Page 84 of When She Falls (The Fallen)
“Is he going to be at La Trattoria tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
Tonight, we’re having dinner with the Messeros. As far as I know, Ras wasn’t invited, which is for the best, since I’m not confident in my ability to play it cool around him anymore.
The sex dreams won’t stop tormenting me. When I wake up, my body buzzes with need, and my thighs are slick with wetness. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve tried to fix the situation on my own, but I can’t do it. My vibrator’s been broken for months, and I haven’t found a way to get a new one delivered to the house without Mamma knowing. Since Vale ran, she’s been checking all of our packages.
I don’t know how to make myself come with my fingers. God knows, I’ve tried, but it’s never worked for me. I get so close only to never cross the edge.
I had to deal with the insistent throb between my legs for the entirety of breakfast. During which Ras sat directly across from me.
It was torture.
It’s like his touch somehow got encoded in me at a cellular level, and now my skin is programmed to crave it.
I thought a few days with minimal contact would cool things between me and him, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s not working.
I crave his presence. His voice. His smile.
But I know indulging that craving will only make things worse when he inevitably leaves. So I try to cram my feelings into a tiny little box and shove it deep into the recesses of my mind.
“I’m going to go get dressed.” Cleo rises off the couch in the living room and smooths her palms over her thighs. “Mamma made a big deal about not being late. Did she seem more high-strung than usual to you?”
“I’m not sure.” I haven’t been paying close attention to Mamma’s moods recently.
Cleo holds out her palm. “Come on. I’ll sneak a bottle of wine, and we can get tipsy before dinner.”
It’s a bad idea, but for once, I agree to it. I need something to take the edge off so that I can paste on a smile and act like a perfect fiancée.
Cleo and I are lightly buzzed by the time we leave the house for La Trattoria. Dalida plays from the car’s stereo, and Mamma and Papà speak in hushed Italian about things clearly not meant for our ears. I try to make out what they’re saying but get bored after five minutes and pull out my phone.
“Let’s do a crossword,” Cleo suggests.
“You’re terrible at those even when you’re sober.”
“I’m better when I’m a bit drunk. I get more creative.”
A notification pops up on my phone—a text from Ras.
Cleo makes an obnoxious oohing sound. “What’s your bodyguard messaging you about? Is he already worried?”
Shushing her, I checked to make sure our parents are still not paying us attention. “Keep your voice down. And he’s not my bodyguard.”
“Oh yeah? Then how do you explain his behavior around Benjamin?”
I shouldn’t have told her about that. She kept pestering me about how shopping went during the lunch we had right afterward, so when Mamma went to the bathroom, I told her about how Ras wiped the floor with Benjamin.
I kept my mouth shut about the rest of what happened. What Ras and I had done is so inappropriate, it rivals some of Cleo’s worst misdemeanors.
Cleo leans closer. “Open it.”
Turning the screen away from her, I tap on the notification.
Can you send me your schedule for next week?
Disappointment runs through me, but I push it away. What did I expect? For him to tell me something that makes my pulse race?
No, this is for the best.
