Sweetest Sorrow by J. M. Darhower
So instead, she wandered around, ending up in the boy's bedroom again. She plopped down on the old Batman comforter and grabbed a book from his bookshelf, mindlessly flipping through the pages. Matty finished in a matter of minutes, exiting the bathroom naked except for the towel around his waist. It was white and flimsy, stolen from one of the cheap motels they'd stayed in.
"You smell better," Genna called out as he started to pass by. "Or well, I think so. You don't stink from here."
Matty strolled into the bedroom, ignoring her comments. "Give up on your orgasmic air conditioning experience?"
Genna motioned toward the ceiling above the bed, to the perfectly placed vent. "I still feel it. Novelty kind of wore off, though."
"I suspect you'll be saying that about me someday."
Genna laughed as he sat down, nearly flashing her when the towel came loose. "What makes you think I don't already say it?"
He glanced around. "Because there's nobody around for you to say it to."
"Touché."
"Got you on a technicality." Matty cupped her cheeks with both hands, framing her face. "Guess that means I win for now."
"For now."
Matty kissed her, another peck like the one downstairs, before deepening it, his tongue gliding along her lips. Shifting positions, he pushed her back against the bed, leaning overtop of her. Genna kissed him back, losing herself in the moment, until his hand slid up her inner thigh, finding its way through the bottom of her shorts.
Breaking from the kiss, she pushed against him. "No, wait, we can't…"
Matty pulled away, sighing, and removed his hand. He grabbed the towel as he stood, attempting to wrap it around his waist, but Genna snatched ahold of it. "No, I mean, wait."
He shot her a confused look, loosening his grip on the towel, letting her yank it away. She tossed it on the floor behind her, discarding the thing, as her eyes drifted along his torso, following the happy trail right down to her happy place.
Wow.
He was hard, without a doubt, harder than Genna had probably ever seen him. Poor guy had blue balls. They'd been joking earlier, about the mediocre sex, but the truth was sex had been scarce.
"I wouldn't call myself modest or anything," Matty said, "but you're examining my dick pretty hardcore and I'm starting to get a little self-conscious about it."
Genna's eyes darted to his face, her cheeks growing warm.
"Hey, it's okay," he said, cupping her chin and tilting her face up. "We don't have to do anything. You owe me nothing. I can knock it out in the shower if I need to, if you know what I mean. Not a problem."
His voice was playful, and she knew he was genuine, but man, those words made her feel guilty. You owe me nothing. He truly believed that. She could tell. But it was a lie, because she owed him the universe. She was his world, maybe, but Matty was the sun. Without the world, the sun would keep on burning, but without the sun, eventually, the world would die. Not to be melodramatic, but that was how she felt. Matty burned so bright that he kept her breathing, he kept her living, he made it so that she could create life. Without him, she'd be lonely, dark, and cold, withering away until there was nothing.
And he didn't even know it.
"I want to," she said, placing her hand on his thigh. "But it's just, you know... we can't do it here."
Matty's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because it's a little kid's room."
"Not anymore," he said. "They're long gone, Genna. They left before getting an electric can opener, remember? The kid who slept in this room is probably a hell of a lot older than us now."
"I know, but still... there are baseball posters and Boxcar Children books and I'm sitting on a freaking Batman blanket."
He looked around. "We can get rid of it all."
"No," she said quickly. "Ugh, that feels even worse. I can't throw away the kid's things just to ease my guilt over defiling his room."
"So, what, the shower?"
She rolled her eyes, standing up, and pushed him toward the doorway. "No, we'll just go across the hall. There's a bed in there."
Matty let her drag him to the room across the hall. "Pretty sure a kid slept in here at some point, too."
"Probably, but it doesn't matter," she said, wrapping her arms around him as he backed her up to the bed. "There's no Batman blanket."
Matty laughed, laying her down on the bare mattress. It was old, and not so comfortable, and she cringed to think of how unhygienic it might be, but goddammit, it was a bed, and they were going to use it. "What's your problem with Batman?"
"It just feels so innocent," she whispered. "Everything in there seemed so pure."
"And this room is, what? Not so innocent?"
"You could say that," she said as he nuzzled into her neck. "It feels cold. Figuratively speaking, and not literally, because it's still hot as fuck in here."
He hummed in response, placing a kiss on her throat, his teeth grazing her skin and lightly biting. Genna gasped, tilting her head, as she ran her fingers through his damp hair. Matty made easy work of her clothes, slipping them off and tossing them on the floor. She lay beneath him, stark naked, goose bumps springing up along her skin. His hands were all over her, touching, caressing, and leaving a trail of fire from his fingertips.
Matty reached between them, his hand drifting between her legs, stroking her inner thighs before he made his way to her middle. A chill radiated down Genna's spine, tingles encompassing her.
"So soft," he whispered, rubbing her clit with his fingers. "I've loved that about you since the very beginning. The Ice Princess had a soft spot."
"For you," she mumbled.
"For me," Matty said. "All mine, nobody else's… it'll never belong to anyone but me."
Genna smirked. "You're kind of hot when you get possessive."
He pulled back a bit to look at her. "You think so?"
She playfully scrunched up her nose. "Maybe."
Matty laughed under his breath, pulling his hand away from her to grasp himself. He stroked a few times, not that he needed to. He was still rock hard.
Shoving her knees further apart, Matty settled between her legs, not hesitating before lining up and slowly pushing in. His eyes fluttered closed, practically rolling in the back of his head, as he filled her, a soft growl escaping. "Fuck."
He rocked against her, pulling out before pushing back in. It was slow and sweet, and Genna waited for him to increase his pace, to give her more.
It didn't happen.
"More," Genna whispered, coaxing him. "Please."
Matty moved a tad bit faster, a barely noticeable increase. Genna dug her rigid nails into his back, repeating her words.
"Please, Matty. More."
If he heard her, he certainly didn't listen, because he kept moving at the same pace. Genna gave him a moment, thinking maybe he was just trying to get his bearings, figuring he'd pick it up soon enough, but when it didn't happen, she lost a bit of her patience, realizing it was intentional.
He was being careful. Too careful.
"I'm not breakable," she said. "You're not going to break me. I'm pregnant, not helpless."
Matty pulled back a bit, propping himself up on his elbows, as he stared down at her. After a moment, he kissed her lips, softly and sensually, barely a peck before whispering, "I know."
Yet he went right back to what he'd been doing.
"I swear to God, Matteo Barsanti," Genna growled. "If you don't fuck me—"
In a blink, Matty shoved her knees up, opening her legs wider, as he slammed into her. Genna gasped, eyes widening with surprise, as he looked down at her, his expression serious. "Is that better?"
Genna nodded. "Uh-huh."
A smile cracked his face. Leaning down, he kissed her, a few quick pecks. "Whatever the lady wants."
That was it. Those were the last words spoken. Genna's knees were forced against her chest, her legs over Matty's shoulders, as he thrust hard... as he started fucking her. She whimpered,
He was still, somehow, careful.
He knew her limits. He knew her needs. He knew what made her tick. He knew what she wanted from him. And he gave it to her—fucking her, yes, but with mercy. Fucking her so she knew who was in control, so she knew he wouldn't dare hurt her.
The pressure built inside of her, an orgasm coming on. She clung to Matty, gasping, as it rocked through her. Her body convulsed with pleasure, and Matty let out a throaty groan. It didn't take him long after that. Her orgasm was just waning when he let loose. Genna felt him spilling inside of her, the warmth spreading between them. He nuzzled into her neck, grunting, forcing her legs so far against her that her thighs ached.
After a few more thrusts, he stilled, just lying there.
"Matty?" Genna whispered.
"Yeah?"
"You're killing my legs."
He laughed, letting go of her, and pulled out as he moved. Flopping over on the bed beside her, he stretched out and closed his eyes. Genna rolled over onto her side, gazing at him. Sweat glistened from his skin. He hadn't stayed clean long after that shower. Her eyes scanned him, from his face and down his chest, drifting right toward his cock. She let out a laugh, shaking her head.
How was he still so hard?
"Never—and I mean never—look at a guy's dick and laugh. That's just all sorts of messed up."
Genna's gaze drifted back to Matty's face, seeing his eyes open again. "Did it bruise your ego?"
"I've got no more ego left to bruise," he said. "I left it back in New York, along with everything else… certainly my pride and most of my common sense… probably my dignity, too."
Genna smiled. "You've got me, though. And we've got this place. That counts for something, right?"
"Counts for everything." He squeezed her to him, kissing the top of her head. "Who needs self-respect when you've got decent sex and a half-ass working air conditioner?"
Business as usual.
As Dante stood in front of the open refrigerator in the kitchen, he realized life had continued as usual around there. Every day was like the one before it, like nothing had changed.
Like everything was normal.
Leftovers piled the shelves. The kitchen was stocked full of groceries. Wine had even been chilled. Primo Galante hadn't missed a beat. Life went on. The world kept turning. The calendar affixed to the wall had been changed, the month flipped.
Time hadn't stopped for them.
Dante shifted through the containers of food. Not that he was hungry, but he couldn't remember the last time he ate something that wasn't Jell-O.
The pizza from Nurse Russo.
Spaghetti. Lasagna. Some other kind of pasta. None of it caught his attention. Definitely not the chicken salad… he couldn't stand the sight of it. He grabbed a bottle of water and took a sip, hoping it would help settle his stomach.
The faint sound of footsteps registered through the downstairs, reaching Dante's ears as they moved through the foyer, coming his direction. Dante didn't look. He did nothing but stand there, sipping water in front of the open refrigerator, as whoever it was entered the kitchen.
Silence overwhelmed them.
It sucked all the air from the room.
"Dante?"
Primo's voice was quiet. Hesitant. Dante took another sip of water before screwing the lid back on. Shutting the refrigerator door, knowing he wouldn't find his appetite now, he turned to the doorway to greet his father. "Dad."
The second Dante spoke, Primo's expression shifted, relief relaxing his features, like he'd feared Dante was a figment of his imagination. Maybe I'm not the only one waiting for ghosts to pop up.
"It's good to see you, son," Primo said. "Good to have you home. I never thought—"
"Never thought you'd see me again?" Dante guessed.
Primo nodded. "Not alive. I thought—"
"They killed me?" Dante guessed again.
"Yes." Primo took a step closer. "They sent me a message—a son for a son. The blood in the car… there was no sign of you anywhere."
"So you looked?"
Primo stared at him.
He didn't respond.
The son of a bitch didn't look for me.
"You looked, right?" Dante asked again, not dropping that. He knew his father well enough to know his silence meant he had no answer, but Dante wanted an explanation. "You said there was no sign of me anywhere, so I'm guessing that means you looked everywhere?"
Primo stared at him some more before offering an answer. "They had you. There was no point."
No point.
Maybe Primo hadn't meant that the way it sounded, but those words were like a knife to Dante's gut. On one level, he got it. He'd even told his sister once: when the Barsantis got their hands on you, there would be nothing left. But that didn't mean they shouldn't still look.
That didn't mean there was no point.
"Well, what do you know," Dante said, motioning toward himself. "They left some part of me to be found. Not sure how much is salvageable, but here I am."
Something in the tone of Dante's voice, or maybe it was the bluntness of his words, sent Primo's guard up. Dante saw it in the way the man's shoulders squared, the way his jaw clenched. The relief dissipated as fast as it came about. Primo's eyes studied Dante's face.
Dante knew the tactic. He'd seen it employed hundreds of times. His father stared people down, breaking them with silence, using intimidation as a form of punishment. He'd done it to countless men. Hell, he'd even used it on Genna. But he'd never tried with Dante before. He'd never had to.
And as they stood there, Primo staring him down, Dante realized it wasn't working. He was immune. He felt nothing but anger, the kind that burned cold and not hot. It wasn't volatile rage.
He was numb.
"We should talk," Primo said, breaking first, to Dante's surprise. He'd never seen his father let someone else win that game. "A lot has happened."
"Like the explosion in Little Italy?" Dante guessed. "I heard all about it."
Primo's eyes narrowed with a flash of rage, a flash of suspicion, before he straightened his expression out. His voice, though, betrayed his calm demeanor. "From who?"
Dante considered concocting some story to avoid what he knew would become an argument, but that was just a part of him that wanted to save face. Fuck it. "Amaro."
That answer shocked Primo. "Johnny Amaro?"
"No, his son."
"What the hell does that boy know about anything? When did you even talk to him?"
"He visited me," Dante said. "Came to the hospital."
"He did what?"
"He heard I was alive so he stopped by to see how I was doing." Dante paused, intending to drop it, but words kept flowing from his lips instead. "It's kind of fucked up, really... Amaro being the only person who bothered to check on me."
That struck Primo hard… just as hard as the mention of Genna had hit him at the hospital. The man flinched, his face paling, like he couldn't believe those words had come from Dante.
"I came to the hospital," Primo said, taking a step forward, pointing at Dante. "You know I did. You saw me there. That woman—that nurse—told me to leave. But I called every day to check on you. I called to make sure you were getting better. So don't give me that bullshit about Amaro being the only one who bothered, because no one named Amaro cares about you. No one named Amaro gives a fuck if you live or die."
"Maybe not," Dante said, "but someone named Amaro respected me enough to tell me the truth."
Primo scoffed. "Respect? You think he respects you? If you think he told you anything out of respect, you've lost your mind! And truth? What does he know of the truth? He was probably there to gloat!"
"He's got nothing to gloat about," Dante said. "He lost a cousin, you know."
To be technical, Dante thought, Gavin lost two. Enzo died at Dante's hands. He personally had taken away one of Gavin
"I'm well aware of their relationship to the Barsantis," Primo spat. "It just furthers my point. Whatever truth you think he gave you is skewed. His loyalties lie with them. He's not your friend. No Amaro is, nor will one ever be, not as long as you're a Galante. You need to get that through your head and get over this 'he respects me' nonsense, and you need to do it quickly."
Primo turned, intending to walk away, like he considered the conversation over, but Dante wasn't done talking. "So tell me."
Primo stalled. "Tell you what?"
"The truth," Dante said. "Tell me the version that isn't skewed. Respect me, since Amaro doesn't, and tell me what happened."
A moment passed, and then another, before Primo looked at Dante again. His expression was calm. He'd pulled himself together with ease. "You want to know the truth, son?"
"You know I do."
Primo took a few steps forward, his demeanor casual, like the man was just strolling through the room. Unruffled. It was a facade, Dante knew. A mask to hide behind, to not let Dante see he'd gotten under his skin, but it was too late. Dante knew he'd struck a bad nerve, one he might never recover from. Primo had, even momentarily, questioned his son's loyalty. Was there any going back from that?
"The truth," Primo said, "is that I did what I swore I would do. I went after Matteo Barsanti. I blew up his car. And if you expect me to feel even an ounce of regret about that, you're going to be disappointed. I refuse to grieve for a Barsanti."
"But what about my sister?"
Dante kept his voice even as he asked that. Emotion was vacant in his voice. He felt it, though. He felt the anger. He felt the pain in his chest. Man, it burned.
Primo said nothing.
Dante wondered if he planned to answer at all.
What could he say? How could he twist it? How could he justify harming his own daughter?
But eventually, Primo let out a deep sigh that almost... almost... sounded coated in regret. When he spoke, though, Dante realized he'd been mistaken. Not regret. Shame. He was ashamed of her. "Genevieve knew. She knew, and she turned her back on us, on this family, and she chose him instead. She chose a Barsanti. So do I grieve her? Absolutely. I grieve the loss of her every day. But not for the reason you're thinking. It's not because of anything I did. Your sister committed suicide, as far as I'm concerned. She did it to herself. I'm not to blame."