Yet he wanted it to be.
There was just one unkind comment, as dessert was being served, when Eloa spoke of her wedding that was now just a few short weeks away. She told Mia, ‘Ariana is helping us organise a few things,’ clearly trying to feed her into the conversation.
‘Yes.’ Ariana flashed a red-lipped smile at Mia. ‘It’s going to be amazing. Anyone who’s anyone has been invited...’
Meaning—not you!
Gian caved.
Ariana felt his hand on her thigh, and the grip of his fingers actually halted her words.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ she said to Gian, while looking ahead. ‘If you reward me each time I go too far...’
‘Would you prefer the discipline method?’
She threw her head back and laughed.
Even with Mia at her table, Ariana found that with Gian beside her she could still have such a wonderful night.
And it was then that she got another reward, for as the desserts were served and shots of coffee were tossed over ice creams, there was a special dish, made just for her. Tutti-frutti.
Ariana gasped.
‘Yes.’
It was better than being handed chestnuts on a freezing night; it was better than a sliver of gold when she could not face her father’s funeral alone.
‘Thank you.’
She wanted to cry as she tasted the sweet candied ice cream and remembered how her father had, over and over, let her get away with buying three cones, just so she could devour them all.
Happy memories reigned as little shots of sugar burst on her tongue and when she finished she had to dab at her eyes with her napkin. ‘Ice cream has never made me cry before,’ she admitted to Gian as the waiter cleared her very clean plate. ‘Happy tears, though. It was beautiful, thank you.’
‘Shall we get it over with?’ Gian asked as the band struck up.
‘Get what over with?’ Ariana said, as if she didn’t know.
‘The duty dance.’
It had been months since she had known the bliss of his arms, and for Gian it had been months with no feminine pleasure.
He’d known he would only be thinking of her and, besides, no one else had her scent.
‘Your perfume,’ he said, as he held her at a distance and resumed their old wars.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said, ‘I don’t wear any.’ She looked right at him. ‘You’re the only one who complains.’
‘I’m not complaining.’
‘Why do you always hold me at such a distance?’
‘You know why,’ he said, and pulled her deep in so she could feel him hard against the softness of her stomach. She flared to the scent of citrus and bergamot and testosterone and the roughness of his skin seemed to burn her rouged cheek. ‘You didn’t shave...’
‘Because you like me unshaven.’
‘Gian.’ She was trying to breathe and dance and deal with the change all at the same time. She simply didn’t understand him. ‘You’ve ignored me most of the night...’
‘I tried to,’ he admitted.