But Too Well

LIX : Sharing

So, I woke up this morning to find that this story was trending #1 in #eroticromance and #5 in #mafia... Nearly fainted.

There was a long period of time where no one was reading, so your votes and comments and support mean more than I can say. <3 Thank you guys for everything!

***

I CAN'T TELL if the sex is the best part, or after.

The way we hold each other, hands wandering, the smell of our sin filling the warm air of his bedroom, is perfect.

I feel him plant a soft kiss into my tangled hair, mumbling something gently in Italian.

"One day I'm gonna learn how to speak Italian," I breathe, my voice still foggy with sex.

He chuckles. "Natalia can teach you. Maybe she can translate for you."

I laugh, smacking his shoulder. "Translate all the dirty, dirty things you say to me during sex? Very funny."

He grins crookedly at me, about to say something more, but a buzzing sound comes from the side table. He reaches reluctantly for his cell phone. When he reads the screen, his expression instantly hardens, eyes darkening. "I have to take this, dolcezza." His voice is gruff.

We pry ourselves apart and he answers the phone, his Italian sharp and harsh at whoever is on the other side.

He tugs on a pair of briefs and I watch, curious, as he leaves the room, arguing angrily through the phone.

At first, I listen for a name. But then I remember that eavesdropping is wrong. That I trust him. Right?

Trust. Love and trust are two different things.

But the last week or so, we've shared so many difficult truths with each other. He hasn't been lying to me. Surprisingly, I haven't even lied to him.

I remember a time when all I did was lied to the people I loved.

But Nero and I have pretty much always told each other the hard stuff. Or maybe I'm remembering things better than they actually were.

I tell myself to stop worrying over things I don't need to worry about. If I'm curious, I can ask him. He'll tell me.

I trust him.

Or at least I think I should.

When he finally slides back in through the door, he looks so tired. Pissed and defeated. I lean onto my side and study him, as he runs a hand through his tousled hair. "You okay?" I ask softly, giving him a small smile.

He sits next to me on the mattress, letting out a heavy sigh. "I'll be okay."

But he doesn't look like it.

I push myself up, sit on my knees behind him, my bareness fitting softly against his back and my arms wrapping protectively around his neck. He holds my arms against him, leans his head into my shoulder. My lips brush across his cheek.

I hold him and he holds me and we sit like that for a long time. If he wants to tell me, he will.

But then again, he's not used to sharing things. So I might have to ask, when he's not looking so forlorn and exhausted.

Into his ear I mumble, "You can talk to me, Nero. I'm not going anywhere."

His fingers brush lightly against my wrist, squeezing gently. "Let's take a shower. I'll tell you about it over dinner."