46. Allie #2
“No. You don’t get to move me on your whim.“ My voice climbs, and my hands flail because what even is this conversation? “What happens when I have my period, Rico? Do I then get exiled back to my room because I’m temporarily useless to your plan?”
I expect a flinch. A grimace. Hell, maybe even a blush. Something.
“You’ll still sleep downstairs. Until you’re pregnant.”
“But you hate sharing a bed! You lie there counting down the seconds until I leave!”
“I’ll manage.”
“Oh, screw you, Rico!” I snatch my wine glass back from him. “You want a baby? You know where to find me.”
With that, I spin on my heel and storm into my bedroom, slamming the door with a theatrical flair. My wine sloshes over the rim, pooling onto the nightstand. Perfect.
Before I can even grab a towel, the door bursts open, and I’m airborne.
“What the actual—Rico!”
He throws me over his shoulder.
“I gave you the option to walk.” He hauls me down the hallway, through the kitchen, and toward his bedroom.
I beat my fists against his back. Kick my legs. Scream colorful threats about his future as a eunuch.
He doesn’t care.
The bastard tightens his grip around my thighs, effortlessly carrying me through the house.
It’s infuriating.
It’s degrading.
And I’m turned on.
What kind of pathetic gremlin enjoys being manhandled like a 140-pound sack of flour?
Me. Apparently, me.
He doesn’t stop until we’re in his room, where he effortlessly tosses me onto the massive king-sized bed. The mattress bounces beneath me, and I sit there, wide-eyed, absolutely dumbfounded.
For the first time in my entire life, I have no words.
Then my eyes land on the nightstand.
My book and my lavender lotion are sitting neatly on top.
Oh. Hell. No.
“Are you insane?” My voice is a high-pitched squeal of disbelief.
Rico shrugs as if he just moved a throw pillow and not his wife. “Likely.”
Then he strolls into the bathroom and slams the door shut, and seconds later, I hear the shower turn on.
“I can just grab my shit and leave, you know!” I holler after him.
Water sloshes. He’s in the shower now, and his voice carries over the stream, completely unbothered.
“I will carry you back.”
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, stomping over to my side of his bed and flipping on my new lamp out of spite. Fine. If he wants me here, I’ll make sure I’m comfortable.
I plop down dramatically and crack open my book, pretending to read while my heart pounds in my chest.
Then the shower turns off.
And suddenly, reading is impossible.
Because now I can hear him moving around in the bathroom.
And now I know that in approximately thirty seconds, he’s going to walk out dripping in steam, the embodiment of a scented candle ad coming to life.
Don’t look, Allie. Be strong.
The bathroom door swings open.
I look.
And regret everything.
Rico walks out, steam swirling behind him, his dark hair wet and slicked back, small droplets still clinging to his jaw. He’s in sweatpants and a cotton shirt, and I hate myself for finding it attractive.
Focus, Allie. He’s an asshole. A manipulative, emotionally stunted, bed-rearranging asshole.
“I’m reading,” I blurt, jabbing a finger at my book, hoping he doesn’t notice that I haven’t actually turned a page.
He doesn’t say a word—shocking—but walks right to my side of the bed.
And suddenly, my stomach is full of butterflies. Not those sweet kinds, but the kind ready to fist fight their way to a grand exit.
He infuriates me. He confuses me. He makes me feel worthless one second, and then the next, he just exists within five feet of me and my body practically screams I’m yours, sir.
I hate him.
And I really hate that I don’t.
I do my absolute best to ignore him, which is a Herculean effort, considering he exists in my general vicinity. But when I see him casually pluck my lotion off the nightstand, followed by my book from my hands—only to toss it onto the table—my restraint goes up in flames.
“Hey!”
Does he acknowledge me? Nope. That would require effort. Instead, he flips the lotion cap open, squeezes a generous amount into his palm, and—without so much as a warning—yanks the covers back and frowns at my pajama pants.
“What are those?”
I blink. “Pajamas. You wear sweats.” I gesture dramatically to Exhibit A—aka his own pants—and instantly regret it, because now I can see Exhibit A in entirely too much detail.
My mouth goes dry.
There is a perfect outline of his erection.
The instinct to suck my lower lip into my mouth is strong, but I fight it. Sort of. Okay, not well at all. Fine, I fail.
His gaze flicks to my pants again, and he mutters something opaque before climbing onto the bed and straddling me.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he snatches my wrist and starts rubbing lotion into my arm. His hands are methodical, and—unfortunately—strong enough to make me whimper in pleasure like an unhinged lunatic.
He moves to my other arm, massaging the lotion into my skin before casually reaching for the bottle again. And that is when I realize my mistake.
Rico doesn’t apply lotion.
Rico plans.
And my pajama pants are apparently his next target.
I open my mouth to protest, but the bastard yanks them down before I can so much as inhale, pulling me down the bed with him. I gasp, the cold air nipping at my legs, goosebumps instantly prickling my skin.
“Rico!”
Nothing. His entire focus is on my legs.
He rubs more lotion between his hands, then—without hesitation—presses his fingers into my sore calves, rubbing slow, deep circles into the muscle.
It’s not sexual.
I mean, I am turned on, obviously. Tragically so. But he is not performing some grand seduction. His hands don’t linger in places they shouldn’t. He’s simply massaging as if this is normal and rubbing lotion into my skin is some nightly husbandly duty he’s always done when I get home from work.
And that’s what makes it worse.
Because it feels good.
So good that a groan slips out before I can stop it.
Damn traitorous calves.
How the hell does he even know where I’m sore? Did he Google it? Did someone snitch?
By the time he’s finished, I am a wreck. Not in a sexy, just-ravaged kind of way. More of a what-the-hell-just-happened-and-why-am-I-tingly kind of way.
Rico sets the lotion back on the nightstand, flicks off the light, and just… sits there. In the dark.
For a full minute, the only sound in the room is my breathing.
Then, finally, his voice breaks the silence.
“You owe me.”
“I owe you? If you think I owe you sex just because I’m in your bed like some whore, you’re—“
“You are not a whore.”
His voice raises, barely, but it was enough to notice.
I blink up at him, surprised. “You moved me into your room so you could ensure a convenient pregnancy schedule, Rico. I don’t exactly feel as if I’m an honored guest here.”
“You owe me a secret.”
I pause. “Wait… what?”
“I’ve given several. You, none.”
So he noticed.
I chew on my lower lip. “Can I think about it?”
“No.”
God, he’s insufferable.
My mind scrambles. What can I tell him? What’s safe to share? Why does this feel monumental when it’s really just exchanging random facts?
Then, it comes to me.
“You weren’t my first kiss.”
The words spill out before I can reconsider.
“But,“ I add quickly, “I’ve only been kissed once before you.” If you can even call what happened a kiss.
Silence.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His entire body freezes.
“Rico?” I whisper.
Nothing.
I can feel his breath on my skin, warm and steady, but he stays perfectly still.
Maybe that wasn’t the right secret to share.
Or maybe… maybe he cares more than he lets on.