Page 92 of From Rome, With Hate

She bats her lashes again, her eyes turning lustful. “Am I?”

“Fuck, yes, Lark.” I slip my hand between her thighs and dip my fingers into her wetness. “And I want you. Just like this.”

She shivers under my touch, and I think I might come in my pants at the sight of her.

Crossing her arms in front of her, she grabs the bottom of my shirt and begins to lift it over her head, but I stop her.

“Leave it on.” I step out of my sweatpants and slide my cock between her ass cheeks, teasing her. “I want to fuck you while you’re wearing my shirt, surrounded by my things.”

“I thought this place was ours,” she mewls, closing her eyes as I drag my cock across her wetness between her legs.

“You’re right,” I agree, grunting and gripping her hips, parting her legs enough for me to slam into her. “This place is ours, but you’re mine and mine alone.”

TWENTY-SIX

JULIANNA

After the night I tripped over Rome sleeping on the floor outside the bedroom, something has shifted between us. Years of bitter resentment and grudges lifted in one night.

No, wait. Not in one night.

Slow and gradual, the bandages concealing our scars have been removed. Subtle moments of Rome showing his love for me have come to light, along with mine. Him confessing he was the one to turn over his father and how that led to him using the Irish mafia for protection. How he’d never actually slept with Macy that night.

I’ve spent years being angry with my husband, believing our hate was stronger than our love, only to have been proven wrong all along.

My mother used to tell me hurt people, hurt people, and that’s what Rome and I had been doing. All the years of keeping each other at a distance, only to torture one another with pranks and scores, was our way of dealing with the pain. Being forced to stay here, though, at our own personal sanctuary, allowed us to face our past and strip ourselves of everything we were programmed to be.

Enemies.

But I’ve learned something over these past few weeks of staying at the cabin.

It’s impossible to be enemies with the love of your life.

Because that’s what Rome is. The love of my life.

He was right. We couldn’t move on from our past without going through it. Thinking of our daughter has been painful, but I’ve realized I can’t keep running from the pain, because without the pain, I don’t have the memory of her and the hope she brought to Rome and me. A glimpse into what our future can be, with limitless possibilities.

When I step out onto the back patio, I find Rome stretched out across the lounge chair with his laptop open over his lap. His black-rimmed glasses are perched at the edge of his nose, and he’s working his fingers over his chin, clearly deep in thought. He must not be in that deep, though, because his eyes lift the second he sees me approaching him. The dimple pressing into his cheek with his smile is enough to make me weak in the knees.

“Good morning, Lark.”

“Morning.” I smile in return and stand at the foot of the chair. I study his handsome face and my stomach flutters. “Since when did you start wearing glasses?”

“Oh.” He removes them, folding them closed before setting them down on the table. “Since I started running my businesses. I only wear them when I’m working.”

“Is that what you do on there?” I tease.

“Yes.” His eyes narrow. “What did you think I was doing?”

I shrug. Honestly, I haven’t thought too much about it. Rome has always been mysterious. Up until now he has, at least.

He tilts his head to the side and rests his elbow on the arm. “How was your conversation with Selene?”

A warm sensation fills my stomach. Hearing Rome genuinely interested in how my talk with my sister-in-law went is a strange yet welcomed feeling. Although we’ve been separated for tenyears, it’s a conversation I always dreamed of having with my husband.

“It was good.” I nod, crossing my arms. “Her book just went through the final round of edits and she’s now just waiting on hearing back about a release date.”

“And your brother?” Rome’s eyes narrow slightly in a teasing way. My stomach flutters again. I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth, holding back a grin. Bending at the hip, I press my hands to the foot of the lounge chair. “Holt is… Holt.”