Page 71 of Marry Me Not
Without knowing why, I held my hips steady, fighting against it. “Christ.”
She moaned, her body writhing, her eyes hooded so that only a sliver of emerald remained. “Please.”
By now, the buzzing sensation had pooled low around the base of my cock. I knew that the moment I entered her, I’d find nirvana. I was a sinner, but with her, I’d catch a glimpse of the divine.
It’s a long way back down to hell. You sure you’ll make it?a voice asked, and it sounded like someone from the real world talking straight into my ear.
I woke up with a sharp gasp, my hands clutching at the sheets, my chest slick with sweat, and my cock weeping. Outside, the first rays of dawn cut through the darkness of the receding night.
I felt half crazed with want as I rolled onto my side and jerked myself off without even pausing to consider what I was doing. Three rough pumps, and I was done. The angry veins of my cock pulsated as cum spilled all over my hand and dripped past my knuckles onto the sheet. There was a second or two of incapacitating pleasure before I came crashing right back down.
“Jesus fuckingChrist.”
I shot out of bed, unable to even look at the evidence of what I’d done. I tore the sheet off, balled it up, and threw it into the laundry basket. I marched through the bathroom over to the door that led into her room and locked it for good measure. If she walked in on me while I showered right now, I’d probably fucking lose it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”she’d ask, arching a perfect little brow at me.
“You are everything that’s wrong with me,”I’d have no choice but to answer.
I stood in the cold shower until the dream faded and I felt some semblance of my normal self. Then I got out, dried myself off, and decided I’d drown myself in work.
Anything to keep my mind offher.
CHAPTER 23
FABIANA
“How are you,miss? Can I get you anything?”
I looked up from Gino’s art journal. The maid who’d shown me to my room last night poked her head into my bedroom, wearing a polite smile. I was taking a break from writing thank-you cards after my hand had all but frozen into a claw around the pen.
“Is it possible to turn up the heat?” The house was absolutely frigid, and the small electric fireplace in my room wasn’t doing a great job of warming it.
She grimaced and tugged her wool sweater tighter around her. “Unfortunately, Mr. Ferraro is quite strict about keeping it at sixty-four degrees.”
Sixty-four degrees?
It was only my experience in dealing with diplomats that stopped my jaw from falling open.
Who lived like this? Willingly?
“If you want, I can bring you another blanket?” the maid offered sheepishly, like it was her fault her boss liked to live in a refrigerator. “There should be some more in the guest bedroom downstairs.”
“Sure, that would be great. Thanks.”
She ducked out. I grabbed one of the wool blankets I’d pilfered from the closet and draped it over my shoulders, fighting against a shiver in my arms. The list of wedding guests who’d given us presents was two pages long. Etiquette demanded I write a thank-you card to each of them, signed from Cosimo and me. So far, I’d gotten through about forty.
There were over a hundred left to go.
Maybe I could talk to Cosimo about the temperature, but I didn’t want to call him. Actually, after a solid night of sleep, I was convinced the only way I’d survive the next six months was if I followed his lead and kept my distance.
The maid said he’d taken his breakfast in his office this morning. He’d left without saying goodbye. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to come home until well after I went to bed.
That was fine. Whenever we were in close contact with each other, it felt like I was on a roller coaster that was as likely to give me a thrill as it was to make me puke my guts out.
I almost regretted pushing him into telling me his secret. If I’d just kissed him while assuming he had another woman on the side, everything might be a lot simpler.
But there was nothing simple about Cosimo. No, my husband was a complicated man, and I was far too inexperienced to know how to handle him.
