Page 19 of Carnal

More dread fills me. I hiss, "If you ever utter a word of this to anyone, especially your brothers, I'll kill you, Tristano. I mean it. I'll hunt you down and make anything you've ever done to your enemies look elementary."

Shock floods his chiseled features. "You think I'm a schoolboy who goes around and discusses my personal life with others? Wow. Have you ever heard me bragging about anyone I've been with?"

My heart thumps against my chest cavity. I try to think of a time, but I can't.

Disgust emanates so intensely that I cringe inside. He snarls, "Thanks for letting me know your impression of me." He steps back and goes to the shower. He turns on the water. Tension creeps into his muscular shoulders.

Anger turns to guilt. I try to tear my eyes off his sculpted backside, but it's impossible. I suddenly feel like a fly bouncing around a room, unsure which of his features I like the best. His broad shoulders have the Marino crest perfectly inked across them. It takes up his entire back, ending near his toned ass. And his thighs and calves of steel are the definition of unattainable magnificence for the normal male.

He steps into the shower and announces, "I'll leave as soon as I finish. Forget this night ever happened. One thing I won't do is chase after someone who doesn't want me, so let's just return to how things used to be. And no one will know I've been here, so stop worrying. I don't talk, regardless of what you think." He grabs my bottle of body wash and pours it into his hand.

Panic fills me. I take several breaths, trying to convince myself it's for the best, but the voice in my head keeps telling me I screwed up. I don't understand it. He agreed to my terms then the opposite happened. Yet I didn't tell him to stop. Nor did I dislike any moment of what happened between us.

Do I want him to leave like this?

Have I become a woman who has sex with a man and then accuses him of things because I'm confused over what I allowed him to do?

Crap!

I go to the shower and step in behind him, circling my arms around his waist.

He freezes.

"Tristano."

He doesn't move or speak.

I kiss his back then slide in front of him. I glance up at his clenched jaw and hurt expression. My insides quiver harder, but it's no longer from anger. Fear has replaced the rage. I don't want him to hate me or feel bad about what happened between us. I gave my permission when I didn't tell him to stop and begged him to keep going. I reach up and place my hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry. I know you don't talk. And you didn't do anything wrong. I could have told you to stop, and I didn't."

He doesn't respond, continuing to give me his wounded puppy dog eyes.

"I mean it," I declare, wanting to smooth things over more than anything.

He sniffs hard, glances at the tile above my head, and states, "I meant what I said. No one will ever know about this. Not only because that isn't what I do, but I have too much respect for you. I always have. And I'm sorry you have this fucked-up notion that what we just did somehow makes you anything less than what you are." He steps out of the shower and grabs a towel.

I freeze, watching him dry off and processing his statement. My heart falls further when I realize he's right.

He storms out of the bathroom.

I turn off the shower, wrap a towel around me, and call out, "Tristano! Wait!"

"I'm not into these types of games, Pina," he asserts, then continues to the main room.

I rush after him.

He bends down and picks up his underwear.

"I freaked out for a minute. I'm sorry," I admit, my anxiety building in my chest.

He puts on his pants and then pulls his T-shirt over his head, avoiding me.

I grasp his arm. "Tristano!"

"Don't," he warns.

I close my eyes, trying to figure out how to rewind this conversation and watching him slide into his shoes. I plead, "Please. Just wait a minute."

He spins then crosses his arms. "You know what's super fucked-up?"

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