Chapter 34 #2
He leads me to the blanket, all casual, starts unpacking the basket like he hasn’t just detonated my entire nervous system.
I sit, cross-legged, reach for a strawberry, and bite it so I have something to do besides spiral.
“My mother used to say I was too much,” I blurt, because trauma waits for no polite segue. “That wanting things, attention, affection, a goddamn sandwich, made me exhausting. Made me hard to love.”
“Your mother was wrong.”
“Yeah, I know that. Now.” I stare at the food like it’ll save me. “But sometimes, when someone gives me things, I hear her voice. Saying I don’t deserve it. That I should want less.”
He drops the cheese, turns to me fully, dangerous move, because his eyes go straight for my soul. “Look at me.”
I do. I wish I didn’t. It’s too much.
“You’re not too much. Never have been. The only problem was people too small to meet you.” He leans in, voice like velvet over knives. “I’m not them. I spent months wanting to give you things and chickening out. Let me make it up to you. Please.”
A tear escapes. I swipe at it, snorting out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, I’m crying over a picnic. Who does that? Am I broken, or just really, really horny for brie?”
He laughs. “It’s not about the picnic.”
“I know.” I breathe in. Out. Let myself settle. “Fine. Yes. Spoil me. But if I get used to this, you’re stuck with me.”
“Deal.”
“But mostly I’m saying yes because that cheese looks illegal and I want to know if it’s as good as it looks.”
He hands me the cheese like it’s a sacred offering. I eat it, grinning, let myself be spoiled, let him see me soft. Just this once.
And in the back of my head, I think: this mess, this joy, this goddamn perfect picnic is what I nearly missed.
Subtle is for people who’ve never met Dario Marchetti.
The minute we roll up to the hotel, my jaw hits the parking lot. This place is not ‘hey, we’re just here for a quick bang and continental breakfast.’ This is ‘I own half the world and the other half owes me money’ territory.
We step into the lobby and it’s all high ceilings, a fireplace the size of my last apartment, and windows so big you could drive a car through them and nobody would even flinch. I stop cold, trying not to drool.
“Dario,” I hiss, like maybe if I whisper he’ll turn the volume down on all this splendor.
He does not. He just smirks. “Yes?”
“This is.” I wave at the lobby, at the view, at my sense of reality that’s slipping its leash.
He nods, smug as ever. “I know.”
“When you said you had a room, I thought.” I trail off, eyeing the elevator. “What floor are we even on?”
“Top.”
Of fucking course. “You know, if this is your version of understated, I can’t wait to see what you do when you’re actually trying to show off.”
He laughs, hits the elevator button, and somehow manages to make that look like foreplay.
The suite… holy shit, the suite. Leather couches, a fireplace, a bed the size of my existential dread. The bathroom is marble and glass and, oh, look, there’s a tub that could double as a pool for a family of five.
I freeze, point. “Is that a spa tub? Please tell me that’s a spa tub and not, like, a tiny baptismal font for the world’s fanciest cult.”
“It is.”
“Dario.” I turn on him, almost accusatory. “This is.”
He tilts his head. “Too much?”
I shake mine, because words have failed me. “I was gonna say ‘incredible,’ but yeah. It’s too much. You’ve singlehandedly ruined me for every hotel I’ll ever see again.”
He’s practically preening. “Good.”
He disappears into the bathroom and I follow, because what the hell else am I going to do? He’s already got the water running, fiddling with temperature like he’s Goldilocks and I’m the porridge.
“What are you doing?” I ask, arms crossed, trying not to look too eager.
“Running you a bath.”
“I can run my own bath, you know.”
He glances over. “You can. But you’re not going to.”
I glare, but not really. “You’re so fucking bossy.”
He doesn’t even blink. “You said that this morning.”
“And I meant it. Repeatedly. Out loud.” I lean against the doorframe, watching him add something fancy to the water. Oils or potions or mobster tears.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right? Any of it. The gifts, the hike, this entire real housewives fantasy suite. I’d have been happy just…” I wave, suddenly embarrassed, “I dunno, existing in the same room as you.”
He faces me, something raw flickering behind all that control. “I know. But I want to. So please. Let me spoil the hell out of you.”
I stand there, feeling more naked than if I’d already gotten in the tub. But I let myself have it, have him, have this.
I cross to him, grab his shirt, and kiss him, soft, deep, grateful.
“Okay,” I whisper against his mouth, “but if you start washing my hair, I might never leave.”
The water is hot enough to fog the mirrors and scald the day off my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat crawling up my body where Dario’s leg brushes mine under the surface.
We start out at opposite ends of the tub, trying to act like civilized adults. He’s got his elbows on the porcelain, pretending to be comfortable. I’m busy pretending not to stare at the way the candlelight slicks across his chest. We talk. Or we try. The words run out fast.
Eventually, my foot finds his calf. Accidentally.
He shoots me a look, hungry, warning, a little lost. My pulse thuds. I do it again.
That’s all it takes. He grabs my ankle, thumb dragging lazy circles, and suddenly I am migrating, awkward, grinning, across the tub.
Knees sliding around his hips, thighs on either side, water sloshing everywhere, and now I’m in his lap, exactly where I’ve wanted to be since the fucking dawn of time.
My hands on his chest. His hands on my waist, squeezing.
“Stevie,” he rasps, voice cracked open.
I lean in, kiss his jaw, his throat. “I know. I know. Me too.”
I want to fuck him here. In this stupid, glorious spa tub, with steam on my skin and his cock hard against me. I want to lose myself and make him forget his own name.
But he doesn’t move. Not the way I want. He just holds me, eyes heavy, control slipping but not breaking.
“Dario.” My voice is all need, all ache.
He shakes his head, lips barely brushing mine. “Not yet.”
I rear back, confused. “What?”
He kisses me, forehead, cheek, corner of my mouth, everywhere but where I want him. “I want you. God, Stevie, I want you so bad. But not like this.”
“Why the hell not?” I snap, frustrated, rolling my hips just to watch him break.
He groans, hands on my face, holding me together when I want to fall apart.
“Because I’ve screwed up everything with you.
Letters instead of words. Space instead of skin.
The first time… Jesus, we were half-dressed and half-mad, I barely remembered to breathe.
I’m not fucking this up too. You deserve more than a quick fuck in a hotel tub because I lost my mind. ”
“It’s not rushing if we both want it,” I bite out, but even I can hear the tremble in my voice.
“It’s not about what we want. It’s about what this is.” He traces my bottom lip with his thumb, all slow, all reverence. “You deserve to be worshipped. I want to savor you, not devour you in a bath because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.”
My breath stutters. I want to crack a joke but my heart’s too full. “That’s, fuck, that’s so romantic I might punch you.”
He grins, savage. “I’m a romantic criminal.”
I grind down once, just to feel him twitch. “You better make good on that tomorrow.”
He grabs my hips, rocks me against him, once, twice, enough to make me gasp and see stars. “Tomorrow I’m going to take my time. I’m going to learn every inch of you. I want your body wrecked, your mind blank, and my name the only thing you remember.”
I laugh, hoarse and hungry. “That’s a big promise for a man currently blue-balled in a bathtub.”
He kisses me, slow, deep, a claiming, like he can taste forever in my mouth. “It’s not a promise. It’s gospel.”
“Yeah?” I nuzzle into his neck, teeth grazing his pulse. “Guess I’ll just have to test your faith.”
We stay there until the water chills and our skin prunes. He wraps me in a robe and scoops me up, bridal-style, to the bed.
He holds me close, my face smashed against his chest, his heartbeat jackhammering under my ear.
I fall asleep tangled in him, every muscle melted, still wanting more, knowing tomorrow he’s going to make good.