13. Sicily #3
My father had shown me, but I had not been a fast learner.
He had stopped showing me after a while.
The way my father had spoken to me had never made sense, and this had frustrated him endlessly.
His final straw had been when I was nine.
Brenno and Cesare had cried all night after he had broken two of their fingers each, and I had not slept to ensure I could console them.
He had asked me the next morning to amend Adriano’s father, Diego's car, and I had errored and caused a fault.
My father had struck me unconscious with his belt after that and had vowed not to allow me near another vehicle again, so I had taught myself and worked on smaller cars secretly. It provided me an escape, one that was well-needed from my father and even my mother at times.
I would certainly not harm Sicily if she made a mistake.
My wife nodded eagerly, and I stepped close behind her. Her breath hitched quietly at the proximity of our bodies, but it was me who paused as she backed into me, only slightly, but enough to press her spine against my chest. I did not seem to require removal at her contact, and neither did she.
She smelled of her rich, spicy perfume, but this time there was a mixture of scents combined with my cologne on the sweater. She smelled nice this way, and an unexpected surge of arousal forced me to think of Matteo Bonafede to ensure that I did not get hard.
It made me act differently, and I did not compute what I was doing as I grasped her hands in mine from behind, fusing our bodies tightly together.
Her skin was soft, pliable, and even with a hundred images of Bonafede playing through my mind, I could not control myself.
My cock pressed uncomfortably against my zipper and her, but she did not appear to notice, so I continued and attempted to distract myself.
An impossible task, it seemed.
My fingers guided hers to the car’s parts, and I brought my lips close to her ear as I said, “This controls the air intake. If you have too much, or too little, the engine will stutter.” I shifted her small fingers again.
“This is the butterfly valve. Gently open it, carefully.” She fumbled for a moment, but I held her palms steady, not allowing her to error. “Yes, just like that. Good.”
Sicily made a small, breathy sound in her throat as she leaned into my chest. She did not pry away, so I assumed that this was positive and continued, leading her to the spark plug wires. Her hands fought me slightly, perhaps subconsciously, because she was uncertain around me.
“These carry ignition to the cylinders. They have to function in a perfect sequence.” I kept my voice low.
“Reminds me of you,” she said lightly, as if her voice was a bubble personified.
My lips twitched wider. “That makes sense, yes.” I pressed her fingers against them harder. “You can feel, in order to know if any are loose or too tight to function.”
Sicily did as she was instructed and felt the wires, but her fingers soon disobeyed, and I was aware of them skating over my own hand, fingers, and wrists.
Typically, this was not a permitted touch, but it appeared to restore my internal programming to a state of equilibrium instead of causing the expected malfunction.
She paused when our wedding rings clinked together, and the gold of hers slotted against mine.
It was surprising that she wore the ring at all; I had expected her hatred of me to forbid her from wearing an item associated with me and our arrangement, but it was the furthest from unwelcome.
In fact, I was aware of a sensation in my chest, but this time it did not hurt.
I moved my hands to her arms, pulling her deeper against my chest until we could both feel the erratic beat of my heart through our conjoined bodies. My palms released her arms to replace the warmth with that of her stomach, of her hips, of everywhere.
“Milan—”
The sound of my name breathed like that caused a rupture in my thinking, and I spun her, slamming the hood of the car down in one clean motion. I splayed her across it, ignoring her wide-eyed look. Perhaps she was afraid.
“Exquisite,” I whispered, my wide palm holding her wrists together above her head, binding her in my hold, imprinting her against my new car.
Sicily was fascinating. So angelic and unsure of herself. So incredibly angry within. Sicily was unique, and for the first time since the wedding, I was not convinced that I wanted to solve her.
My brain said mine.
Logic said my wife.
I slipped my free hand into my pocket, finding my phone and allowing the camera to click away to capture the beauty I saw.
“What the fuck—”
“Do not say that word,” I scolded, still taking photos of her.
She scowled. That one was my favorite.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed.
“You will paint this photograph at your earliest convenience.”
Her face morphed into an expression that I could not name. It was as though she was capable of feeling angered, humored, and disbelieved all at once. I found this to be intriguing, something that required closer study.
“And what will you do with it?” she asked, fighting my hold like a kitten.
My lips twitched. “Hang it in my office.”
“You’re crazy!”
“And you are an anomaly. That means you are exceptional.”