She leaves the room so fast she’s a blur. The door slams shut.
I’m still on my knees. “Do you think—did she?”
“No,” he says.
“What if she—"
“I don’t fucking care,” he says in a heated whisper as he steps over to me. He grabs me by the hair and drags me to my feet. His eyes are wild, his temper out of control.
This is the Santo I know.
This is the Santo I love.
This is the Santo I crave.
“Bed,” he whispers in my ear. “Naked.” He licks my cheek, and a shiver skates down my spine. “Now.”
I stand up and he releases my hair but sends me to the bed with a searing parting smack to the ass. I hiss in a breath but don’t miss my stride. When I reach the bed, I strip and lay belly down over the side of the bed as he told me to, as he continues his close inspection of the nearby rooms.
I close my eyes and melt into the bed. My upholstered bed frame makes it comfortable, with no metal edge pushing against my belly. In the darkness, I listen to Santo. He makes a phone call, his deep rumble of a voice warm and seductive. The no-nonsense edge to him makes me shiver in anticipation.
I swallow hard.
I remember…
I walked downstairs after midnight, my stomach rumbling with hunger. I was on a hunger strike at dinner, angry at Papa’s latest decree to move us to Tuscany for the summer. I didn’t make a show of it, but had no appetite, so I’d pushed my chicken and peas under my pasta and feigned a headache to go upstairs.
Hours later, the hunger woke me and I hoped the kitchen would be vacant.
I got my wish. My bare feet made no noise on the tiled floor as I walked quietly to the pantry and opened the door.
Something caught my gaze outside the window. A shadow passed the window with familiar slouched shoulders, head bowed.
Santo.
Early June by the ocean in New England was sometimes chilly. I grabbed a box of fruit snacks Mama bought for Marialena, pulled my sweater tighter, and headed out the back entrance to the pavilion. We were overdue for a midnight soirée in our favorite hiding spot.
I paused at the door. Even the dogs slept quietly. Far in the distance in the hallway between the Great Hall and coat closet, a grandfather clock chimed midnight.
The enchanted hour, when footmen turned back into mice and princesses became regular girls again. How I longed to go from a princess to rags.
Not many would understand that.
Santo would.
He thought me asleep, so I crept quietly out the back door and made sure to jimmy the latch so we could get back in.
I followed him. Down to The Castle wall, past the pavilion, past the garden. Clouds covered the moon, and I was sent into temporary darkness, but the next shiver of a wind sent the clouds sailing away again. I followed the moonlit path to where Santo sat, under the stars, his back to me.
“What’s a girl got to do around here to get some attention?”
He didn’t startle or even look my way but sat up straighter.
“Get your ass over here and sit.”
At twenty-two years old, Santo was more bossy and commanding than most full-grown men I knew, and considering who my family was, that was saying something.
“Say please.”
“Now.”
“Oh fuck off.”
“You are way overdue for a spanking, aren’t you?” He clucked his tongue.
I grinned and sat beside him. I went for broke and leaned my head on his shoulder. Wordlessly, he wove his fingers through mine and wrapped an arm around me.
“You cold, baby?”
I shook my head. I was never cold snuggled up against him.
I closed my eyes and breathed him in. I lived for these stolen moments.
I knew if my father ever found us out, there’d be hell to pay, but when we were alone it almost didn’t matter. I could almost convince myself that all would be okay.
Santo was the only one I could be myself with. The only one who didn’t expect me to play nice or act the part of the lady I never wanted to be.
“Brought snacks,” I said, shoving the little box of fruit snacks between us.
He snorted. “Uh. Thanks.”
His voice sounded gruffer than usual, so I sat up straighter and looked at him. I stifled a gasp.
“Jesus, Santo.”
Gingerly, I reached a finger to his swollen cheek and puffy eye, my own eyes filling with tears. “Does it hurt?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “Nah.”
“Who?”
He looked away. “You know who.”
“He didn’t make one of the boys do it, then?”
“Not this time. Did the honors himself.”
I wondered sometimes if Santo’s own brand of sex-laced discipline with me was a way for him to take back control, to re-write the narrative so to speak.
It worked for me. I craved his rough touch, losing all control to him. I knew why, at least in part.