Page 100 of The Deal

“Okay,” I say, and the way his eyebrows jump at my response, I can tell he wasn’t expecting me to give in so easily, but I’m tired of fighting.

“Okay? That’s it, that’s all I’m getting? No lip?”

I grasp his face and tug his mouth down to mine. If he wants lip, he’ll get it, but not the type he was expecting.

Clarity is a beautiful thing. It’s that moment when everything falls into place, and you see things for what they truly are without even having to open your eyes. It strips away the confusion, eliminates your options, and brings you in line with your true values.

Letting go of the past is the only way to move forward, so that’s exactly what I’ve done. I’m purging my soul and clearing out the clutter that’s been blocking my peace of mind for as long as I can remember. And I feel lighter than I have in years.

Alexander has stayed true to his word, giving me the space I need—within reason. I receive multiple textsthroughout the day and night, always with the same word:Ticktock.

My time is drawing near, and though he’s gone most of the day, doing whatever it is he does, when he’s home, he maintains his distance. But the molten heat in his eyes whenever our gazes meet cuts through the space between us, hitting me right in the core.

I find myself constantly checking the clock, counting down the minutes and the hours until he’s mine again.

Sweet Giovanni is still stuck to me like glue, which I don’t mind in the slightest; I adore that little boy. I’m going to miss him like you wouldn’t believe when that bitch gets back from her extended vacation in Italy to collect him. But I try not to think about that too much. I don’t want to put a dampener on the limited time we have left together.

We no longer spend the majority of the day hanging out in my room. Instead, we spend most of our time downstairs in the kitchen, helping my mother prepare the meals while I try to make up for all the time we’ve lost.

Each morning, she visits with my father, and she’s asked me to join her numerous times, but so far, I’ve chosen not to. They need their time together, and I’m still working through my feelings about my dad.

Now that I can see things clearly, I’ve stopped feeling sorry for him and realised he’s just getting what he deserves. His karma, you could say. You reap what you sow, and I, unfortunately, was the catalyst for his downfall.

In a way, I unknowingly enabled his bad behaviour. I saw only the brokenhearted man who kept making silly mistakes, not the calculated one who was actually responsible for the entire mess. He made a conscious decision to take that money, and from what I’ve learnt he was doing it for some time.

When my phone dings, I slide it out of my pocket andfind myself smiling down at the screen when I see another text has come through from Alexander. I’m expecting the usual two words, but that’s not what I find when I open it.

It’s a photo showing something cream scrunched up in his hand. It looks like lace. I use my fingers and thumb to expand the image, trying to figure out what he’s holding.

Alexander: Recognise these?

I study the picture but get distracted by his hands rather than concentrating on what he’s holding.

They're so … sexy.

His fingers are thick and long. The skin is smooth, with veins subtly tracing their way up to his wrist, hinting at the strength that lies beneath the surface.

I’ve never taken notice of people’s hands in the past, but there's something about his that garners my attention. I find myself observing them often, especially when he eats.

I don’t know what it is, but the power of his grip and the silver that gleams under the soft light contrast against the warmth of his tanned skin. The way his thumb rests just below the curve of the handle, steady and confident, while his fingers curl around it with a subtle, purposeful pressure. Or the elegant way his wrist moves, with the calm precision of a man who’s comfortable in his own skin.

This may sound unhinged, but there is something completely erotic about his hands. It has moisture flooding my underwear more often than not.

Is it a sick depravity? Or is it just that my body knows exactly what those hands feel like against my skin, or the ultimate pleasure his fingers can bring when they are buried deep inside me? It’s a quandary I’m yet to work out, but the obsession is real.

Alexander: Do you want a clue?

Alexander: You were wearing these when we went to Antonio’s kid’s birthday.

Me: OMG! #Cakegate. I never did get around to baking Antonio his apology cake.

Alexander: Forget the fucking cake!!!!

Me: I can’t. I’m going to make him one now. Can you get him to call by later and pick it up?

Alexander: I’m sitting here holding the lace underwear you were wearing that night—that still smells like you, by the way—with a raging fucking hard-on, and all you can think about is cake.

Me: You know how much I love cake … and you smelt my underwear?

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