The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

15 - Call Me ... Egotistical

The two of us were in my bed and I had my head on his bare chest, enjoying his warmth. He had an arm lazily around me and with the other arm, his hand was stroking my hair. After dinner, he had given in to my silent requests and stayed. "Jace," he cooed, giving my hair a light tug.

I tilted my head up to look at him, smiling. "Yes?"

"You're not as bad as you think you are," he told me. With the view he was offering, I felt like I was looking up at Mount Rushmore. Not as big, of course, but his protruding features were more noticeable. And those eyebrows, God. They were so long. "You're like a feline."

"A cat?" I asked. Did he really just say that?

He laughed and I could feel the vibrations in his chest. "Sí, a cat. But like my nonna's cat Siena; Siena is externally very feisty and is always ready to claw someone's eyes out. But around my nonna, she's very cuddly and very sweet. She's also...grassa. Fat."

I scoffed, sitting up. I placed my hands on either side of his chest, holding myself up. "You compared me to a fat cat? Named Siena?"

He nodded, the hand in my hair still stroking it. "You're cuter, though." His hand left my hair in then it was on the outside of my camisole, where he gave my breast a light squeeze. "More human, too."

I rolled my eyes at him, amused that he was having to look up at me to talk to me. Such role reversal. Usually, I had to look at him. He wasn't too much taller at 5'11 but he was tall enough. A whole eight inches enough. "You're silly," I said. I reached a hand out to stroke his face, his skin smooth against my hand. "No stubble?"

"It'll grow back, dolcezza," he assured me. "I was starting to look like a grizzly bear, though. You saw me at the shop."

I laughed lightly. "You looked fine, Ruggiero. Speaking of which ... you have a nickname? Your name is awfully long."

He pulled his eyebrows together, first looking confused and then he feigned a look of hurt. I scoffed. Faker. "I have you know I have a very respectable name. It means 'Famous Warrior' in Italian."

"Look, honey," I started, patting his chest, "that's fantastic. But it's still entirely too long. Can't I just call you like ... Roger?"

"Rü-jare-oh...Rah-jer.." he tested it out, putting the names together by phonetic pronunciation. "Absolutely not. They sound nothing alike." He removed the hand from my chest and put it on his chin, tapping his jawline. "Call me—"

"Egotistical," I finished for him.

"No," he disagreed, "I am handsome and I know it. I am confident, not egotistical, bella. But before you rudely interrupted, I was going to say call me Adamo."

It was my turn to be confused, my own eyebrows pulling together. "Where the hell did that come from?"

He ignored my use of expletives and just smiled at me. "It's what my mother calls me. It's my second name."

"Say it again," I instructed, shifting so that I sat more comfortably. I sat up all the way, straddling his waist, the hand he had on my waist falling to my thigh.

"Adamo," he said. "You try it."

"Ah-dahm-oh," I repeated.

He shook his head, looking up at me with a grin on his face, showing me his beautiful pearly whites. "You're putting too much emphasis on the 'd.'"

"Whatever." I ran my hands along his chest idly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat now and then. I slowly dragged my palms from his shoulders, down his chest, and then to his stomach, where his little trail of hair was stemming out from underneath his boxers. "Ruggiero Adamo de Fiore, hm?" With a smile, I brought my hands back up to his shoulders. "Interesting name."