Chapter 9 – POSY #8
I’ve spent hours on wedding sites on the internet, wasting time and daydreaming like a girl doodling her crush’s last name in a notebook. I know the four “Cs” of cut, clarity, color, and carat, and this ring is ridiculous.
In the back of my mind, my last brain cell points out it won’t be easy to hock. The rest of me is entranced, floating from arousal to whatever magical mystery land I’ve stumbled into now. Handsome princes, diamonds, dreams made real.
Dario slips the ring on my finger. It actually has heft.
His eyes are caught like mine, marveling. Does this feel as surreal to him as it does to me? It should mean nothing at all, a gesture as empty as all the bouquets and jewelry Carolyn ordered, but somehow, the moment shines.
“Did you pick it yourself?”
He nods. “I told them I wanted a big one.”
A giddy laugh flies from my lips. “They sure delivered.”
“Do you like it?”
I hold up my hand, rotating my wrist until the lamplight catches the stone and it glitters. Do I like it? It shouldn’t be a hard question. It’s a beautiful ring. It’s my ticket out of here.
I’m cooling off by the second now, my brain coming back online, anxiety and memory grinding back into motion like rusty gears.
There’s an aftertaste of heartbreak in my mouth.
Before everything fell apart, this ring would have been everything I’d dreamed of since I was a girl.
I would have screeched yes at the top of my lungs.
Thrown my arms around him. Overdosed on my delusion.
His eyes are narrowing. He’s waiting for me to say something.
“You bought it in New York?” I ask, even though I know.
“Before Christmas.”
“But you didn’t give it to me.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“To be sure,” he says.
“Guess you were happy you waited when you got that video.” I force a laugh.
“No. That’s when I knew I should have done it sooner. When you moved in. You wouldn’t have fucked around if you had a ring. That’s what you wanted.”
“I didn’t fuck around.”
“I know that now.”
“But you thought I could.”
“Of course you could. You want what I can’t give you.”
Love. Neither of us say it. It’s obvious, isn’t it? My history with men. My willful blindness with him.
“I wouldn’t have cheated on you.” I’m not that kind of girl. I’m the one who clings to the wreck as it sinks, not the one who jumps ship. Even with Frankie, I held on way past the point a normal woman would have lost the stars in her eyes.
He waves a hand. “I didn’t mean I was waiting to be sure about you. I meant sure that you’d say yes.”
“You know I would have.”
“The odds were good, but it wasn’t a sure thing.”
My brow crinkles, and I buy time by examining the glittering ring. This is all so intense. He’s so close. We’re so naked. And there’s no pretense between us. No polite fictions. The slut and the psychopath. The predator and his prey.
“Bullshit,” I finally sigh. “You read me like a book.”
“Sometimes.”
I raise my gaze to meet his. “Now?”
His lip quirks. “Yeah. You’re thinking about how you’re going to hock that ring and run.”
On instinct, I tuck my hand to my side, curling my fingers into a loose fist. His smile becomes bemused.
“It’s yours to keep, Posy, but that’s the wrong choice. If you’re not here, I can’t protect you.” There’s a glint in his eye that makes me think maybe he’d like that. If I ran, he could catch me again.
“If I’m here, I’m in danger.” On so many fronts. Renelli. Dario. My own crazy heart and utter inability to learn from my mistakes.
“I won’t let anything hurt you.”
“ You’ll hurt me.”
He lifts a sculpted shoulder ever so slightly. “You’ll survive.”
“What happens when you get tired of me? Do you throw me to Renelli, let him take out the trash?”
It’s a crazy question, a hundred percent hypothetical. I’m not going to be here to find out. But I want the words. Never. I want you. Everything will be okay .
And what’s wrong with me that I crave consolation and reassurance like an addict, like a love-starved, orphaned child? And I’m asking for it from Dario Volpe? It’s like asking for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a fish.
Still, I listen for his answer, rapt, my thin arms wrapped around my bare knees, shivering.
He runs his thumb over the ring. “I’ve been playing chess since I was four years old. I’m not tired of it yet.”
“So I’m a game to you?” It’s not an accusation; it’s a clarification.
“No, not a game. You’re the one.”
“Which one?”
“The only one in the world.” He slips his fingers down my shin and brushes lightly across the top of my foot, the merest dusting of a touch, as if I’m dangerously delicate, liable to crumble with any pressure at all. “Everyone else is a piece. A pawn, a knight, a king. Not you.”
I snort softly. “Let me guess. I’m the queen?”
“Nope. You’re the one on the other side of the board.” And then his eyes take on a wicked glint. “Spread these again.” He urges my knees apart. “Hands back on the headboard.”
“I didn’t say yes,” I point out, but I do what he says.
“I didn’t ask you anything.”
His gaze dips to my pussy, and instantly, I’m wet again, thrumming with want, as if time sped up, and I’m spinning, disoriented, rocked by a wave of want.
He shifts forward, braces over me, and watches as his fingers delve between my folds, find my clit, and circle slowly, careful not to touch the throbbing bud.
My stiff nipples brush his hard chest, and it feels so good, so I arch and do it again, raking my tits through his smattering of chest hair as I try to drop my knees lower, expose more of myself to his infuriatingly patient, methodical petting.
He’s doing exactly what I did in the car. Same tempo. Same everything. And he’s scrutinizing my face for my reaction. I’m panting, mouth open, laid out for him, losing myself like I never have before.
“Does this feel good?” He circles closer, rougher. Perfect.
“Yes,” I gasp.
His hands leave me to drag me flat, my grasp pulled loose from the headboard.
No . I was getting there, and with only his touch.
Then he’s up on his knees, and he’s notching the head of his cock inside me and stroking in, filling me, hot and hard, and his finger is back, circling, faster and faster. I moan.
“Do you need more?” he asks.
“Yes!” My nails scrabble at his chest, but he doesn’t come closer, he looms over me, sober and intent, watching his own cock as he drives into me, banging the spot deep inside that makes my inner thighs go completely weak.
I love this. I don’t want it to stop, but I’m hurtling towards release, my hands for once unoccupied, free to roam Dario’s tensed muscles, grip his powerful thighs as they rise with each thrust.
“You like this?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to come?”
“Yes!”
He flicks my clit and slams home, over and over. “Do it, Posy. Come on my cock. Do it now.”
And I do. I spasm, my stomach crunching without volition, and hot delicious pleasure spills through me in a rushing torrent, disconnecting body from mind.
I scream, my eyes screwed shut, held tight, an arm like a vise clutching me to a sweat-slick chest as Dario finishes inside me, pounding my pussy so hard my arms flop like a ragdoll.
I’m boneless, mind obliterated, squished under Dario’s heavy upper body as he gulps down air.
Now he’ll hop up. Check his phone. Maybe pat my haunch as he heads off for a shower. I keep my eyes closed so I can linger in this daze a little longer.
But he doesn’t bolt. He rolls onto his back, not touching me, but close. I can feel his heat radiating along my side. He’s still and quiet for a long moment. Another brittle piece of my heart cracks open.
“We’re going to get married, Posy. You’ll have my babies. You’ll be happy.” He pauses, pensive. “It’s what you wanted. Right?”
I don’t say anything.
He knows the answer’s yes.
Just like he has to know the answer is “no” now.
It would be insane to marry a man who hunted you down. Threw you in a trunk. Made you watch him almost beat a man to death. A woman who could do that could have no self-respect, no survival instinct at all.
To fall in love with a man like that?
It would be signing your own death warrant, wouldn’t it?