Page 82 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“Mmmm.” My whimper climbs in pitch, my jaw unhinges and my lips loosen around his thumb. I can fill the precipice so close.
He swirls his wet fingers over my clit and pushes histhumb inside a little more, then the climax rips into me, lifting me off the floor. I convulse madly on his lap, his fingers drawing out the tremors. When I come around, he’s panting heavily, like I’ve just pushed him to the very edge of his limits.
Thick hands reach around my ribcage and I’m lifted up, kissed softly, then placed back on my seat. Andreas reaches down, pulls out a blanket and lays it over me.
“I’ll be right back.”
I vaguely sense him stand then walk past me to the back of the aircraft, but I’m too heavily sedated by the aftereffects of two incredibly intense orgasms to pay too much attention. All I know is he’s gone to visit the restroom.
I vow to find out why he does that after every time he’s made me come. But then, despite the fact I’m thousands of feet in the air, distantly petrified that I’m about to die, my lids close again and I drift into a light, contented sleep.
Serafina
The low hum of the aircraft echoes in my ears as we arrive at the hotel. The staff whisk our bags away before I have a chance to lift a finger, and Andreas gives the concierge a nod like he’s been here many times before.
We don’t linger in the suite for long, just enough time to drop off our belongings and freshen up. While Andreas makes a phone call, I look out of the windows at the Washington Monument in the distance. It looks surreal, like a political T.V. show I’ve accidentally walked into. My heart squeezes at the realization that until a few months ago, I’d only left New York once in twenty years. Now, I live in a state I’m growing to love more with every fall of a leaf, and I’m also standing a stone’s throw away from one of the world’s mostrecognizable landmarks.
I hear Andreas’ phone snap shut then his hand slips into mine.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says simply.
It’s cool outside, the fall air nipping at my cheeks. We wander toward the Mall, silently marveling at the sights I’ve only ever seen before in pictures. There are people everywhere—tourists, students, families with strollers, a man selling roasted almonds from a small cart—but the city feels quiet, as though we’re the only people in it.
I suddenly feel nervous about asking, but I want to at least try to understand my husband, and from the easy way he greeted the concierge and knew his way to the suite, I’m guessing Washington is, or has been, an important part of his life.
“You seem to know your way around this city. Have you been here before?”
We pass the gardens by the Smithsonian and he slows. His brow dips as though he’s just facing up to the inevitable—if he wants an honest and faithful marriage, he’s going to have to disclose some of his past.
“Yes, I have. Many times.”
I stop and wait until he faces me. “I want to know,” I whisper.
His gaze darkens and his jaw grinds.
“Nothing you tell me is going to scare me away.”
He sighs heavily. “You don’t know what kind of past I’ve had.”
“So tell me.”
I notice his shoulders tighten as he prepares to speak.
“The only people who truly know about my past are Arrow and Viola. Arrow, especially, has been there for most of it,” he says, looking over my head into the distance.
I catch a glimpse of vulnerability beneath his surface.
“Benito and I… we had a rough start. We grew up in New York. Our father was a small-time, low-life criminal. He used us in his pathetic deals and busts, and thought hurting us made him strong. Especially me, because I was the eldest.”
He pauses, and even though his voice weighs heavy with painful memories, it’s his truth, and there’s something beautiful about it.
“He didn’t make the smartest moves. He was blinded by a thirst for blood and hunger for violence. I suppose I didn’t want to settle for small-time. I wanted bigger things—a real legacy. If he left me to my devices, I did things my way. But then some of his men noticed. They preferred my approach. I didn’t go into a loaded warehouse all guns blazing only to come away with a couple cases of ammo. I sat back and watched, figured out the guards’ routines, struck when their defenses were down. No one got hurt and I’d come away with the whole fucking shop.”
I try not to let my eyes widen too much. Andreas is a born and bred criminal, but he’s also my husband—a man I’m coming to respect more and more each day.
“So, why did you leave?”
He chews on his lip for a moment. “My father did the usual one day and briefed us all on the next bust—another reckless raid that would have gotten us noticed before we could make much of a dent in the merchandise—then a couple of his guys looked to me. Asked me how we should do it. My father didn’t say a word, but I knew in that moment I was no longer a tool in his arsenal—I was a threat.”
