26. Brook
Baldo drags me through the streets back to his house. I stumble, trying to keep up, but I don’t slow him down.
He seems to be on a mission, and it’s sexy. Fuck, the boy I used to know was playful. This man is intense.
He’s hot and cold. Serious and playful. A man who, on his own terms, allows himself to come out to play, and then burns down the playground.
There are so many layers to him, and he isn’t willing to show many of them. Or to talk about any.
If I don’t count the confusing shows of affection, because I’m sure his caring gestures must mean something.
A car screeches to a halt as we barrel across a busy intersection. The air is infused with this hectic foreign city full of vibrant colors and smiling people.
“I love the city,” I pant.
I bump into the wall of muscles as he stops.
He looks at me and closes his eyes for a beat, before he exhales a heavy breath. “I’ll show you everything later. I’ve been a shitty host.”
“You made up for it last night. It’s our honeymoon, after all. Shouldn’t we stay in the room?” I tease, grinning.
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Right.”
He resumes his crusade through the hilly streets, but he’s slower, allowing me to take in the surroundings.
Occasionally he points at something, but otherwise we walk in silence.
I need to get him to talk before the tense energy pent up within him explodes—it might kill us both.
But if the time we spent together is any indication, Baldo Cassinetti keeps his thoughts close to himself and his emotions even closer, buried under the facade of a solemn exterior.
And if I learned anything this morning, those close to him respect him. It was obvious in the way Chloe spoke about him.
I like her. Even more now that I know she’s in a happy relationship.
We arrive at the club and take the back entrance to the elevator.
As soon as we step into the cabin, Baldo pins me against the wall and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “I need you.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, clinging to him and memorizing this moment.
I need you.The three words float through me, bleeding into every crevice of my soul, speeding up my pulse and spreading warmth in my chest.
I want to say something, but no words seem to match the intensity of emotions overwhelming me.
Last night we forged this new level of connection, and now everything is fresh and unchartered and so fucking fragile.
And it would be an adventure, but we’ve been there before, and it ended in misery.
Could we chance it again? Are we strong enough to survive?
And what about our family.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he urges, his chest heaving, his breath hot on my skin.
The shadow of vulnerability in his demand, the need to be reassured, cracks a dent in my heart, and I try my best to squash away the thoughts of my dad and sisters.
He skims my ribcage with one hand while he supports himself with the other on the wall above my head and grinds his pelvis against me.
I don’t know if his need is a replacement for words and feelings he should be expressing, or if it’s just the first stage of opening up.
I don’t know much about anything anymore, because his heat, his scent, his words, his touch… it all collides into that one urgent plea.
“I’m yours.” And right at this moment, I am.
Unapologetically.
Unequivocally.
Unreasonably.
The door to his apartment opens and we stumble out. Baldo grabs my ass and lifts me up. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I start unbuttoning his shirt.
I want to kiss him so badly, but this is not the time or place to cross that bridge. This is for him.
For the boy who waited for me.
For the boy who had been wondering for years why I never came.
For the man who learned last night that another one—a monster—took what was his.
So I’m not going to kiss him. I’m just going to remember how his lips felt on mine.
Because I still remember. Because even if Baldo Cassinetti never kisses me again, I’ll forever remember his kisses.
By the time we stumble to his bed, I’m yanking at his shirt, sliding it down his shoulders. He lays me on the mattress and lowers one knee beside me. He sheds the sleeves, dropping the shirt to the floor.
I undo my jeans and lift my hips. He yanks them off, along with my underwear.
I sit up to reach for his zipper, but he grabs my wrist and shakes his head.
“Baldo, I want to take care of you. You’ve done so much for me, and I want to reciprocate.”
He cups my cheeks and lowers his forehead to mine. There is a war waging in his eyes, but his features soften. “Then be a good girl and do as I say.”
His eyes flare with visceral need, and just the idea that he needs me to sate that hunger sets my heart to a gallop.
“Okay,” I whisper, and lie down, spreading my legs wide. “I’m yours,” I repeat, and he groans.
Staring between my thighs with so much admiration that it makes me shy, he puts his hands on my knees, applying slight pressure. My skin burns under his touch.
“So fucking beautiful, Brook. Your pussy is the prettiest thing in the world. And already glistening with need, you greedy girl.”
I cover my eyes with my forearms. I’m no prude, but his words bring heat to my cheeks.
But of course, he pries my arms away from my face immediately. “Don’t hide. You and your pussy are gorgeous.”
He takes his time kissing each knuckle of my hands. First one, then the other.
He’s kneeling between my legs, and I’m spread wide, on display, while he continues with his gentle routine of kissing my fingers. It’s weird and arousing at the same time.
The man puts me into the most vulnerable positions, and I always feel more empowered in them, loving every moment.
And most importantly, getting out of my head minute by minute. And that is so new and scary. Wonderfully scary.
Baldo reaches into his drawer and pulls out something. He sits back on his haunches, holding a bottle of lube and a fairly large dildo. Oh my.
He squirts the transparent gel on the toy and a soft humming noise fills the air. He looks at me and I shudder.
Settling his face between my thighs, he gets to work with a dedication that will kill me one day. And what a way to go.
“Hmmmm,” he hums. “You smell like me and sex.”
Fuck, I forgot I left in a hurry this morning. “I should have showered.” My legs jerk to close, but the man is relentless and pins them back down, spreading me even farther.
“Don’t you dare. Stay like this,” he commands. “Don’t move, my dirty girl.”
He swirls his tongue around my clit, while he nudges my opening with the vibrator.
What if I don’t come this time?
What if last night was one of a kind?
Maybe my body acted on recognition from before, and now it remembers how broken it is.
“Brook.”
I snap my eyes to him.
“Relax, baby. Let me take care of you.”
His statement is matter-of-fact, like he can read my mind and knows I’m overthinking. But fuck, my body is all tense, and I force myself to let up.
“That’s it.” He sucks on my clit for a moment and changes the setting on the toy. It vibrates at my opening, but he doesn’t move it any further.
I focus on relaxing, on wave after wave of pleasure, but I keep returning to my head. What’s wrong with me, goddammit?
I groan with frustration and Baldo chuckles. He fucking chuckles, completely unfazed by my struggle.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Such a good girl. You’ll get there.”
It might be a combination of his praise and the new action of his tongue when he circles and then moves it fast, pulsating, but I shudder, and the feeling building inside me gets so overwhelming, all thoughts leave my head.
My back arches, and Baldo moves his hand to my lower stomach and holds me down. He thrusts the dildo in slowly. He doesn’t move it, just lets it vibrate inside me.
“That’s it, baby, swallowing it like you would my cock.”
I don’t even recognize my body anymore. Tides of pleasure ripple through me, and I still don’t have enough, knowing this is just the prelude.
“Baldo, please,” I whimper.
“Since you asked so nicely.”
He shifts his weight and reaches to tweak my nipple through my T-shirt.
A glimpse of recognition that he respected my need to be covered hits me right in the chest, but there is no time to ponder it because an explosion rocks through me.
My body convulses, and I’m flying or falling or something as Baldo continues to lick me, prolonging the bliss.
I’m still riding it when he climbs up. “I need to be inside you.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, surprised I’m able to move.
Our eyes lock, but he reaches to the side. “Condom.”
I clamp my feet together. “No. I’m clear and on the shot.”
He studies me for a moment. “I’ve never…”
“Another first for us.”
The words formed in my head as playful, but once they’re out, the significance pulses through me.
“Are you sure?” he rasps, the struggle evident.
I nod, and he slides into me effortlessly.
Like he belongs. Like my body was made for him.
The thought immediately triggers the dread.
Because this level of belonging is painful.
I know from experience.
* * *
“Fuck, Brook,” he cries, and collapses beside me.
I bury my face in the pillow, coming down and dealing with all the emotions.
Well, we fucked. We fucked a lot this morning. But we still didn’t talk.
And now it’s even harder, because I feel like we need more than to talk about what my revelation did to him.
Now I feel like we need to talk about us. About what this all means. For us. And for our family.
Ironically, we’re on our fake honeymoon, but our relationship has never been this unclear. We either were or we weren’t. Now we’re lingering somewhere in between, and it feels in some ways harder than what was before.
“We should finally get you clean, dirty girl.” He swats at my ass.
“Yes, please.” I jump out of bed and pull the tee over my head.
I hesitate for a moment, but what the hell, I can’t hide any longer. I don’t want to hide any longer.
I turn in the doorway to the bathroom. “Are you coming?” I wiggle my hips.
Baldo rakes his eyes down my curves and swallows. “Are you sure?”
I bite my lower lip and crook my finger to beckon him to me. I’m showing more confidence than I feel.
Other men saw my scar, but they didn’t have a story to go with it. Or the story wasn’t in any way personal to them.
I mentioned the knife last night. I think I did, but it’s still unnerving to have him see it.
I walk into the cubicle and turn on the water. It’s a huge shower. I can dance on the white tiles around the glass walls.
While Baldo’s apartment is all dark wood and earthy accents, this bathroom is almost exclusively white, chrome and glass.
I sense him coming in, but he doesn’t step closer.
Submerging my head into the hot stream, I close my eyes.
With unwavering certainty, I know my maimed skin won’t repulse him. I also know I can’t hide it from him forever.
And yet, I’m frozen under practically scorching water because I want to delay the moment.
I don’t want to see his sympathy. Or even worse, his horror. It would break me all over again. And I’ve been mending those pieces of myself for years.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.”
His voice washes over me like a warm blanket. I didn’t even realize when he stepped closer. He’s not touching me, but I feel his presence in my every pore.
He reaches for shampoo, squirts some in his large hands. “Tilt your head.”
“You don’t have—”
“Hush.”
I lean against his solid body, and he massages my scalp and then lathers my hair. His hands draw a moan from me.
“Careful,” he warns, and I want to ask what he means, but then I feel his hardness between us and I chuckle.
Baldo twirls me around and washes the shampoo out of my hair. The air is filled with steam, and I’m feeling weak in my knees as he takes his time soaping my shoulders.
Hugging me to him, he does the same to my back, and then stepping only slightly back to clean my breasts and then—
Just sensing the ugly scar running from under my breast to my belly button under his fingertips, Baldo freezes.
I snap my eyes open. The lazy delight evaporates from the air as my gaze collides with his.
“Who did this to you?”
I sigh, but his mind is clouded with the brutality of his discovery.
“Who the fuck did this to you, Brook?” he demands, and then finally stills enough to read the answer in my eyes.
Understanding dawns on him quickly. But there is no sympathy or horror in his eyes. Compassion maybe, but mostly anger.
Fuck, I have had years to deal with my trauma.
I’ve done it while feeling sorry. I allowed myself to be angry. I hid from it all for several years.
I worked hard to channel my trauma into creating villains and plots that could swallow the darkness.
Baldo is discovering the gory details one day at a time, without much chance for reflection. Without even talking to me about it.
I know I can’t take responsibility for his ability to cope, but I still want to.
“Fuck.” He breathes heavily and grips his hair.
“It’s my fault, mostly. It was just a nick of a blade. I don’t think he even meant to use his knife.”
The words roll off my tongue faster than I can think. Like taking the blame, I can make this better. Easier for Baldo to accept it. “I didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad, and I neglected it and let it fester and it got infected—”
“Stop it!” He startles me. “None of this is your fault.” He steps back.
I know—hope—it’s not away from me, but rather away from the situation. And still I feel abandoned under the pelting water.
But the man who reigns over his control with a pathological precision once again tames the emotions, and looks at me with a reverence so unexpected, it takes my breath away.
Dropping to his knees, my fake husband who is yet to kiss my lips, kisses my marred skin with such devotion, that tears run down my face.