Chapter 18 #2
Cosimo looked at his thigh. Then at me. Then at the slow-motion avalanche of miniature dicks still tumbling from my purse, and something moved across his face. Amusement?
Among the cascade of male genitalia, a folded note fluttered out and landed near the gearshift.
“No—” I grasped for it, but Cosimo was faster.
He snatched it up one-handed and held it out of reach. I twisted toward him, half crawling over the console in my attempt to grab it back.
“Wait!” I gasped. I was almost certain it was from Zo, and God only knew what she’d written.
He trapped the note between his teeth, caught both my wrists before I could make another grab, and pinned them above my head against the seat with one hand. He pulled the note from his mouth, unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, and began to read aloud.
“Congratulations, bride-to-be. You’ve officially won a bag of dicks. Just kidding. Your real prize is hopefully the orgasm the Ice Prince will give you on your wedding night now that you’ve gotten him all worked up and ready to go with that little photo. Love and kisses, Zo.”
My chest heaved with frantic breaths. Kill me. Please, someone, just kill me.
He released my wrists and dropped the note into the console. The car filled with a silence so thick it seemed to press against my skin.
“I’m— I really—” I tried to find the rest of that sentence and couldn’t. “Um.”
“Eloquent.”
There were so many things to apologize for. The list itself was paralyzing. I glanced down at all the penises. “I’ll clean all of this up, I swear.”
“Is that what you call me? The Ice Prince?”
“No.” I shook my head. “She made that up.”
“Bold of her.”
“She’s like that. She gives everyone nicknames.” I could hear myself talking too fast. “It doesn’t mean—”
“I meant putting me on the hook for your prize.”
I went still. “You’re not. I mean, of course not. As discussed, we’re not doing that. No one’s giving anyone orgasms in this marriage.”
He drew his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip and placed his hands on the wheel. Without another word, he began to drive.
I bit my nails and tried to stay very still. Every time I moved, I felt one of the micropenises sliding under my thigh.
Awful. Just awful.
When we were almost at Rafe’s, I forced myself to be a grown-up. “I’m sorry, Cosimo. I was a mess tonight. Thanks for taking care of me.” He had. And not even as begrudgingly as I would’ve expected.
He didn’t respond. He just stared through the windshield as we drove through the gate and parked.
His silence was starting to freak me out. “Are you very mad?”
“What would I be mad about?”
“The photo, for a start?”
He considered this the way he seemed to consider most things—without urgency and without giving anything away.
“In my defense, we never discussed rules regarding pictures.”
“You wanna send me more?”
“That’s not— No.” My cheeks burned, along with the bewildering awareness that he might be flirting with me.
He cut the engine. “You’re right. We didn’t discuss photos. I’m not mad.”
“You’re not?”
He swiped his palm over the side of his jaw. “I think I’m developing an appreciation for photography.”
I stared at him, shocked. The air in the car sparked.
“Oh.” My voice came out higher than I intended.
“Turns out we didn’t discuss a lot of things.
” He reached across the console and wrapped his palm around my forearm.
His thumb brushed over the autographs I’d collected.
“Including things like this.” His eyes came up to mine.
“If you’re going to have any man’s name on you,” he said quietly, “it had better be mine.”
His words filled my stomach with a traitorous flock of butterflies.
A silvery glint caught my eye. There was a metallic pen in the console.
Maybe it was the tequila still humming in my bloodstream. Maybe it was the heat gathering in his gaze. Or maybe it was the way he’d handled me tonight—gently and considerately, out of character for a man who had once seemed incapable of being either.
Suddenly, I craved a different kind of thrill.
The pen felt cold and solid between my fingers as I picked it up and held it out to him. “Then write it.”
His gaze darkened. A second passed before he took it. His expression wasn’t so impartial anymore.
“Not here.” He released my arm and set his palm against my bare thigh.
My pulse skittered low inside my body.
Slowly, he drew my leg toward him. The hem of my skirt rode higher with the movement, but he didn’t stop there. He touched the tip of the pen to my thigh and traced it upward, guiding the fabric out of his way with maddening patience.
Finally, he paused. Another inch, and he would be able to see my panties.
Moving his hand in firm, unhurried strokes, he wrote out each letter.
BELONGS TO COSIMO FERRARO.
As he pressed in the period, the side of his hand brushed right over the apex of my thighs. Pleasure sparked at the point of contact, and I bit back a gasp that threatened to spill out.
He capped the pen and dropped it back into the console.
“There.” His voice was low.
I was so hot all over. Feverish.
His gaze was pitch-black as he lifted his thumb to the corner of my mouth and drew it across my lower lip—once, slowly, like he wanted to learn the shape of it and intended to remember it. “Get some sleep, Nettle. Maybe you’ll dream of your nice future husband.”
I did dream that night. But it wasn’t about a nice man with gentle hands and a shared passion for art history.
It was about a quiet scoff in a dark car, and two words I couldn’t stop turning over.
Opposites attract.