coming from your mouth.”
“Have I,” she pauses to gulp, “ever said ‘I love you’, Santino?”
Gina hisses as she ends up on top of me. I clutch her hips, knead them. For a split second, pain flits across my face. I nudge my chin. The woman that I love climbs off me slowly.
46
Gina
Three days sift by, and we’ve hardly said a word to each other. God, I want to talk to him, to forgive him. I want a lobotomy on the part of my brain, which holds the images of him having an orgy.
Yesterday, Santino left the cabin, returning hours later with a thrift store bag. The contents were a couple of pairs of sweats, a pair of size 14 jeans, and a pack of pink thermals. Needless to say, after my days off the grid in upstate New York, those darn jeans fit like thee glove. Mind you, I’m referencing the leather glove from the famous OJ trial ages ago.
Unsure if the clothing was a peace offering or he’d been giving me an “out,” I’d showered, dressing in the sweats, of course. I walked toward the front door and lacked the strength to leave.
Today, he disappeared early. Now, it’s hours later. With daylight savings in heavy rotation, I’ve exited the steam room I created during a leisure shower. I’m not sure why Santino thought I should be walking around like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. With the pink thermal and sweats, I stroll over to the lamp on the nightstand. I tug the string, and the lamp offers a tiny beacon of light.
“It’s still too dark!” I lurch when an owl hoots. C’mon, Santino . . . you can hate me for being an asshole, but don’t leave me here. I sink onto the edge of the bed. With a mouth habituated with spewing venom, I start to wonder. What if he left me here?
For another half hour, horror stories toppled through my mind. Each one trails off and leads to another terror.
The door opens, and I rush to the banister to look over, gulping down a lump. Thank God, you’re back.
In a split second, I’ve silently eye-fucked Santino. Of course, my gaze has eaten him like my favorite ice cream while I glower. A clean pair of jeans hugs at his thighs, a light blue flannel clings to every ripple of muscle along his chest and arms. The orange construction vest he wears on occasion obstructs my view of where the flannel opens. Damn, I crave another peek. Suspiciously eyeing the alarm clock in his hand, I cork a brow, then turn around and timber into the bed.
Thunderous talking breaks through my musing. Someone with a pristine ‘radio voice’ discusses how a few inches of snow is expected overnight. The channel changes. First, an old Johnny Cash song blares through the speakers, followed by a new one from Hillsong United. Then bold sound vibrates through the tiny speaker, and that sound is coming closer.
I settle against the headrest. From the corner of my eye, Santino is claiming every step he takes up the stairs. He has a wooden chair in one massive bicep held behind his head. At his other side is the radio.
My little traitorous tongue comes out prepared to lick my bottom lip. I reign that troublesome muscle back into my mouth. Next, the disloyal folds between my thighs are tweaking—he can’t see that, and I have no reign over my pussy. This bad kitty owns me.
Every move he makes accentuates his glorious body as Santino places the radio on the ground. Then the wooden chair is moving all around his shoulders, and he sets it down too. Tension swells as our eyes meet. He moves side to side, my immoral gaze attached to him.
Santino’s sliding the orange vest off, and my mouth tenses. That could’ve been his shirt. He’s wearing too many clothes!
Dayum, Gina! Shut up, you idiot.
A wicked smile descends on his attractive face as the song fades. He sits in the chair as the beat starts up, with his heated gaze on me. I recognize “Grind on me . . .” by Pretty Ricky. Damn, Ginuwine’s “Pony” would be perf—oh, hell, Gina, stop it.
I’m telling myself to avert my gaze. Impossible! Santino’s hands are behind him on the edge of the seat as his powerful legs extend wide. The lascivious move draws my eyes to his friggin package! Santino runs a hand down his chest, fucking his hips upward again. His fluid movements are mesmerizing.
The