I wasn’t proud of it, and I was trying to forget I did it (even though it happened less than half an hour ago), but I ate three of those donuts on the way to my apartment.
What was done was done.
Now I was doing worse.
It was September but still warm, so I’d grabbed an oversized, royal-blue tee tunic dress with three-quarter sleeves and a short skirt that fit tight. The top was blousy and fell off my shoulder, the waist cinched in so the tunic top could flow slightly over the skintight skirt. It was the kind of dress that made a girl feel good wearing it because she knew a man might get hard seeing her in it.
I was no longer on dangerous ground.
I was playing with fire.
The problem with this was that I liked Vi, I loved Cal, and I was looking forward to seeing them both when I wasn’t running for my life or bleeding (near) to death. I was also looking forward to meeting Vi’s daughters, seeing the family Cal found himself after years of drifting through life when shit went down in his that was too painful to even think about, and that shit didn’t even happen to me.
And I was Francesca Concetti. So I wasn’t going to do it in jeans or yoga pants.
This was the least sexy thing I had that wasn’t one of my business outfits (and those had short, tight skirts too).
There was nothing for it.
Even with the mental war I’d waged over the dress, I didn’t consider not strapping on the stiletto-heeled bronze sandals.
This was because, unless I was working out, I didn’t do flats. Ever. Not with jeans (of which I only owned two pairs and wore them rarely). Not with shorts (all of which were the dressy kind; my brand of casual was also about flash and impact). Certainly not with a dress.
I might have been shot, but a lot worse would have to happen to me before I’d consider giving up my heels.
Strangely, straightening from the bed after putting on my shoes, with my hair big, makeup on, in a dress that looked hot but was comfortable, and my usual heels, I felt better than I had in weeks.
Finally, I felt me.
I closed my suitcase, put its wheels to the carpet, and rolled it out, walking down the hall with more pep in my step than I’d had in ages, calling, “Okay, done with that. And I saw we’re running out of Fanta Grape, so on the way home, we should stop by…”
I trailed off and stopped dead when I hit the living room/dining room area and saw Ben in the corner of the living room, standing by a set of shelves that I had not yet packed.
He turned to me and then he stopped dead, but I didn’t really notice it because I saw what was in his hand: a heavy, expensive, beautiful glass frame that I knew contained an eight-by-ten photo of me with the Bianchis at Christmastime years before.
We were all in front of the tree. Carm was home with her husband and kids so we were all scrunched together to fit in the frame. Manny, Theresa, and Carm’s husband, Ken, were even kneeling in order to fit us all in.
Everyone was smiling so big, it wasn’t hard to read every one of us was laughing.
And we were.
The thing about that picture was, Vinnie Junior had claimed Carm’s little toddler girl and was holding her in his arms, her little girl leg tucked to his chest, her little girl hand to his throat, his arms tucking her safe and tight to his tall body.
This left me free.
And I remembered that Christmas. I remembered taking that photo. I remembered that it seemed entirely natural that Benny and I would find each other, and we did. I could not say if I was the one to make the move, or he was, it was that natural. We just gravitated to each other.
So in that photo, everyone scrunched together, I had my front tucked to the side of Benny’s front, my arms tight around his middle, head on his shoulder. He had one arm around my waist, the other arm tight around my shoulders, and you could even see his fingers at my top, squeezing in.
If anyone looked at that picture who didn’t know, they would easily think I was Benny’s, not Vinnie’s. Carm and Vinnie Senior were between us. I was nowhere near Vinnie.
But I was tucked tight to Benny.
That was the only photo of Vinnie I kept out on display. A photo that included all of the Bianchis.
And I kept it out on the shelves in my living room that stood beside my TV.
This meant I saw that photo every day.
My eyes flew to Benny’s and I started, “I—”
I didn’t get another word out.
If I had it in me to guess, I still would not have been able to guess what I would read in his expression when he saw that picture.
But when I looked at his face, I knew he wasn’t thinking about the picture.
And I let go of the handle of my bag and was able to retreat three steps when he set the picture aside and rushed me, acting on what he was thinking.
It was only three steps because he caught me, turned me, and I had no choice but to press against the wall because his body wasn’t giving me one.
I looked up to see his face right there, a look in his eyes that made my stomach dip in a way I’d never felt in my life.
“Ben—”
His hands came to me, one at my hip, the other at the side of my neck, and he cut me off to ask, “Are you serious right now?”
“I—”
His voice was a growl that made my knees get weak when he stated, “’Cause I’m serious right now.”
Suddenly, I loved that he was serious, even though I wasn’t entirely certain what he was even talking about.
“Baby,” I whispered and I had no fucking clue why.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, his fingers on both hands digging in, his face getting closer. “You’re serious right now.”
That was when he kissed me.
No lip touch this time. He kissed me. Fingers digging in, mouth opening up, tongue thrusting inside, kissed me.
I didn’t make that first protest. Not even one.
No.
I tasted the hot, sweet magnificence of Benito Bianchi, felt his hands on me, smelled his aftershave. My hands lifted to his neck and slid up, diving into his thick, fantastic hair, and I held him to me.
When I did, Benny tangled his tongue with mine in a delicious way that made my toes curl in my sandals. He slid one hand in my hair, the other one over my ass to cup it, hauling me into him.
I pressed closer.
Benny kissed me harder.
God, he felt good. He tasted good.
I hadn’t had a kiss since the last one Benny gave me.
I was drunk then, but I still remember it was good.
This one was better. Much better. Too much better. Too dangerous.
Too amazing.
I had to have more.
So I pressed closer and whimpered that need into his mouth.
This had the unfortunate result of Benny breaking the kiss, his hand moving from my ass so he could wrap his arm around my waist, his other hand gliding down to wrap around the side of my neck again. He dropped his forehead to mine.
“Jesus, shit,” he muttered, and I opened my eyes to see his closed.
God, he was beautiful—close, far, eyes closed, annoying me, being gentle with me, being protective of me, after kissing me.
Always.
I slid my hands down to where I could press my palms in the muscle of his neck under his ears, but I kept my fingers in that fabulous hair.
His eyes opened.
More beauty.
“I hurt you?”
And more beauty.
“No,” I whispered.
“That dress, baby,” he whispered back as explanation for the kiss.
“It’s the least sexy one I have.”
His eyes closed again and he repeated, “Jesus, shit.”
Seeing as I’d lost my mind with that kiss right then, I wanted to smile. I felt it fighting inside to get loose. And I wanted this because it felt so fucking good to know all I had to do was put on a hot dress and I could make Benito Bianchi lose control.