The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

Prologue

14 Months Ago

When he spotted her at the bar that night, he didn't imagine that he would end the night with her in his bed. Her beauty was apparent and it was such that initially made him notice her. She wore a pair of dark denim jeans, a crème-colored chiffon sweater—one whose thinness made the nubs of her nipples faintly noticeable in the cool temperature of the pub—and a pair of sandals with a shit load of straps. She gave off a wave of innocence and munificence, what with her soft, blue eyes, celestial nose, and red lips. Her hair was perhaps his favorite; it was dirty blonde and reached just past her breasts.

However, it was the words that left her mouth after they'd ordered the same drink that left him speechless. With the hint of a smile stretching his lips, he'd said to her, "I'm Ruggiero." It had always been hard for him to keep the strong Italian accent from plaguing his words, but he felt that he had spoken clearly enough. Then, allowing himself to relax on the stool as they both were handed their Screwdrivers—hers heavy on the vodka, his heavy on the orange juice—he'd asked. "And you?"

She had brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip, looking him over as she did so. He felt as if he was being looked at underneath a magnifying glass, and thinking of himself as a test subject and her as the scientist only made him want her more. She'd set the glass down and sent him a devious grin. "I'm horny and slightly interested."

"No name?" he'd asked.

A roll of her eyes and the turning up of her nose had made him raise a brow. "I can give you a stripper name?" When he didn't reply, she'd said, "Listen, I would give you my name, but if sex with you is bad, I don't want you to try tracking me down to try and redeem yourself."

He had coughed into his fist, stunned by her explanation. "Who said that we're going to have sex?" It was the nicest question that he could muster; he didn't want to have to stomach fighting fire with fire in the chance that she'd flee from the little grasp he'd had on her at that moment.

"I did. I heard Italians had big salsiccia." She'd brought the glass to her lips for another sip and he had felt his cock twitch inside of his pants. He wanted her, fouled mouth and all. "Unless you don't live up to expectations."

He should have felt insulted, but instead, her words had only dared him on. "I'm not worried about expectations, bella. I'm confident in the body I've been given." He leaned a little closer to her, bringing his voice down to a low whisper. "I just wouldn't want to split you in half with my cock."

She had only smiled, the feeling she held in her eyes making him feel dizzy. "Try me."

After they each had another drink, the light-haired beauty had found her way into his bed, undressing in the light of his bedroom, and had lowered herself down onto him with a breathy gasp. Once she took in his size and was feeling confident again, he watched with a heavy gaze as her back arched and her nails dug into his thighs. He felt the heat clench around him and she parted her lips.

He thought she would moan, but instead, she chose to say: "I've had bigger, but you'll have to do."

It was then that he had changed his mind. Playing nice with the girl wouldn't do.

❁

Going to the bar was a part of her weekly routine. On Thursdays after work, she freshened up with a few sprays of perfume and reapplied her lipstick before driving to the heart of the city. That was how it had been for the past two months since her boyfriend broke up with her. It wasn't out of desperation. Rather it was out of the need to be satisfied. Sexual frustration only made her meaner. More irritated. Less tolerable.