Page 55 of Married With Malice

Instead, I keep skimming the wholesome paragraphs of seasonal cheer as my mind wanders down dark, twisted lanes full of menacing growls and gnarled branches.

I have a real attitude about failing to finish a book and I’m not giving up on this one. I’ll just save it for another night. There’s time for the holiday spirit to show up. The first of December is still two days away.

After plugging my Kindle back into its charger, I flop back onto my pillow and stare at the ceiling. There’s no mystery about the reason why I’m unable to appreciate a quirky happily ever after right now. Despite being a newlywed, I’m miles away from one of those myself.

Turning on my side, I face Luca’s empty side of the bed. My hand moves over the surface of the fluffy down comforter and lands on his pillow. The fabric feels cool against my palm and impulsively I shift my body closer to that side of the bed. His pillow is no different than mine, yet laying my cheek on it stirs an entirely different reaction.

The cedarwood-tinted scent of his shower gel is instantly recognizable to me now. A tug of warm arousal begins low in my belly and quickly uncoils.

Two nights ago I awoke in the darkness with my heart pounding and a delicious ache between my thighs. The outlines of an erotic dream were already fading and I was stuck in a valley between sleep and full consciousness with a desperate need to find relief.

Luca’s sleeping body was stretched out beside me. He wasn’t there when I fell asleep but this isn’t surprising. Lately whenever he’s home, which is rare, he’s preoccupied. Quiet. Sometimes I catch him looking at me as if he’s wondering what I’m doing in his house. Maybe he figured out that I overheard his ‘take one for the team’ comment and expects retaliation.

Dealing with this new brooding silence of his isn’t the best feeling. Luca’s typical mocking humor, though infuriating at times, is much more familiar.

Knowing I’d never be able to get back to sleep without finishing what was started in the dream, I rolled to my belly. This felt good, giving friction to the throbbing, tender nerves by driving my hips into the mattress. The low moan in my throat was stifled by the pillow. My hand snuck into my panties, my fingers searching for the sweet spot that would help end this fever.

I had no idea Luca was awake until I felt the draft from the covers getting thrown aside. His rough hands tugged my panties down. I was just as eager to get rid of them. His shorts were quickly discarded before he shoved my legs apart and knelt behind me.

The hard length of his cock flexed on the back of my thigh. His fingers slipped under my belly and probed between my legs, knowing exactly how to get me closer to the edge. In no time I was whimpering and clenching as his newly soaked fingers slid in and out with skillful ease.

When he removed them, I complained, gasping out, “PLEASE!”

Luca didn’t let me suffer. He grabbed my hips and promptly drove his cock deep.

In that dark, unknown hour, we used each other hard and fast without speaking. When I came, I gripped the sheets in my fists and bit the pillow as my muscles quaked and the waves overwhelmed me. I was sliding down the other side of that powerful high when Luca’s prolonged groan warned of his eruption.

We were both sweating and shaky when he rolled away and reclaimed his side of the bed. Content and dreamy, I drifted back to sleep with the warmth of his release still wet on my thighs.

When I opened my eyes again, the grey light of morning was filtering through the shutters and Luca’s side of the bed was empty, leaving me to wonder if our frantic coupling in the middle of the night had really happened. I haven’t seen him since then.

That’s the way it is with these men. Growing up, there were countless times when my father didn’t come home for days on end. If any questions are asked, they won’t be answered.

While I’m fretting on my husband’s pillow, the rumble of the garage door startles me and I jerk upright. It’s half past midnight. Luca will assume I’m asleep.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I hold my breath and listen. The sound of the door to the garage opening and closing is faint but distinctive, like he’s trying to enter quietly. Seconds pass but there are no footsteps on the stairs. I hear cabinets swinging open and shut, the rustle of items being moved around as if he’s searching for something. An object clatters loudly into the sink and Luca spits out a string of angry curses.

With a sigh, I shove my feet into a pair of slippers and grab a robe as a shield against the chilly house. I never turn on the heat if I can help it, always hating the stuffy, stale smell that infiltrates the rooms.

The stairwell is dim and I shiver with inexplicable dread as I tie the belt of my robe and think of gothic tales, of naïve heroines who hear a noise in the night and glide down the stairs of the castle to a scene of horror. All I’m missing is a candlestick.

But I’m sure no horror awaits. Only the man I’m married to.

Luca is in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink and squirting bottled water on a wad of paper towels, which he presses to a bleeding cut above his right eyebrow. He’s disheveled and unshaven, which is unusual in itself since Luca always looks well-groomed and ready to host a stockbroker convention. His white shirt is splattered with bloodstains and I know the blood can’t all be his. An angry bruise colors his left cheekbone and his knuckles are split. The state of him is so shocking that I can’t even gasp.

He leans against the sink and stares at the empty kitchen counter. I’m not sure how long it would have taken him to notice my presence without me softly saying, “Luca.”

With a visible flinch, his green eyes snap to me and it’s as if they belong to another man, one I’ve never met. One I’m afraid to meet tonight.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says in a dull voice and removes the wad of paper towels from his head. He frowns at the sight of blood on them.

I’m a daughter of the mafia. My life has been filled with men who do terrible things. I understand that I’m in a room with one of them right now.

And yet it’s because I’m a mafia daughter that the logical portion of my brain is able to take control. Wherever Luca has been and whatever he has done, he is my husband and for that alone he gets my loyalty.

“Go upstairs,” I say. “Get right in the shower and I’ll deal with your clothes.”

He’s traumatized enough to cooperate and trudge up the stairs. The bloody paper towels are left on the counter. I’ll deal with them too. He passes me with a haunted, unseeing glance that strikes twin bolts of fear and rage through my heart.

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