Page 20 of Rosetti Family New York
The fire snaps and spits. The room’s washed in flickering light, shadows dancing over us. Her back is rigid, but I see it start to loosen.
I stretch, lean forward. “How long do you think you’ll last?”
Her eyes don’t leave the page. “You’re welcome to sleep, Leonardo.” She slips her wedding ring off her finger, sets it on the table. “But not in the same room as me.”
My name in her mouth—it’s a challenge and a curse. I stand, walk over. Close the book with a snap. Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch the tiniest twitch in her jaw.
She doesn’t flinch. Just reaches for another.
The rug in front of the fire is thick, woven with reds and golds. I settle on it, stretch out. It’s softer than the couch. A hell of a lot softer than her.
Time passes. Hours maybe. She acts unfazed. Cool as glass. I watch her from the floor, eyes half shut, every muscle alert. I wonder if she can hear my heart. If she knows that this strange game turns me on.
The fire shrinks, but I feed it logs, watch them splinter into heat and ash. Her body leans into the couch now, relaxing. She shifts, her legs pulling under her. Another hour slips away. She checks the time on her phone, bites her lip. She can feel it too. The way we’re circling each other, two animals, neither willing to strike first. She refuses to sleep in our bedroom. I refuse to let her sleep without me.
I stifle a yawn, let her see me do it.
She shuts her eyes, one second too long to call it a blink. I smirk, stretch my arms behind my head. “Comfortable?” I ask.
The corners of her lips curve in the shadow of a smile. “Perfectly.”
She puts the book down. Her body sags against the cushions, a tiny sigh escaping her lips.
It should make me mad, the way she holds out. But it doesn’t. It makes me want her more.
My voice is a low rumble. “Come on, princess.” I crack my knuckles, feel the tension spread and loosen. “I can keep this up all night.”
The fire gutters, grows dim. We’re fading with it. A tiredness thick as water pulls us under. My eyes droop. Her head dips. I jolt awake. She shifts on the couch.
I blink, clearing the fog. Her breathing is steady, almost peaceful. I’ve worn her down, but I want her awake when she gives in. I want her to feel it.
The floor’s cool against my bare feet. I walk over, look down at her. She’s curled in on herself, hair slipping from its pins. I could pick her up, take her to bed. Lock us in, make her see. But I said I would make her beg for that.
Instead, I slide my hands under her. Eleanor stirs, barely awake. Her voice is the smallest murmur. “Leonardo... no...”
She’s weightless. I lower her to the rug. Her body curls against the warmth like a cat. I smile at her.
A blanket. A pillow. She gets both. I’m not that much of a bastard. Then I stretch out beside her and the heat of her skin pulls me close. My hand finds the narrow of her waist, tugs her to me.
She’s too far gone to protest.
My mouth finds her ear. The words come easy. “Where you sleep, I sleep.”
She breathes deep, even. Her head nestles into the pillow. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine.
Time gutted the house of most of its heat by morning. It cools fast here. Eleanor sleeps, snuggled against my chest on the plush rug by the dying fire. Her breaths are deep and slow, and her arms are folded together against my chest, her head nuzzling in my neck. She is peaceful like this, no mask, no poise, just her.
She shifts, and I expect her to wake, to resume our standoff. But she doesn’t, and I smile, brushing a strand of hair off her face. She is a stunning woman.
In the quiet, a dull clamor of voices grows sharp and louder. I’d know them anywhere, even when I’m half asleep. My family is back. Irritation crawls up my spine. I wanted to stay like this, curled around my wife, but instead I have to wake her. I won’t leave her on the rug to be gawked at by anyone.
I stand, scooping her into my arms, and head to the stairs. She wakes and, for a moment, her gaze is soft, until she remembers where she is, and who I am. She struggles to get free, and I put her down, pleased to finally see a wrinkle in her clothing.
“Morning, princess,” I say.
Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of seeing her startled.
“Time to move upstairs.” I lift my chin toward the gardens, where the noise of my family arriving grows louder every moment. “The honeymoon’s over.”
