16. Sicily #3
Sicily gripped my wrists, stopping them from moving, and it was then that I noticed the dark, cold air outside, the car door clicking open, the leather seats, her. She was speaking to me, touching me, not ignoring me, and things became clear again through the haze of my emotional turbulence.
I inhaled until my lungs were full and I was alive again, in her life again.
I should have looked out of the window to see where we were going when the car began to move, to analyze our surroundings, to ensure optimal safety for us all, but as my fingers flexed, I felt Sicily’s waist.
She was…on top of me, her long sparkly dress hanging from her as she straddled me. My head pressed back into the headrest, and I held her there with my fingers at her waist, while her own covered the blood on my chest as though she could heal it with her touch.
Maybe she could. I could not feel the pain when she touched me.
My head leaned back against the seats, subconsciously trying to see more of her. My lips twitched as she frowned, but for the first time in ten years, they did not stop at the twitch.
I smiled.
“Why are you smiling like that, you creep?” she hissed, a tear rolling down her cheek as she attempted to further patch my wounds with her bare fingers. “Are you bleeding out, or what?”
Anyone with basic knowledge of human anatomy would know that her attempts to fix my body were useless, but Adriano had said that a lot of times, people’s attempts demonstrated emotion, and their emotion further implied care or worse, love.
I was incapable of experiencing the emotions Sicily was demonstrating, and I knew that she did not love me just as I could not her, but I wanted to feel, just once, just her.
I gripped her wrists at my torn shirt, squeezing hard enough that her knuckles curved and her nails dug the wounds open again.
With the scent of blood came a realization that she was trying to get away and that indicated she did not like to hurt me. That meant she must not have been upset with me any longer. My chest felt alight with this, warm and flickering with a flame that did not lose control and burn me.
With the sharpness of her nails came the sound of her small cries, and that doused the flame and made everything within feel wet and cold, like if I did not fix how she portrayed these emotions, I would never be warm again.
With the stain of blood on her porcelain skin came the spark deep inside that reignited it all, even the cold, and forced it into a freezing, scorching, destroying need to hunt my brother and soak my hands in his blood for marring hers with mine.
I was feeling with the ferocity of a thousand humans, and it was because of her.
My cock strained against her on my lap, and I surpassed all of my brain’s logic. I understood that I would sell my soul to study her eyes as I buried myself so deep inside of her that she forgot her anger with me.
Sex was control. It was on my terms; it was not emotional but purely physical. It was releasing, and that was all. It served a necessary purpose to optimize my focus and physical body. I had not desired until I had met her, and it was unbearably chaotic.
“Kiss me,” I whispered—practically panting.
I was thirty years old and had engaged in a lot of sexual intercourse with prostitutes and women that Adriano and I had shared, but never had I kissed anyone romantically, not once.
It was unsanitary and time-wasting, but as I looked at her, I understood that with Sicily, it would be a way to worship her without the words I could not say.
“What?” she spat, her fingers trembling as she unglued her bloodied nails from my torso. “Are you crazy?”
“For you, I believe so.” I cupped her cheek, drawing her closer. “Please. Tell me what you require for this, and I will do it. Please kiss me so I feel more, again. I do not know what you have done to me, but I require it, so please—”
Sicily’s lips smashed to mine, though such a word was too strong for how soft and sweet her mouth was. She tasted like synthetic fruity makeup and alcohol, but she smelled like cream, perfume, and mine.
Mine.
Mine.
She moaned low in her throat, and I caught it gently, wrapping my fingers around her slender neck as she moved her mouth against mine. It was slow and tender, and every lick and taste of her made my dick twitch and her pulse flutter.
The feeling of my mind positively responding to an innocent body relying on me for air, for pleasure, for life, proved that I was my father’s son and the Feras’ brother, but it also proved something foolish: that my wife trusted me despite what I had done to her.
To have control over how she reacted was an addiction, one that had manifested itself as a need to analyze her and keep her close. I could cause her emotion, take it away, heighten it, and that could be extremely detrimental to her being, but powerful to mine.
I would not harm her or her trust again, but I would test her limits, metaphorically dangle her from the edge of a cliff until she believed she would fall.
And then I would catch her.
Every single time.