Stolen Touches - Page 80

“Dear God,” I moan and throw back my head. When I feel the slightest of bites against my clit, I come so suddenly, I almost fall off the damn countertop.

“Your legs are shaking,” Salvatore says and slowly slides out his fingers.

It’s not just my legs. My fucking brain is shaking along with the rest of my body. I let go of the shelf I’ve been clutching and lower myself down to sit on the counter.

“We could have both ended up on the floor,” I say when I manage to catch my breath. “You’re insane.”

He cocks his head to the side and places his palms on my cheeks, watching me with hooded eyes. “I thought I was ‘dear,’” he says, “and ‘god.’”

I snort in exasperation. “And humble, too.” Then, I shake my head and press my mouth to his, tasting myself on him.

“No, not really.” His hands squeeze a little. “And I would never let you fall, Milene.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Milene is standing in front of the medicine locker on the other side of the room, going through the contents, and making notes on a pad of paper. Probably doing inventory. It takes great willpower to remain seated instead of going to her and bringing her back with me, so she’s by my side.

“You let her button up your shirt,” Ilaria says while changing my bandage.

“I did,” I say.

Ilaria stays silent for a few moments, fumbling with the bandage, but I know she won’t let the subject slide.

“Was it a one-time thing? You didn’t want to distress her even more yesterday?” she asks, her tone a forced kind of casual.

“No. She’s been doing it for quite some time.”

My mother’s hands go still momentarily while dressing the wound. She looks up, an expression of shock written across her face as our gazes connect. With two unusable fingers and nerve damage to the other three, doing things that require finesse has been a problem of mine for years. A weak spot. Letting someone button up a shirt for me is something I would never have allowed. Especially in front of witnesses. And she knows it.

Ilaria’s eyes travel down, stopping on my left hand, which is gripping the edge of the gurney. She reaches out and brushes the back of my hand with the tips of her fingers.

“I forgot how bad it was,” she says.

I attempt to straighten the fingers but can’t. I went through six rounds of surgery on that hand alone. And still, it wasn’t enough. My nerves are too damaged. I hate it. Just looking at the scars, and remembering what they represent, makes me want to kill someone. I never tolerate weaknesses in others, but especially in myself.

There is a question in Ilaria’s eyes as she waits for me to respond.

“I want to feel her skin when I touch her,” I answer. “And I can’t do that if I’m wearing a glove.”

She watches me for a few moments, then whispers, “Are you in love with her, Salvatore?”

For that question, I don’t have an answer. Yet, I can’t keep my attention away from the other side of the room where Milene is still studying the medical supplies intently. She’s wearing jeans and an awful yellow T-shirt I can’t stand. Her hair is gathered into a bun at the top of her head and secured with two pencils.

“I have no idea, Ilaria,” I say. “You know I’m not good with emotional shit.”

“I do know.”

I’m getting up from the gurney, intending to leave, when Ilaria speaks again.

“What would you do if someone hurt her, Salvatore?”

I turn my head rapidly to face her, pinning her with my stare. She takes a step back, but I know it was unconsciously done. Everyone does it. Except Milene. She usually juts her chin up. Or smirks.

“If even a seed of an idea of hurting my wife formed in anyone’s head, I would smash said head open with my bare hands like it’s a fucking watermelon,” I spit out. “Next, Iwould take out their sick brain and squeeze it so hard the only thing left would be mush.”

My mother smiles and heads toward the medicine locker, humming to herself.

Chapter 23