As she’d wended her way into their
conversation, answering the questions they posed to her with
friendly flippancy, when such was called for, and with openness
when it was not, she began to feel an affinity for Carmen, whose
wit was acerbic and whose smile was slower than the others.
Sabina thought the brothers were open books.
Joey was youthfully bold, John was quiet and sweet, Luca was a
rogue. All three were quick to smile and laugh. Carmen, though,
seemed world-weary and cynical. Sabina thought they were of an age,
or close to it—thirty-five or so—young for world-weariness. But
Sabina understood. She did not have the luxury in her life of
expressing such feelings, but she understood, and she felt that she
might, given the chance, find a friend in Carmen, who could be
charming but seemed to prefer not to bother.
It was Carmen who had been most direct in
her questioning, as well. Sabina had been wearing a paisley pareo
when she’d come to the group; it was now draped over the back of
the Adirondack chair. She’d removed it when she’d decided that
she’d like some sun on her legs. Carmen had instantly noticed the
scabs on her knees and had just as quickly brought them up.
She’d asked, “Did he do that? Your
husband?,” and Sabina had understood that there were no secrets
among these siblings.
Sabina had answered just as directly,
“Yes.”
“Your wrists, too, then.” Carmen had not
asked, simply observed, and Sabina had nodded. After a pause during
which Carmen studied her keenly, she’d nodded and dropped the
subject. But Sabina felt Carmen soften a little after that.
The siblings had regaled her with family
stories, and Carmen seemed to be watching her closely, checking her
reactions. They clearly knew who she was, and Sabina understood
that they might be suspicious, or at least cautious, about her
interest in their brother, and his in her. She, too, was cautious.
They were taking a dangerous route without much preparation for
it.
By the time Trey had come running around
corner of the cottage, Sabina had found her place in the group. She
could tell because the way they talked to her had changed. They
were no longer making a point to address her or to include her.
They were all simply talking. That—such easy conversation with no
apparent agenda—was yet something else unfamiliar to her.
And now Carlo and Trey were here. Also Rosa,
who had not had the chance yet to get to know her, and who was
casting the same almost-hostile glances her way that Carlo Sr. had
been, until he’d been distracted by his grandson.
After some time of easy, aimless talk and
laughter among them, Trey, still at the water with Carlo Sr.,
called to his daddy. Carlo turned to her, and she was touched by
the conflict in his eyes. “You go. Play. I’m fine here.”
“Join us?”
Unwilling to push herself into that
relationship, she shook her head. “I’ll stay here and ask for
embarrassing stories about you.”
He grinned brightly. “There are no
embarrassing stories about me. I’m perfect.” As he stood and headed
toward his son, he flipped off Luca, Carmen, and Joey, who were all
guffawing at his declaration.
Though she’d teased him about wanting
stories, Sabina quickly stopped listening to the family chatter
around her. Instead, she watched Carlo and Trey playing in the
surf. Carlo Sr. had returned to his chair and seemed to be staring
out over the water.
Though Carlo and Trey were in public,
playing surrounded by people, she had the impression she was
watching an intimate moment between father and son. He was such a
good father. Even in the few moments she’d seen him with his son,
she could tell it was true. It was in the ease they shared, in the
way Trey looked at him, and the way Carlo looked back. And in the
way he talked about his child. It all made Sabina’s heart hurt. She
would have loved to have had the chance to be a mother. But James
loathed children.
And because he did, he’d seen to it that
Sabina could not have any.
As that bleak thought brought a heavy cloud
over her otherwise bright day, Sabina finished the rest of her
beer. The tasty, amber liquid pushed the cloud away, but she
squirmed a little. She’d had three beers, courtesy of Luca, and
though they’d made her feel content and relaxed, she now had to
relieve herself.
She turned to Carmen and found Carlo’s
sister watching her, a crease between her brows. “Okay?”
“Yes, thank you. I only—may I use your
facilities?”
“Sure—in the house, at the back, just off
the kitchen. Take your shoes off before you go in. Please.”
Sabina smiled at the way the word ‘please’
had seemed to cling to Carmen’s tongue. There was a word in English
for the kind of woman Carmen was, she thought. She couldn’t
remember it right now, but there was a word that suited her. It
started with a B—but not
that
word. Racking her brain for
it, she stood. When she did, the sand—no, the whole beach—pitched
wildly under her feet, and she took an awkward step forward, toward
the fire pit, into which Luca was arranging wood for what she
supposed would be a forthcoming fire.
As she flailed a little to regain her
balance, he jumped up and caught her, one hand on her arm, the
other on her waist. “Whoa, gorgeous. You okay? Three beer limit,
huh? Maybe two.”
She pushed him off. “I’m fine. The sand, it
shifts.”
“Uh-huh. You need an escort?”
“No, thank you.” She walked toward the
house, surprised by her need to focus on her legs. But she got
there, and she toed off her Keds on the porch, only bobbling a
little, and went into Carmen’s cottage.
Oh—oh. It was lovely. So lovely. Her own
beach house, like the city house, was beautiful, decorated
professionally and tastefully, everything in its place, as James
wanted. This, though, this house was a riot of color and chaos. No
piece of furniture matched any other. The walls were covered with
paintings and fabric hangings in wild colors and patterns. The
chairs around the dining table were each unique from the others in
style and color. The small kitchen, tucked in at the back of the
main space, was likewise vibrant. The cabinet bases were painted
bright blue, and all the doors were different, contrasting colors.
It was like a giant box of Crayolas had exploded.
Sabina’s eyes filled with tears. It was the
most beautiful room she had ever seen. The riot of it literally
excited her, made her heart race. By force of will alone, she
resisted the urge to comb through Carmen’s private space and touch
all the beautiful things. Instead, her bladder reminded her that
she was on a mission, and she crossed to the back and found the
bathroom, which was small and just as chaotically perfect as
everything else in the house.
After she washed her hands, she checked the
mirror to make sure she was presentable. It was harder to focus
than she’d expected, and twice she wiped the glass to clear it
before she understood that her reflection was blurry because she
was drunk. This weekend was proving to be quite full of new
experiences.
When she came out of the bathroom, Carlo was
there, leaning against the kitchen counter. His smile was gentle.
“Are you all right?”
He was so beautiful.
James was beautiful, too. Those looks had
turned her head when she was young, but even now, through her
hatred, she could still appreciate his physical assets. But he was
beautiful in a barely real way—fair, nearly hairless, precisely
sculpted, perfectly groomed—more like a marble statue than a
flesh-and-blood man. His heart was marble, as well.
Carlo was dark and wild and so very real. He
was a little flushed now, probably from his play with his son, and
his chest still heaved slightly from his exertions. The fire of his
heart illuminated his eyes.
“Bina?” He stepped forward, and she realized
that she hadn’t answered him.
“You are beautiful.” It wasn’t an answer to
his question, but it was the thing she’d needed to say. She closed
the distance between them and put her hands on his bare chest,
sliding her fingers into the light cover of dark hair over his
heart.
“Bina.” Her name was a raspy groan that she
felt under her fingers, and he lifted his big hands and closed hers
in them. “Luca tells me he got you drunk.”
That was true, but she was glad. It felt
good. She felt an ease with which she was unfamiliar. Lifting her
eyes from his chest, she met his gaze and gasped. His eyes were
hooded, the heat in them almost literal. She smiled. “He did,
maybe. Maybe, though, I like it.”
She twisted her hands free of his tender
hold and pushed them up, over his shoulders, then around his neck.
He was so tall, much taller than her own five feet, seven inches.
Even on her tiptoes—her foot should have hurt, but it didn’t—she
couldn’t reach his mouth. So she laced her hands on the back of his
neck and pulled him down.
Again he said her name—whispered, like a
prayer—but he didn’t resist the pressure of her hands. Instead, his
arms went around her waist. His strong arms left a path of fire on
her bare skin, and when their mouths came together, he crushed her
body to his. They were nearly nude, only in swim clothes, and she
felt the rough caress of his whole body—his muscled torso, his
long, powerful arms crossed around her waist and his hands
clutching her sides, his beard against her face, his tongue in her
mouth.
He’d surrounded her,
encompassed
her,
and her blood felt like lava moving through her body, heating her
sinews to liquid. Her core ached with a need so strong it was pain.
She moaned, and the sound disappeared into his mouth and seemed to
fuel his own need. His grip on her tightened, and his mouth and
tongue searched more deeply. Sabina was having trouble keeping
up.
She was not an experienced kisser. Beyond
the publicly expected pecks, James did not kiss on the mouth. He’d
kissed her sometimes during the whirlwind months of their
courtship, but not since. Their sex had not ever been an act of
intimacy. She’d been a virgin when they’d married, and thus she did
not know any other kind. As a whole, her experiences with sex were
outside the bounds, she was sure, of normalcy. She could recognize
and name a whole host of different kinds of ‘toys’—few of which
she’d ever found playful—but she was not sure of the steps for the
dance she was doing now with Carlo. She was, then, following her
instincts, the same instincts that helped her navigate social
conversations. Her instincts and, a little, his lead.
But her instincts were taking the lead here
in Carmen’s pretty kitchen. She’d touched him because she wanted
to, without thinking more about it. She’d kissed him for the same
reason, because she wanted it, and he was there, and she knew he
wanted it, too.
What she knew for an absolute certainty was
that this wild embrace was like nothing she’d ever experienced
before. She could feel her body moving without need of her will,
rocking against him, using his body to soothe the ache between her
legs. She was too short to reach the thick, hard shaft that pressed
against her belly, so she hooked her arms around his neck and
climbed him. When her core found that hardness, she moaned again
and clutched him as tightly as she could, wrapping her legs around
him.
All of this was new, none of this was
anything she’d ever done, but it felt right, natural. Divine.
He grunted his surprise and caught her ass
in his hands as if by reflex, then broke free of their kiss.
Mourning the loss of him immediately, she whimpered and, with her
eyes still closed, sought his mouth again.
He pulled away, his breath labored and hot
on her face. “Bina. Look at me.”
She did. His expression was raw and feral,
but also deeply conflicted. He was going to stop, to set her down
and back away. She could feel it. He was too much, she thought, a
gentleman. At this moment, he was.
“Carlo, no. Please. Never have I felt like
this. I don’t want it to stop. I want to feel this. You.” Following
instinct and her own need, she flexed in his arms, drawing her core
along his erection, only her bathing suit and his shorts between
them. His eyes closed, and he pulled in a deep, audible breath.
“Bina, we can’t. Not yet.”
She leaned forward and put her mouth on the
taut skin of his throat. He tasted salty and warm, and she suckled
his skin, feeling his pulse beating erratically against her tongue.
When he groaned, the sound vibrated in her mouth and gave her
gooseflesh everywhere.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” He turned his head and
pushed her back so he could claim her mouth again, and she felt him
then walking. She hoped he was headed toward a bed. Oh, Lord, how
she hoped.
A throat cleared near the front door, the
sound deeply masculine, and they froze exactly as they were.
“Sorry, brother. Pop’s wondering where you
are. Figured you’d want a heads-up. Looks like I was right.”
Luca.
Carlo released her mouth and turned his head
toward his brother. His chest swelled, pushing against her breasts,
with every heaving breath. “Yeah,” he gasped. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Luca nodded. “I’ll head him off.” He turned
and left the cottage.