Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
He said nothing, elbows propped on the armrests, his hands clasped together with his fingers stitched.
“How do you normally handle this? You know . . . when the time comes to go your separate ways.”
He continued his hard stare, eyes flicking back and forth slightly, like I’d said something he didn’t quite understand.
“I imagine they don’t always take it so well.” I knew there was no chance that I’d have something more with Constantine. Not because he’d made that clear, but come on, a man like him never settled down. You just had to be grateful for the dick and let him go give it to someone else. Just appreciate the moment rather than mourn the loss . . . or wonder what could have been if he’d felt differently. Maybe I wouldn’t have taken this so well if I hadn’t just gotten my heart crushed, if I hadn’t just gotten out of a relationship and lost all desirability to be in another. I didn’t think of him that way at all, but I supposed he was a rebound.
His strong silence continued for a while. “I make my intentions clear up front. Tell them exactly what will go down before anything happens. Never had a problem.”
“Oh.” My mind searched through the receipts I stored in my head, never recalling a time when he’d said anything to me of that nature. Never established what this was. Never confirmed that this would end when our vacations were over. “Well, you’re lucky you haven’t had any problems, because you aren’t as clear as you think you are,” I said with a laugh, wanting to sound playful rather than confrontational. “But don’t worry, we’re on the same page.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at what I said, like he continued not to understand. The more time I spent with him, the more I witnessed his intelligence and his wit, and this was the first time it felt like we were actually on very different pages.
“You haven’t said any of that to me,” I explained.
His signature stare was visible, white hot and searing, branding my flesh like cattle. He almost looked angry, given the degree of intensity with which he stared at me, like I was his enemy rather than his lover. My words weren’t meant to be offensive or perverse, but he appeared to have taken them that way. “I know I haven’t.”
I waited for more. Waited for him to realize his error, clarify what he meant, but as the silence continued, I realized nothing was coming. And then the understanding hit me like a bolt of lightning from the heavens. First, it was shock, and then the flames ignited from the collision and burned my flesh. I swallowed, and my own saliva felt like a bowling ball.
“I’ve never done this before. Never spent a week with a woman here in Taormina. Never invited a woman to pack up her things and share a hotel room with me. Back at home, my hookups are brief and transactional. I also don’t go around fucking women bareback either.”
I was so stunned I could barely feel my face. Barely feel my chest rise with the breath I needed to take. The shock hardened all my limbs and made it impossible to move. Temporary paralysis.
“I want you—and I’ve been very clear about that.”
I swallowed, trapped in the power of his stare, losing all feeling in my body.
“I don’t play games. And I don’t want a woman who plays games.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t deepen his tone either. But the way he spoke . . . it was unlike him. Unlike the man who was quick to flash a smile and bring sunshine to my clouds. “Do you play games, Aurelia?”
This wasn’t the Constantine I knew. When we were at dinner at Osteria RossoDiVino, I saw a brief figment of this version, of the subtly lethal, subtly sinister man who existed beneath the surface. “No.”
“Then tell me what you want from me.”
I was backed into a corner by this man, the conversation turning from lighthearted to suffocating. Everyone else around us was having a good time at their tables with their drinks and apps, oblivious to the fire burning at our table.
I didn’t know what answer I should give. I didn’t know if I should be honest . . . or too honest . . . or right on the cusp. “How about you go first—”
“Don’t play games.”
“I’m not playing games—”
“Then tell me what you want from me. Is this really just a meaningless fuck-cation you’re prepared to forget? Or is it something more?” He watched me with his unblinking stare, observing me, analyzing me like his eyes were fucking microscopes. “Because I’m tired of you saying this is temporary when you feel pretty fucking permanent.”
Jesus.
He moved into the table, arms on the surface, bringing his lens even closer.