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I leave them with a brief, “Goodnight.”
They both bid me a quick goodnight, effectively dismissing me.
Heading up the stairs, my hand grips the polished railing. I pause at the landing long enough to steal a parting look at her before I retreat for the evening.
She stands beside Gian, smiling in a way she never will for me.
She’s at home in her skin, rare for that age. She’s hopelessly unaware of her captivating presence. Or her classic, almost haunting beauty.
Like the view of the lake at midnight under a full moon.
Feeling my gaze on her, she turns. Our eyes meet and, the smile falls from her face, freezing somewhere between fear and confusion. My chest tightens. It’s difficult to breathe.
She does something to me. It scares me; I feel out of control.
My hand goes back into my pocket, and I push the button. She gives a start and a squeal. Her hand goes to the mantle, anchoring herself as the powerful vibrations do their work. I press the button again, turning the toy off.
She gasps and exhales. Gian says, “Are you alright, signorina?”
“Y—yes… I’m… okay.” She pauses a moment, then says, “Just nerve pain. Sciatica. It starts in the lower back and radiates down the leg. You never know when it’s going to hit.”
Clever girl—an ailment she’s probably borrowed from her grandmother.
She turns to the staircase, glaring at me. I’m the first to break our gaze as I climb the rest of the stairs. My thumb presses the button on, then off. I enjoy hearing the parting squeal from downstairs.
In the privacy of my room, I close the door. Needing to feel something solid, I lean my forehead against the back of the door, the wood cool against my skin.Harrison. What have you done?
Why have I brought this girl here?
I thought I was getting my revenge and sending a message to everyone in Italy?—
Steal from me, and I’ll remove what’s most precious to you.
I'm in danger with her presence in my house, her laughter in my ears, and her scent all over me. I feel like I’m back on the ice, sacrificing my body to defend the goal. I’ll do anything not to let that puck slide past the end of my stick. Defend the goal above everything else.
I learned a long time ago not to trust women, not to let them get too close, and not to let the puck into the net.
I move to the dresser, hit play on the speaker, and press my palms against the smooth top. Ella Fitzgerald’s warm voice and soulful, three-octave range typically ease my tension. Now, the melodic sound only makes me crave more of Ophelia. I want to hold her in my arms and slow dance with her.
Fuck! I’m not defending the goal. I’m falling fast, the hard ice welcoming my crash.
I glance in the mirror above the dresser. My hair is still on end from her fingers. I rake my hands through the curls to calm them. I watch my reflection as I slip the tie from my pocket, where I stowed it for this moment. I breathe in the silk, inhaling her scent, and then tuck the tie safely into my top drawer.
I shower to scrub the smell of her off my skin. Instead, the warm, sudsy water reminds me of kissing her. I stroke myself with my slick, soapy hand, imagining her and all the things I’ve already done to her, her scent still in my nostrils.
Only a handful of hours with her, and I’m addicted. She is my drug. One I paid a pretty penny to purchase the privilege of intoxicating myself with.
Throwing on sweatpants and with still-damp hair, I pull back the covers and collapse into bed. Sometime in the night, I grab a pillow, holding it close like a desperate child. I drift off to sleep, images of her in my mind.
Sometime in the night, a shadow at my open door wakes me. At first, I think it’s a dream, but then she steps into a beam of moonlight streaming through the window, and I see her face. She lifts the covers and, suddenly, is beside me. My arms wrap around her, and I can feel her warmth, her beating heart.
Calmness settles over me like a weighted blanket.
When I awake, I inhale her light floral scent from my pillow before opening my eyes. I turn my head, eager to greet her.
The bed is empty.
Itwasa dream.