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“Don’t tell you the truth?” He asked, stepping forward, until they were toe to toe.
“Don’t say things that make me like you. I don’t want to like you.”
“Isn’t it easier if we like each other?” He was surprised to hear himself ask.
“I don’t know about that.” He brow furrowed and she lifted a hand to his chest. To push him away or draw him closer? He’d never know, because the sensation of skin on skin was so incendiary, it was like an enormous Molotov cocktail had been thrown between them. One touch and they were both lost, moving frantically to close every tiny piece of distance between them, their bodies melded completely, so someone moaned but he didn’t even know which of them it was. There was no beginning nor end to them, they were utterly bound together, legs entwined, arms, lips enmeshed. He felt her breaths, her cries, her moans, and when he lifted her, and wrapped her legs around his waist, he felt happier than he had in a long time—and it didn’t occur to him, in that moment, to mind.
Georgia couldn’t catch her breath. Wave after wave of pleasure had washed over her, almost like an assault, but of the best possible kind. She was radiating delight and warmth and glowing from the inside out. Her whole body was satiated and heavy, her eyes could barely stay open. She was aware of Dante, beside her, moving from the bed, but she reached for him, grabbing hold of his fingers before he could move too far.
“Don’t go,” she said, voice groggy from euphoria and release. “Not yet.”
She couldn’t keep her eyes open to know how he was reacting but their fingers stayed wrapped together. “You’re tired.”
“Just stay until I’m asleep,” she yawned. “Then you can go.” She said it without thinking, but as the words left her lips, she sobered. As delightful as that had been—and it had been, exactly what her heart had been yearning for—she knew what it meant to him.
Betrayal.
Her pleasure and delight had an answering pain and guilt for Dante. Would it always be this way?
And what was ‘always’? It wasn’t as though she had any reason to suspect this would continue for long. Maybe once the baby was born, she’d be so bogged down in motherhood and milk and diapers and unable to dredge up the energy for anything. Or maybe he’d have moved on, reawakened to his sexual side and happy to start dating again.
All of these thoughts left an unpleasant taste in Georgia’s mouth and filled her throat with a strange lump. She dropped her hand back to the bed and rolled over, facing the wall, feigning sleep, just so he’d feel okay to leave.
He pulled on some shorts and went down to the kitchen to begin chopping vegetables for their dinner, her sweet, intoxicating smell lingering on his skin so he felt her with him as he began to sauté celery and carrots together with onion and garlic. He added white wine and parsley and then some rice, the simple risotto recipe his grandmother had taught him as a young boy.
It was the perfect meal because it could sit on the stove for a long time without the quality suffering, so even though Georgia didn’t surface until close to midnight, bleary-eyed and wearing that same shirt, the food was still perfect, just in need of a little reheating.
“You cooked?” She asked, obviously surprised, her eyes sweeping over him.
“You’re always hungry, remember,” he murmured, pulling two shallow bowls from a drawer and heaping risotto into each.
“It smells amazing.”
He didn’t contradict her, but inwardly, he reflected on it being Georgia that smelled amazing. Georgia’s sweet, delicious fragrance that had been distracting him all day.
“I get so tired these days.”
“I believe that’s normal for pregnancy.”
“I’m not usually like this. But the sun and the swim today, and then—you and me?—,”
“Yes,” his eyes flashed to hers. “That will do it.”
She bit down into her lip. “Are you okay?”
He arched a brow, waiting for her to continue.
“I get that it’s complicated for you. That you can’t just enjoy that, that it brings a heap of other emotions to the fore. I guess I’m just saying…if you want to talk, I’m here.”
Only Dante didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about Bianca and how utterly he’d loved her, nor how beautiful their daughter was, nor how he’d promised himself he would honour them always. He didn’t want to talk about the guilt he felt for having slept with Georgia again because, when he looked inside his soul, he didn’t see anywhere near the guilt he should have felt. It was as if the frequency of their coming together was eroding his anger about it.
Bianca and Livvie were a part of him. A huge part. He would never love again, because of the pain of that loss and the absence they’d left in his life.
But that didn’t mean Georgia still couldn’t be his, in some way, so long as she was okay with that—so long as she accepted the limitations of what he could offer.
He knew his family meant well, but as soon as he and Georgia stepped out onto the terrace, Dante was second guessing the wisdom of this plan. Georgia was like a deer in headlights as the entirety of the Santoro family descended upon her, reaching for her and drawing her away from Dante and into hugs, touching her stomach without asking if that was okay, grabbing her cheeks, asking her a thousand questions they had no right to voice. He groaned, but nobody heard him. Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention, anyway. It was all about Georgia. His lips formed a grim line as he watched. Georgia though seemed to take it in her stride, laughing at something his cousin Rocco had said, then turning to face Portia, who was at least standing a respectful distance back and smiling like a normal person.
Marco said something, Georgia nodded, then his mother moved in, and it was here that Dante decided he had to save Georgia. He cut through the crowd of extended family and put a hand to Georgia’s lower back. “Come and sit down,” he murmured.
