Chapter 27 Bambalina
Bambalina
His eyes are black in the dim light, as though they’re in mourning. My chest is a riot of emotions. I’m elated that he’s come back, but the way he’s looking at me is sending shivers of ice down my spine.
He hasn’t come back here to make nice. He’s come back here to tell me nothing is going to happen between us, and that fills me with complete devastation.
For months I’ve dreamed about feeling his fingers drift over my body, and today, while taking a jackhammer to my heart with his confession, I felt them.
And dear God, I was airborne. His mouth on the back of my head pressing against me almost aggressively, his hips pushing into me from behind, and his arm holding me still, together made me shapeshift into something unrecognizable.
He could have dropped me to the floor and stripped me bare in front of everyone and I wouldn’t have cared.
I’d have taken whatever he could give me.
But right here and right now, I’m looking back at a wall. I’m not getting anything.
His voice is no smoother for having downed half a glass of water. “We need to talk.”
My own voice trembles. “About what?” He’s already said he can’t have me. What more do we need to discuss?
He breathes in harshly through his nostrils, then lifts a finger and motions between us. “This. Whatever this is, we need to talk about it.”
I watch his finger move, curious that he’s referring to the connection we have as some kind of physical thing that can be popped on a table and discussed rationally.
I lift my lids slowly while the crack reappears in my heart. “Go on.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and I get the feeling he hasn’t really thought about what he wants to say.
“Nothing can happen between us, Lina. You know that, right?”
The crack grows a little wider and I nod.
“This…” He braces his hands on the island and drops his head. “There’s no way it could work. It wouldn’t be allowed. Your father wouldn’t allow it, your sisters, your aunt… My mom. It would hurt too many people.”
Tears swell in my eyes as I watch his breaths rock him back and forth.
He lowers his forearms and looks up wearily. “I could be killed for it.”
My shocked gasp fills the room. “What?”
“We’re related, Lina. And we’re Catholic, don’t forget. Incest is forbidden.”
“It wouldn’t be incest,” I reply, weakly. “We’re not related by blood. We’re not real family.”
His gaze saddens. “Try telling our God-fearing parents that.”
I drop my hands to the table and stare out the window so he can’t see my tears fall. Bitterness curls around every word. “Yet, it’s okay to be associated with a family that uses life and death as currency. God thinks that’s fine, right?”
He doesn’t reply but I can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of my face.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I started this. I should never have written about you.”
A bitter laugh travels across the room. “You didn’t start this Lina. If I hadn’t tried to run from my feelings and was actually nice to you, you might not have seen me as a challenge to bring to life in your journal.”
I sense him straighten with conviction.
“And don’t ever regret writing those things. They were fucking beautiful.”
A shudder rolls through me. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I wish we could’ve done those things. God, some nights, the pictures you painted… they’re all I can think about.”
I keep my head turned away but I can’t conceal the sob that squeezes out between my lips.
I cup a hand over my mouth to contain any more.
How can life be so unfair? How can it take away my mother, then my sisters, then replace me in my father’s affections with a stepmother, and then forbid me from wanting her son?
What have I done to deserve all of this?
The room swims with my tears. Then I hear his voice.
“Fuck, Lina…”
His footsteps round the island and come toward me. I squeeze my eyes shut, letting an avalanche of tears pour down over my fingers.
In no time, he’s on his knees beside me, turning my body to face him and wrapping his enormous arms and earthy scent around me. I drown in his large chest.
I know what he’s come here to say: we can’t be in each other’s lives. This, right here, is Nicolò saying goodbye. The crack in my heart is complete and I’m bleeding out, drop by drop.
Tentatively, I reach my arms around his body. My hands skate over the bulge of a gun in his waistband, up to his defined shoulders, and I hug him to me. My face is pressed into his neck and I relish the feel of days-old stubble against my cheek. It’s sexy and heart wrenching at the same time.
I breathe him deeply into my lungs, filling myself with as much as I can get, knowing that when he pulls away, I won’t get the chance again.
When he loosens his arms, my heart falters. I silently beg for just a few seconds more. But, he doesn’t remove his hands. He presses them to my back, smoothing them slowly from my shoulders down to my waist.
I exhale a long breath and try to memorize every slow, final touch.
Then his hands move round to my sides and push slowly up the curves of my ribcage. His thumbs curl around my front, brushing against the edges of my breasts as his hands climb higher.
This is not the touch of a stepbrother saying goodbye. This is the touch of someone who wants more.
My nipples are tingling from the close proximity of his palms to my breasts and I wish with all my heart he would inch them inwards, just a little, and feel what I’d willingly give to him.
My head is still buried in his neck so he can’t see my blushes, but my tears have stopped falling and my heart is hammering hard.
My eyelids drift shut to the sound of his shortening breaths. He’s struggling to control himself. I want him to lose it. I need him to touch me like I need air, but I won’t push him. I won’t be blamed for this.
His hands reach my armpits, and suddenly, I’m being lifted up off the chair and set gently on the table. His piercing gaze catches mine and holds it there, his hands still gripping my sides as he gets to his feet.
He pulls his hands back slightly so his fingertips are the only parts of him touching me. They’re still drifting over my ribcage but I feel them everywhere, like little firecrackers exploding across my skin.
His thick thighs are pushed between my legs and my knees have widened so far I can feel the fresh air against my damp panties. Only minutes ago I was engulfed in grief. Now, I’m so wet I can feel it at the top of my thighs.
The long slit in my gold dress has been pushed to its limit and is now straining over my hips. The clatter of Louboutin’s hitting the kitchen floor fills the silent air for a few breaths.
I want to feel him with a desperation I can’t explain. It feels like I’ll die if I don’t touch him, skin on skin.
With shaking hands, I reach up to his jacket and slowly slip the buttons through their holes. The white shirt beneath it is tight across his abs and stretching with each inhalation. I lick my lips, unable to stop myself from staring. His gaze on the movement is so hot it burns.
When his fingers leave my ribs, take hold of my hands and press my palms against his chest, I feel a wave of heat dance across my pelvis. He’s giving me permission to touch him.
My fingers shake as I push my palms up his defined pecs and beneath the jacket. I slowly push it over his shoulders and he lets it fall. I glance down for a beat and notice the label. It’s Brioni. And it’s on the floor.
His chest draws my attention back and I glide my hands down the front of the shirt. His gaze blackens as he watches me intently.
One by one, I slip each button of his shirt through the holes, each one revealing another few inches of smooth, tan skin.
Half way down his rippled stomach, a trail of ink curls into view and I trace it with my finger.
His breaths tighten. Just below the tattoo is the line of soft, delicious hair that disappears into his waistband.
I look up into his ravenous eyes and tug the shirt out from his slacks. It comes free and his gun falls to the floor. Neither of us looks at it.
There’s a sheen of perspiration across his torso—the only clue he’s straining to hold back. A sudden urge to taste him pushes me forward and I press my lips to his skin.
His ragged exhalation is beautiful, lifting my eyes to his face. It’s tilted up to the ceiling in a silent prayer.
I place shy, delicate kisses across his stomach, exploring my own boundaries as much as his. I’ve never put my lips on a man before. I’ve fantasized about it, but of course have never done it for real. He tastes sweet and salty and musky, and like everything and more than I’d imagined.
His hands are by his sides and I curl my fingers into them, holding on and coaxing him as I litter his skin with licks and kisses.
Slowly drawing his hands toward me, I press them to my breasts the way he pressed my palms to his chest. I feel his gaze lower and a growl start up in the base of his lungs.
I’m challenging every cell in his body, and adoring it.
His gaze lands on my breasts as though he’s touching some rare, precious jewel. I could get addicted to the look on his face.
Slowly, he coasts his fingers over the fabric, finding my nipples already peaked. He rubs his thumbs over them lightly, drawing little gasps from my throat. An electric current sizzles beneath my skin. This is what I’ve been dreaming about, and it’s finally happening.
He shakes his head like he’s both exasperated and in deep shit. Then he hooks his fingers over the neckline of my dress and pulls it down. Unhindered by a bra, my breasts fall out over the lowered fabric and his expression changes.
He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and flicks his gaze to me once. I nod nervously.