my fist. My eyes are fixed on the door handle as I start to come. My clit throbs beneath my fingers and my hips buck. Oh God, I’m coming and he’s right outside the door.
I’m in the heart of my orgasm when the handle turns and my door opens a crack.
Fuck, I can’t stop. I bite down on my fist, my body jerking against the bed.
His long fingers curl around the edge of the door, slowly followed by his dark, damp hair.
My climax tips over its edge and I whip my hand out of my shorts, unclasping my mouth to pull them back into place. A final gasp rushes from my throat and I sit up, breathless, just as his dark eyes and half-naked body step into view.
“You’re awake.” His throat is hoarse as though he’s been yelling at something.
“I just came from the bathroom,” I lie.
My cheeks are pulsing thickly from the hot blood that rushed from my pelvis to my face. There’s every chance he knows what I was doing just now, and I’m half a breath away from dying.
His gaze strokes over my body and my mind instantly jumps to thinking he’s searching for evidence I just came in my shorts.
“Are you alright?” His voice is soft but soulfully broken.
“Yep,” I clip. “I’m fine. You?”
He blinks slowly. “Yeah. Fine.”
Dragging his gaze over me one more time, he takes a step backward. “See you tomorrow.”
I hold my breath as the door closes then slam back against the comforter. That was so close.
If he’d walked in a second earlier, he’d have caught me mid-orgasm. And God help me, that turns me on even more.