Page 54 of The Fighter

He’s looking at me as if I’m the only woman in the world.

And it’s addictive. I want to capture this feeling in my hands and never let go.

My arousal spikes dangerously. “Ali,” Tomas says my name like a prayer. His mouth crashes down on mine, and his fingers pluck my nipples again. “You know what you told me last night?”

Oh God, what else did I say? What secret truth did I confess? “Tell me.”

His eyes glitter. “You told me that you masturbate thinking of me.” He reaches over my head and unties my hands. “I want you to do it now. I want you to pet your pretty little clit while I fuck you hard.”

If it were a request, I might be too embarrassed to fulfill it. But it’s not. It’s an order, and I promised to obey.

I flex my wrists to ease their slight stiffness, and Tomas gently but firmly guides my right hand to my pussy. His eyes rest on me, hot and heavy and hooded, as I graze my wet folds with my fingertips. He pushes into me, slow and steady, as I touch my swollen clit, my hips jerking at the contact. Tomas got me to the edge with his mouth and his tongue, and I’m so sensitive.

“I’m going to come,” I whisper, feeling the familiar tight spiral build inside me.

He cups my chin and looks deep into my eyes. “Yes,” he says, his lips finding mine. “Come for me, Ali.”

He speeds up his thrusts, his breathing harsh and labored. My muscles start to convulse around him, and he hisses. “Yes,” he says, his fingers gripping my hips. “Yes, fuck yes. Keep your eyes on me, dolcezza. I want to see you fall apart.”

My orgasm hits me with the force of a tidal wave. I roll from one climax to another, barely aware of Tomas grunting out his pleasure as he comes. I stare into his gray eyes, and there’s only one thought in my head.

This didn’t feel like casual sex. It felt entirely too real.

I must fall asleep. When I wake up again, Tomas isn’t next to me. I get out of bed and look around for my clothes, but they’re nowhere to be seen. My handbag is on a chair, but my phone is missing. I frown. Did I leave it in the restaurant? No, that’s not right. I have a clear memory of talking to Tomas after dinner. I was talking to him when?—

I draw a blank.

My mind offers fragments of images, but when I try to focus on them, they disappear into thin air. Have you ever tried to remember a dream after you wake up and find that the harder you try to hold on to the details, the faster they dissipate? This feels like that.

Except this wasn’t a dream. Something happened last night. I was too distracted earlier to dwell on the maddening gap in my memory. After all, I did wake up next to a shirtless Tomas, his hotness overriding everything else. But now, the questions are piling up. I went to dinner in Castello. Got drunk, sat on a bench, called Tomas. But why did I end up in his house? Tomas lives in Giudecca; my apartment in Dorsoduro would have been much closer. Why bring me here? And what happened to my phone?

There’s a folded T-shirt on the mattress that I’m assuming is for me. I put it on—it hangs to mid-thigh—and head downstairs in search of answers.

Tomas is in the kitchen, his cat Freccia sprawled in a heap next to him. I enter the room, and she gets up and comes over to investigate, sniffing the air near me before sniffing disdainfully and resuming her nap. Tomas laughs. “That’s my cat for you.”

“I think you’re maligning her. She’s hanging out with you, isn’t she?”

“She’s hoping that I’ll drop a piece of pancetta on the floor.” He shakes his head wryly. “Give her a treat, and she’ll become your new favorite person.”

I bribe Freccia. She daintily eats the treat from my palm and then demands petting. I oblige, looking around the large, sunlit space as I do so. Tomas’s kitchen is filled with plants and gleaming copper appliances. At home, mine is the size of a closet. One day… One day, after I buy Tomas out, I’ll find a proper apartment. I’ll fill it with plants in colorful pots, fragrant candles, and walls of books.

Freccia decides she’s done with me and leaves the room, her tail held high. I straighten, and Tomas holds up a mug. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. What time is it?”

“A little after noon.”

“Noon?” I repeat, shocked. The gym has been open for hours, and I’m not there. In the two years it’s been open, that’s never happened. “I need to head to Groff’s.”

“Why?” He hands me a cup. “Omar is handling it.”

“Omar?”

“You know him. Average height, curly black hair, hangs out in the weights area.”

I do know Omar. He joined the gym more than a year ago and works out at least four times a week, but he’s very quiet, and he’s never said more than a word to me. “How do you know Omar?”

“He works with me. He’s one of Leo’s guys.”

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