But when I peek through the curtains in the foyer, I see the night guards out there, alert and awake, just like they should be. I’m glad, because I’ve included these two in my list of potentials.
I head back upstairs, but when I get to the door of my room, I pause.
Just down the hallway my husband is sleeping in our marital bed.
My own words come back to me, and I flush in the dark hallway, even with no one to see. You’re a good fuck. We can make some sort of arrangement for our physical needs.
My body aches just thinking of him, like it’s crying out for Finch: to feel his hot skin against mine, the clench of him on my cock. I already miss the way he gasps at my touch.
But I need to keep my head together, too.
In the end, I turn away from my bedroom door and head to the master suite. I’m half afraid he’s done exactly as I did, and locked the door. But he hasn’t. The door opens silently as soon as I twist the handle, and I can hear his steady, slow breathing. He’s deeply asleep, the kind of sleep only children and the innocent enjoy.
I slide into the bed trying not to disturb him, but he wakes with a start. I stifle his cry by pressing my lips to his, rolling on top of him and pushing his legs open with mine. Within a breath, he goes from fear to desire, and moans around the tongue in his mouth. When I pull away, he begins to mumble a question, but I put my hand over his mouth, my fingers dipping in, letting him suck on them.
When they’re soaked, I take my fingers from his mouth and push them between his legs, wriggling under his balls impatiently to get to that hole I’m so desperate for. I mean to make it fast, careless. I mean to bring us both a quick release, but I can’t. I get lost in the wonder of his body despite myself.
I make sure he comes first this time, making it good for him, making him cry out my name, and I don’t try to stifle him when he comes, letting him call out his thanks to me before I let go myself, filling him up, whispering his name into his neck like a private prayer.
Afterwards, I hold him close until his breathing returns to its deep steady rhythm.
And then I slip out of the bed and go back to my own, where sleep finds me at last.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
FINCH
Fun fact: there’s not much to do when you’re a marital hostage to the Morelli family, especially with no phone, no internet, and no goddamn hobbies.
There’s a TV, but I can’t seem to find the comedies funny or the dramas interesting. Besides, Marco likes to watch ESPN all day and gets antsy if I turn over to anything else. There’s a library, but I’m not much of a reader, although Luca is, judging by the number of books I’ve seen lying around the house over the last few days, always open, in the process of being read. Real boring shit, like biographies of dead Romans or modern entrepreneurs. But I never seen Luca himself, just these remnants of his reading.
I find myself wondering what the hell I used to do all day when I was free as a bird, stretching my fine finch wings over the great City of New York. Because I can’t remember much of substance, but I was never alone.
Not like this.
I used to go to the gym most mornings, or for a run with some buddies. Then I’d have lunch with more friends at my favorite cafés—a different one each day, to spread the love around. I’d hang with an arty crowd in the afternoons who were looking to procrastinate, maybe chill in Central Park; if anyone I knew had a job, sometimes I’d crash their workplaces and see what they were up to. Nights were for partying, for chasing highs, for finding a warm body to spend a few hours with.
Everything I did revolved around reducing any time alone so I didn’t have to think. And if I ever did find myself alone too long, I could kill the panic with a benzo, maybe watch some porn and jerk off.
These days I don’t see many people. These days there’s too much time to think.
I’m only allowed to go to one specific gym where all the Italian types hang out. It’s got none of the high-tech machines I’m used to, and it stinks like a gym locker. No artisanal teas or smart water after a workout; no hot men to stare at and maybe hook up with in the showers, not that I’d want to these days. But even if one of these dudes were actually into it, none of them would dare to approach me. Marco hangs around like a cold I can’t shake off, glowering at anyone who even nods at me.
And all of them, without a doubt, recognize me as Luca D’Amato’s husband. I can hear his name whispered around when they think I’m not listening. They all look for the ring on my finger, just to see if it’s true, and then I might as well be a dirty sock in the changing room for all the attention they pay me.
Marco comes with me to the cafés for lunch, sitting there right next to me so that even when old friends come up to say hi, he’s an intimidating void of
