Chapter Fourteen #4
“I’m fine,” I say, but there’s enough edge in my voice that Benito doesn’t let me off so easy.
“Izzy. . .”
An involuntary groan leaps out of my throat like it’s been hiding there ever since the infuriating aforementioned altercation with Don the coglione.
Benito watches me. He’s waiting to see if there’s more, but there’s not.
The five stages of grief for my dead dream have run through me and I now have no choice but to get comfortable with the fact that it’s gone.
I take a deep breath. “All I ever wanted my whole life was to be in Congress. To be a person who can make the world better for the next generation. Every school election, every AP History test, every volunteer opportunity—it was all a chance to prove that my dream was what I was supposed to do.” I crack the knuckles on my right hand as I continue, “But you can never really know for sure if it’s right, you know?
You can never really be sure if you’re good at the thing you want to be good at.
And there were little victories, little moments that validated that I was on the right path, but I was never certain I was good at it.
I never felt worthy of any of the progress I ever made.
“And then I lost. I lost after my first term in a humiliating way, and it was like the other shoe finally dropped. It was like I was waiting for someone to say ‘No, you’re not good at the thing you’ve always wanted to do.
You should stop.’ And then a whole district of people did.
And I knew for sure it was true. So I stopped. ”
I look back to the lake and up at the night sky.
I allow myself to feel dwarfed by the infinite wall of stars.
My father used to let me look out his telescope while he pointed out the constellations.
“There are more planets out there than we can even fathom, Iz,” he used to say.
“And yet you were picked for this one.” How insignificant destiny feels now.
Benito turns to me and brushes a hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. He keeps his hand on the side of my face and I lean into it. A light flickers inside the house and he pulls away. “But you did it. You had a dream and it came true. You made it true.”
“Not the whole dream,” I blurt. My skin prickles, my nerves on high alert—I haven’t let myself think about this at all since I lost.
“No?” Benito scans my face. “What else?”
“I wanted—” I think back to the moment my initial election was called in my favor.
I saw it all ahead of me: a decade or two in Congress, a run for Senate, and then finally, after years of proving myself, I’d set my sights on the White House.
“President,” I say, and the words sound so childish coming out of my mouth.
Like something a third-grader says when asked what she wants to be when she grows up, not an actual career goal for an adult woman to actively pursue.
“I wanted to be president. That was the dream. That was the whole dream.”
I exhale as Benito takes it in. I can barely stand to meet his eyes.
President. It all felt so possible not even a year ago, and now it sounds completely ridiculous.
I steady myself on the fence’s railing, still caught off-balance by how quickly life can change.
“It sounds so stupid to say it out loud,” I say.
Benito shakes his head. “No.” He reassuringly pats his hand to my shoulder. “It doesn’t. Not at all.”
“It’s ok,” I say. “I know it’s not happening. It’s the one thing I was working toward my entire life, but now that life is over because I failed at the first real test. I’m a failure.”
“No, Izzy,” Benito starts. “You can’t really think one setback defines you. You are so much more than a single failure.”
“Am I, though?” I shake my head. “If you ask anyone to distill Isabella Rhodes into one sentence, what do you think they’ll list?
My accomplishments, or my loss and my scandal?
That’s why I came here. I had to come here because my name’s become synonymous with weakness at home.
I know now I’ll never be president, and I can’t be around the constant reminders of the version of myself who thought that was possible.
I can’t live like that. Even if it means I fade into nothingness. That has to be better.”
Benito takes it in. He thought we were so alike in coming back to La Musa after a personal crisis, but while his reasons were saintlike, mine were selfish—a vengeful need to give up on the people I wanted to help because they gave up on me.
“That’s not what I’d say,” he finally says.
“What do you mean?”
“You said that’s how anyone would distill Isabella Rhodes into one sentence, but that’s not what I’d say.” He shifts from one foot to another, glancing back at the house nervously.
I’m scared to know the answer if I ask the question, but I have to hear it. “What would you say, then?”
He takes a step closer to me, filling in all but the last few gasps of air between us.
“Isabella Rhodes is. . . brilliant but not in a normal way. She’s brilliant in a sharp, cunning, witty, kind of scary at times way that’s able to make your whole world come into focus, that makes you wonder how you ever lived a second of your life anywhere but in her presence.
” He looks back at the house for a moment but seems to make a decision internally.
He takes my hand and intertwines my fingers with his.
I cock my head at him. “Huh. I thought you were going to say ‘Isabella Rhodes is very pretty.’”
He pulls me closer so there’s no more gap. Our bodies pressed together like they need each other to breathe. “Oh, she has that covered too. Believe me.”
A flurry of butterflies free themselves from my gut, taking over my entire body with a pleasant fluttering.
Benito trades my hand for a strong grip on my waist. He waits for me to protest, and when I don’t, he uses his free hand to gently tilt my chin upward, giving me one last look before leaning in.
His lips meet mine with a gentle graze but soon the tempestuous tension that’s been percolating between us gives way to a vigorous need to be one.
He slides his tongue into my mouth with ease and I exchange it for mine, taking my hands to either side of his head and running my left hand through his hair like he’s done so many times.
His hand makes the journey from my chin down my neck, my shoulders, my side, finally landing on a tender spot in the dip between my ribs and my hips.
The thin satin of my pajamas is not too thick a barrier for me to let out the softest of moans.
As if the sound startled him, he pulls away, looking back to the house. “We shouldn’t do this here,” he says, and my heart falls.
“Right.” I pull my robe across my chest. It’s not an ideal setting what with Sutton roaming the halls, Raffaello looming, the aforementioned Natalia, and the yet-to-be-delivered fresh towels.
Although based on how his eyes are fixed on my chest and the modicum of cleavage the robe allows for has me second-guessing how strong his resistance actually is.
His lips curl into a devilish grin. “I should show you back to your room, don’t you think? Wouldn’t want you to get lost in this big house.”
My heartbeat quickens. “Yes, it’s far. You should definitely accompany me. For safety.”
Benito nods slowly. “In case Marco Polo’s ghost shows up.”
I smile. “Exactly.”
The walk back to my room takes forever as we tiptoe through the house. It’s dead quiet, and once we get to my door, I open it slowly, praying the creaking sound won’t wake up Giac across the hall. Benito follows me without question, and I quickly close us in.
He doesn’t wait another second before pulling me into his embrace, his lips back on mine like he’s drowning and needs them for air. I pull away.
“What’s wrong?” He bites the corner of his lip and smiles. “The walls are thick, don’t worry.”
I scrunch my face up because he really is so adorable, and I can’t believe I’m about to ruin the mood with my overall anxiety around intimacy. “I don’t really. . .” I rub my hands together. “It’s um, it’s been a while.”
He cocks his head at me, trying to understand, but his smile returns as he gets it. “That’s ok.”
“No, I mean. . .” I struggle with whether or not to let the words escape from me, but ultimately honesty wins the battle. “That day in the rain. . . that was the first time I’ve even kissed anyone in years.” It’s so humiliating and yet I continue, “The last time was with. . .” I trail off.
“And you’re feeling nervous?” he asks.
“No. . .” I take a deep breath. “I’m feeling rusty.”
He laughs instinctively, then covers his mouth to stifle the sound.
I put my hands on my hips and he leans in, stroking both my upper arms. “How ’bout, just this once,” he says, “you let someone else take the lead.”
I look into his eyes, trying to decide if I can do this, but I don’t really need any convincing.
It’s Benito. My body, my heart—they’ve already made the choice, and my head is outvoted no matter how hard it tries to overthink.
He kisses me again and the butterflies do a series of flips in celebration, a victory lap for their host body finally getting the hint.
My fingers quickly find their way back to his hair, as if to put down an anchor and declare they’re not letting go again.
He pushes me against the wall, his hands gripping at my waist and then fiddling with the tie of my robe, eventually getting it loose and sliding it off my shoulders.
He lays a trail of kisses down my neck and across my collarbone.
“You’re perfect, Izzy,” he says breathlessly. “You’re so perfect.”
I pull at his shirt collar because as close as he is, I want him nearer.
His body is like a blanket on top of mine and yet, I want to be warmer.
I slip out from against the wall and lead him to the bed.
Waiting for no invitation, he gently lowers me down onto it and crawls on top of me.
His cheekbones are sharper from this angle, his eyes somehow brighter.
“You are so beautiful,” I say. My cheeks flush, but it’s true.
Handsome is not strong enough. Cute fails to capture it. He is stunning. He is beautiful.
He strokes my cheek. “Hey, that’s supposed to be my line.”
“I’m serious,” I say as I start to undo the buttons on his shirt. “Since the moment I saw you and every moment since, I’ve been struck by you.” The tops of his abs show through the opened center of his shirt, and I trace their outline with my fingertips. “You’re beautiful. Inside and out.”
His lips are quickly back on mine as his hands roam up my pajama top. He pauses briefly as he reaches the edge of my breast but then decides to dive in, moving his hands over me. He presses his pelvis against mine and I can feel I’m not alone with record-breaking levels of stirring between my legs.
I push at his shirt until he takes the hint and lets it fall to the floor.
He lifts the edges of my tank top and I sit up to help it over my head, exposing my bare chest. Any shame that threatens to set in over my nakedness is thwarted when he lets out an exasperated sigh.
Never have my B-cups elicited such a reaction.
“I know I should talk about how I’m attracted to your brain, your beauty even, but damn it you’re so sexy it drives me wild,” he says, planting a luxurious kiss on the side of my neck.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him back on top of me. His hands find their way up my torso. I moan. More, I need more.
He takes the hint, lowering his head between my legs and pulling down my shorts.
I take a quick moment of appreciation for having the foresight to put on my cute peach lace underwear this morning.
He starts another trail of kisses up my inner right thigh, using his hands to lightly massage the flesh of my legs.
He stops short of reaching for the top of my underwear and looks up at me for approval.
“Yes,” I beg. “Please.”
I help him pull my underwear down over my legs and he dives back in, parting my legs and letting his tongue find the right spot between them.
Satisfaction washes over me as he moves in circles around me, like an itch that I’ve needed to scratch for weeks.
A hand finds its way up my body and latches on to my left breast as he continues.
Another long moan makes its way out of me from deep in my gut.
Taking the note, he continues, pressing his tongue even harder onto me, rhythmically moving up and down. The tingling that’s threatened to take over every time I’m close to him erupts throughout my every vein, shooting euphoric pleasure to every corner of my body.
A groan leaps from my throat. “Oh my god,” I say, breathlessly. “More,” I hear myself say, though I’m pretty sure I’m floating three feet above my body. “I need more of you.”
Benito lifts his head, climbing back on top of me, kissing the tender spot between my collarbone and the base of my neck.
I fumble with the buttons on his pants; he takes the note and pushes them down his hips.
I reach for him through his boxer briefs and he moans.
He nods toward the nightstand. “Condoms. There should be condoms in there.” He starts to reach for the top drawer but looks back at me. “Should I—?”
“Yes,” I say, deciding I don’t want to know why he knows where all the condoms are stashed in the house at this exact moment. “Obviously.”
He grins. Once he’s situated, he eases himself into me and I run my hands through his hair.
I’ve fantasized about this moment so many times that I feel the need to take stock of my surroundings to convince myself it’s really happening.
The softness of his hair against my fingertips, the edges of his legs flush with mine, the heat of his body like a blanket over me, the squeezes of pleasure pulsating deep inside me. It’s real. He’s real.
Benito stops suddenly and locks eyes with me. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
He plants a delicate kiss on my lips. “No,” he says, and it sounds like relief. “Nothing is wrong.”