Fear seized her gut when she felt her blouse wrenched from her. She tried to pull herself into a ball, but Marco was too strong, and his knees were pressing painfully into her thighs.
He groped beneath her waist, and she felt him push between her legs.
“Stop!”
But he covered her mouth with his other hand, and his glare was so harsh, so penetrating, her cry turned into a low moan and ended in a whimper.
“Kiss me,” he demanded and bent over her. “Kiss me the way you’ve always wanted to, Annamarie. Like they do on the stages. On the screen.” He removed his hand and pressed his mouth on hers again.
Annamarie tasted the snot at the back of her throat and sobbed.
“Quit crying like a baby,” Marco hissed. “You’ve been waiting all this time. Here I am.”
A stabbing wave of pain moved up her middle. Quick. Brutal. Was he cutting her open? His face over hers, his hair covering his eyes. She could smell something like soured milk on his breath. His hand was still clamped over her screams, and she squeezed her eyes shut, turned her head as the knife ripped through her.
When he withdrew from her, he fell next to her, breathing as if he’d been running. She did not dare open her eyes. The cold air on her naked breasts and shoulders, on her legs, made her shiver too. Her thighs ached where his knees had dug into her. She pulled her legs up to her middle, everything hot, burning, and bruised.
His touch on her arm made her gasp.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m not myself.”
She put a hand to her mouth, the snot running onto her knuckles. Stay still. Don’t make a noise.
“Annamarie? I said I’m sorry.” The intake of breath was impatient. “I love you, all right?”
She opened her eyes, afraid that if she spoke, she would vomit. She stared at the plaster trim between the wall and the ceiling.
The bed shifted beneath her, and she felt him hovering over her, probably propped on an elbow. With one hand, she pulled her skirt down, and with the other, she tried to draw her blouse closed, but his hand stopped her, pushing the fabric away to expose her left breast again. A tear rolled down and soaked the blue bedcover beneath her face.
“Annamarie? Say something. They say it hurts the first time. But just the first time.”
When his hand came over her face, she squinted her eyes shut again, but he did not strike. All he did was turn her face to his, then the rest of her followed so that she was flat on the mattress again. Everything in her wanted to curl back up. Behind her eyelids, things went darker, and then she felt his lips on hers, but hers did not respond to his kiss. She could not. She was frozen. Burning but frozen.
“Tell me you’re okay,” he said. “Please. Just say you’re okay.”
Nothing about her breathing was normal. Her chest shook and heaved, every breath ragged. His face close to hers, he caressed her, and his mouth kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her neck. Each touch of his lips seared against her skin. “It was my first time too, Annamarie.”
He was lying! She shut her eyes tighter.
“I said I was sorry, damn it!”
His voice had cracked again, and when she felt something wet on her skin, she looked up at him, startled. Marco was crying, and he brushed at the tears angrily. Or it was fear. Fear and anger.
She rolled towards him, suddenly very tired. “Don’t cry, Marco. I’m sorry. I’m fine. It’s fine.”
She put her arms around him best she could and pulled him to her, whispering over and over how everything was fine. The more his body resisted against hers, the more she insisted that it would all be right again. She repeated it over and over until he finally gave in to her, until he finally lay on top of her, his head beneath her chin, her fingers stroking his hair, her breathing quieting them both. Her repeated promises now meant to convince herself.
***
“S ince we didn’t get to Venice,” Marco later said, “why don’t we go to Milan at the weekend?”
She was watching his finger as he traced her rib cage, then her belly button, the blouse useless against him. When he finally looked at her, she covered herself, nodding.
This was what she had been waiting for, and now she wanted none of it. The guilt smacked her. She couldn’t hold a grudge. It would be selfish of her. But she wanted something in return for this. “I can’t spend another day with your grandparents, Marco. Really, I can’t. I need to go elsewhere.”
“Then let’s look at the dormitories at the university.”
“Why can’t I just stay with you? When do you plan to tell your father about me?” She sat up and stared out the window. Marco would have to marry her now, wouldn’t he? He’d have to tell his father about them.
When Marco groaned, she shrank away. He flopped onto his back and rubbed his face, the curly ends of his dark hair over his long fingers. He lay like that for a long time, and for a moment, she thought he was sobbing again.
“You’re right,” he suddenly said, looking at her through his fingers before sitting back up. His tone was flat. “It’s time. It’s my parents’ anniversary tomorrow. Did you know that?”
How could she? She knew little about his parents and almost nothing about his father except that Angelo Grimani disapproved of her. “And?”
Marco’s smile was
