Ricardo
Chapter Sixteen
The storm has lightened now.
Rain still taps against the windows, steady and persistent, but the violence has gone out of it.
The thunder has moved farther away, rolling low in the distance instead of cracking over the roof.
The fire has burned down to a deep orange glow, throwing light across Julia’s skin, across the curve of her shoulder, across the red of her hair where it spills over my arm.
She is boneless against me. Completely spent.
Her cheek rests against my chest, her breath warm against my skin, one hand curled loosely near my heart. Her body is draped over mine as if this is where she landed, and she is unable to move.
This, I do not mind.
I do not move.
I do not even breathe too deeply.
I am content to lie here with her on the blankets in front of my fire, my arms around her, my body still feeling exactly what just happened.
There are pillows beneath my shoulders, a blanket half-tangled around our legs, her hair across my mouth, and I have no desire to change a single thing about it.
For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I am content where I am.
No phone in my hand. No numbers running through my head. No deals. No threats. No family business. No invisible line of risk and consequence I am measuring three moves ahead.
Only Julia.
Warm and soft in my arms.
I look down at her face. Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against her cheeks.
Her lips are swollen from my mouth. There is a faint flush still lingering across her skin, softer now, but unmistakable.
I remember the way she looked above me. The way she took what she wanted because I told her she could, and then because she believed it herself.
My hand moves slowly over her back, stroking her creamy skin softly.
Her breathing stays even, and I think she may have fallen asleep.
The thought brings a smile to my mouth.
Let her sleep.
Let her body learn that pleasure does not have to be followed by withdrawal. Let her sleep with a man’s arms around her and wake without regret. Let her have this, even if she does not yet understand what it means to me.
I press my lips lightly to her hair.
She shifts.
Her hand flexes against my chest.
“I can move in a minute,” she murmurs.
I look down at her. “Over my dead body.”
“That's exactly what I feel like,” she says.
I let out a quiet chuckle. “I thought you were asleep.”
“No. Just mostly dead, I think.”
Her voice is hoarse but sleepy and satisfied. It does something primitive to me, hearing her like that.
“Just resting your eyes?” I tease.
She tilts her face enough to look up at me. “That sounded judgmental.”
“It was affectionate.”
Her mouth curves, faint and tired. “Your affection sounds a lot like judgment.”
“I am multi-talented.”
“I noticed.”
My hand pauses on her back, and I let out a laugh.
She seems to realize what she said then, because color moves into her cheeks again. Even now. After everything. After I have had my mouth on every intimate part of her. After I have watched her come apart in my arms. She can still blush over a simple admission.
“That's not what I meant,” she said. “I'm too tired to deal with you and your male ego.”
“You should be too tired for arguments as well, but here we are.”
A soft sound escapes her, almost like a laugh, but she lowers her cheek back to my chest.
The silence stretches between us, comfortable at first, then something changes. I have a feeling I know what it is, but I wait for her to come to me.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
The rain keeps falling. The fire breathes heat into the room. Her body grows heavier against mine again, but I know better now than to assume she has drifted off this time. There is something on her mind, and she needs to get it out.
Finally, after a few minutes, she says, “Ricardo?”
“Yes?”
“Was this…”
Her voice falters.
I stroke my hand over her hair. “Was this what?”
She lifts her head, and there is vulnerability in her eyes again.
“Was this what you expected?”
The question threatens that same anger again, but this time, I keep it firmly away. There's been enough of that tonight.
I settle for honesty.
“No.”
She stiffens.
I cup her cheek before she can misunderstand me. “It was more.”
Her eyes soften.
Her fingers curl against my ribs. “Yeah?”
“Much more,” I assure her.
I bend and kiss her softly. There is no urgency in it now, only the deep, lingering taste of what has already been given and what has not yet been said.
When I pull back, she is watching me in a way that makes me feel exposed.
“What?” I ask.
She studies my face. “You look different.”
“I am not typically naked on a rug.”
Her mouth twitches. “That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
She waits for the rest.
I should deflect. I should give her a safer answer. I should remember every reason this is complicated.
Instead, I touch her hair, letting the strands slide through my fingers.
“I feel different,” I say.
Her eyes search mine.
I do not explain more than that. I am not ready to put a name to the thing opening in me. I am old enough to know that some truths become more dangerous once spoken, and this one is already dangerous enough.
Julia seems to understand anyway.
She lowers her head back to my chest, and her hand settles over my heart again.
“Me too,” she whispers.
I close my arms around her.
Outside, the storm keeps moving away. Inside, the house is quiet around us. Somewhere beyond this room, there will be consequences. Morning. Work. Mario. Dante. Every reason we should have been sensible and stayed far away from each other.
None of it touches us tonight.
Here, there is only the fire, the rain, and Julia in my arms.
For tonight, that is enough.
More than enough.