Chapter Seven

Lore

I woke up alone in an unfamiliar room with a slight ache between my thighs to remind me of the events of the night before.

The sun was already streaming through the windows, little golden rays of sun streaking across the walls, making me wince with my swollen eyes.

My heartbeat started to hammer as I moved myself to sit, wondering what time it was, where Renzo was. What he was thinking about me now.

He told me that I hadn’t done anything wrong, but clearly I had. I guess by not telling him about my virginity, I’d somehow… disappointed him. Because he clearly hadn’t enjoyed that.

I pulled the sides of my robe closed, feeling unmoored, adrift in this strange sea, with nothing solid to swim toward.

I climbed out of the bed, tiptoeing across the bedroom to peek out of the door, finding no one in the apartment below. Just the faint scent of strong coffee in the air.

Alone, I grabbed a change of clothes, and took myself into the bathroom, locking the door, running the water in the bath as hot as I could, then stripping out of my robe and nightie.

I slid under the water, feeling the heat of it prick at my skin, an uncomfortable sensation I found a sort of release in as a red flush crept across my legs, arms, and chest. The hot water seemed to squeeze my lungs, making each breath a pained gasp.

This wasn’t the bath I’d dreamed about for years, full of scented soaps, little fizzing bath bombs, a comforting soak meant to ease aches.

It was more of a punishment of sorts.

And each time the water chilled to the point of comfort, I pushed the drain, and filled it up again.

And again.

And again.

Until, finally, there was no more hot water to draw from the tap, making me finally rush to wash my body, then climb out.

The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me with her splotchy cheeks and swollen eyes from crying. With her skin red as a sunburn.

Perhaps it was right to feel different, considering.

Objectively, I understood that virginity was a social construct, that it was simply a little tear in tissue, no different than a paper cut, that it didn’t have to mean anything to lose it.

Emotionally, though, I felt different.

I felt changed.

I couldn’t decide, though, if it was a change for better or for worse.

If I would have been better off left wondering instead of knowing.

Regardless of that, it was done.

I walked through my new bedroom in my new apartment, digging out my hairbrush, toothbrush, creams, and shampoo, all my essentials, taking them into the bathroom with me, hiding what I could in an empty drawer, and placing the rest in the shower, tucked behind Renzo’s own items.

The scent of him clung to them, and then me after touching them, bringing a sense of longing through my system that I couldn’t explain. It was an ache behind my ribcage, a knot in my belly that refused to untangle as I went through my morning routine, dressing in clothes that suddenly felt too wrong for this new life I was living.

I’d never been interested in fashion. In skirts and dresses and showing off my body. If anything, I’d done everything in my power to hide it, to deflect attention, to be able to fade into the background of any given situation.

My bags were packed with yoga pants and massively oversized tops, hanging down nearly to my knees, making it impossible to make out the curves of my body underneath.

I stepped back from the mirror, seeing my flared leg black yoga pants and my old, gray shirt with the red embroidered New York emblazoned across the chest, worn soft from endless washings, with little holes in the sleeves for my thumbs to slip through, so they wouldn’t hang down and hide my hands at all times.

I looked like some girl on her way to early morning college classes. Not a mafia boss’s wife.

With a sigh, knowing there was nothing I could do about it at that moment, I made my way out of the bathroom, making the bed, then finally forcing myself to move downstairs.

I crept around, feeling more like a forgotten guest than someone who belonged.

The main living space smelled of cigar smoke and liquor, and I found myself gathering glasses as I made my way through the space, the evidence of a party I hadn’t been invited to, hadn’t been missed from, making another little crack start in my heart.

I was making my third trip toward the kitchen with glasses when the door suddenly opened, making me jolt, letting out a little yelp that had the man entering stiffening.

Elian.

The man who’d seen me to my room.

Who seemed to remember me more than my own husband.

His gaze slid from my face to my hands, his brows pinching. “That’s not your job, Mrs. Lombardi,” he said, moving toward me, and removing the glasses from my hold before taking them to the sink himself.

“What is?” I heard myself ask, without really meaning to.

“What was that?” he asked, turning.

I cleared my throat, shaking my head. “What is my job?” I asked.

Elian stared at me a moment, those golden eyes as confused as I felt. “You… you don’t have a job,” he finally declared.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“What did you do before?”

I’d worked part-time at one of the family businesses, earning money that I used almost entirely to pay for fancy takeaway coffees and books. So, so many books. All of which I’d left in my childhood bedroom, stacked three deep in the built-in shelving units that lined an entire wall.

“I… worked,” I said.

“Renzo won’t want you working,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Because the boss’s wife doesn’t need to work,” he informed me.

I guess that was true across all of the families. Most of the Costa women worked when they were young. But then they married. They became homemakers and then mothers.

“What can I do then?” I asked, finding Elian unexpectedly easy to talk to. Maybe it was the hint of softness I saw in his golden eyes, like he understood how I might be feeling, tossed into this new life with no direction.

“Whatever you want to do, Mrs. Lombardi,” he said with a shrug.

“Can I leave?” I asked.

To that, his brows scrunched.

“You’re not a prisoner here.”

Okay.

Well, it was something that needed to be asked, though, right?

I remember when my cousin Isabella had agreed to a forced marriage with the Esposito mob boss, he had rules about her not being able to go places.

But maybe that was more about safety having to do with his work, or the neighborhood he lived in.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with Brooklyn, despite it being so far from home. I understood the areas that I shouldn’t roam, and the ones that were the safest.

I mean, of course I did.

Sneaking off to visit my favorite bookstore was how I first laid eyes on Renzo Lombardi. How I started to give my silly, girlish heart away to him, little by little each time I visited.

I shook off the memories, realizing how fanciful they’d been, how I’d created a fairytale out of my own wishes.

And now I was living a reality that was nothing like I’d dreamed.

“Do I have to clear my schedule with anyone?” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” Elian said, but there was a strange edge to his voice, like it bothered him that he couldn’t give me a straight answer.

Because his boss had never talked about me.

About what was to be done about me.

Because Renzo Lombardi never thought of me at all.

My hand went to my stomach where a pang threatened to take my breath away.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I lied, letting my hand fall away. “Just… hungry,” I said, even though the last thing on my mind was food, despite not having eaten in almost a full day at this point. All I’d managed the day of my wedding were a few dry crackers to ease the sloshing sensation in my stomach.

I started toward the fridge, only to have Elian clear his throat.

“There’s nothing in there,” he said even as I pulled open the door to see he was right. Save for an impressive collection of condiments and an array of different drinks, there was nothing in there of note. “Renzo orders in when he’s home,” Elian explained.

“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Okay.”

“Can I pick something up for you?” he asked.

“I… no. I’m alright.”

“You said you were hungry,” he reminded me. And, damn him for being one of those guys who wouldn’t just let things drop.

“I think I’ll just have some coffee,” I said, going toward the pot, though not sure how I was going to choke it down without any syrup, or even cream, since there was none in the fridge.

Elian’s brows scrunched, watching me with eyes I worried might see too much.

In the end, though, I was his boss’s wife. And I guess he felt he had to respect whatever I said, even if he didn’t believe me, or didn’t agree with me.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “When you want something, you can ask me. Or the guards out front. We know all the good places around here.”

“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile I didn’t feel, trying to keep my gaze down as I did so, though, because Elian saw too much. And a man who paid that close of attention wouldn’t miss the stains on my cheeks, the swelling of my eyelids.

I took my plain black coffee with me back upstairs as Elian started to load the dishwasher with all the glasses, feeling strange being in the common area doing nothing while he worked.

In the bedroom, I tried to choke down the coffee, hoping it would ease the clawing sensation of hunger in my belly as I flipped through the only book I’d brought with me, a romantasy retelling of Swan Lake that I’d been reading.

I didn’t go back downstairs again until I heard silence suggesting Elian had left. Or at least moved downstairs.

I took two of the drinks from the fridge—an electrolyte drink and a mixed coffee drink I found shoved at the back—and made my way back to the other side of the door.

I didn’t ask for lunch.

Even as my belly growled and clawed, I didn’t ask for dinner either.

Sometime around eight that night, though, there was noise down below. Despite myself, little butterflies skittered across my chest as I anticipated Renzo home for dinner.

Within a few minutes, there was silence again, making me unfold from the nest I’d made in the bed, and go to the door.

There was no one in the apartment, but as I made my way down, I found a brown bag sitting on the counter.

Inside, there was a hot sub wrapped in foil.

Dinner.

That I hadn’t asked for.

That hopeful part of me wanted to believe it was Renzo, that he’d thought of me, and had dropped off dinner between jobs.

The newly more pessimistic part of me, though, knew it was likely Elian, worried about a house without any food, and the fact that I hadn’t asked for any either.

It was the kind of thing my older brother, Nico, would have done. I wondered if Elian had sisters. If that was why he seemed to see me more, read me better, remember I even existed while my own husband clearly didn’t.

My lower lip trembled at that last thought, and I had to work to keep the tears at bay as I unwrapped the sub and started to eat.

I cleaned up afterward then went back upstairs.

Hating myself for it, but waiting for my husband.

Some part of me hoping he would come home, that he might show me another hint of the gentleness I’d seen the night before.

But as the hours stretched on, he never came.

Until, eventually, I fell asleep.

Then woke up alone yet again. Though his side of the bed was mussed like he’d appeared at some point, catching some sleep, then taking off again.

The next day was much the same, a punishing bath followed by a few hours of hemming and hawing about unpacking my belongings. Eventually, I decided to stuff my empty nightstand, but left my clothes in my bags in the closet, feeling weird about my worn, oversized, and wrinkled clothes hanging across from Renzo’s meticulously neat wardrobe.

He wasn’t a man who dressed up. Most of his pants were jeans or slacks, his shirts t-shirts, henleys, or casual button-ups. Everything was in shades of black or gray. And, sure, it might not have been fancy clothing, but the labels said they were all expensive items.

The only suit he seemed to own was the one he’d worn to our wedding.

Wedding.

My belly flip-flopped at just the thought of it.

Married.

I was married.

To a man I’d been thinking about and dreaming about for years. A secret not a soul in the world knew but me.

How different it was from those fantasies.

But the end result was the same.

I was married to Renzo.

It just wasn’t the outcome I’d been expecting.

Sure, through these more jaded eyes, I could see how fanciful I’d been, how I’d been expecting Renzo to live up to the man I’d created in my mind, rather than seeing him as the man he actually was.

I’d wanted him to fall for me like I’d fallen for him so long ago. I’d wanted him to be soft and sweet with me, to spend long hours in bed exploring me, to give me a scene out of those books I’d been devouring for years.

The problem was, of course, that Renzo Lombardi wasn’t a soft man.

It was a point that my family had been desperately trying to hammer home for the months, weeks, and days leading up to my impending wedding.

I’d rarely dug my feet in about things in my life. When you were surrounded by so many demanding, overbearing men who believed they knew what was best for you, life was easier if you simply… gave in.

They hadn’t been prepared for just how stubborn I’d been about this ever since I learned that Renzo wanted an alliance through marriage with my family.

Their valid arguments had fallen on unhearing ears. I was too busy imagining my dress, the moment Renzo would kiss me at the altar, how he’d make love to me in his bed later.

Grumbling, I shook off those thoughts that now felt so silly.

I went back to my book, finishing it and feeling restless at not having something to focus on.

That day, two meals showed up, unbidden, in the kitchen.

The same the next day, and I figured those two meals must have ended up during Elian’s shift.

Still, though, no sightings of my husband. Just a mussed bed, a damp towel, and a coffee cup in the sink.

Disappointment mingled with a longing I didn’t have a name for, an ache for a man who clearly never spared me a second thought.

By the fourth day, a dark cloud formed over me, the weight of it making it hard to do anything but take my scalding baths and roll restlessly around in the bed.

Like on my wedding day, I felt tugged in two directions. One part of me wanted to go home to my family, to tell them they were right, bury myself back into my girlhood bed, and pretend none of this ever happened.

The other, clearly the stronger, part of me, though, wanted to stay, wanted this to work.

Regardless of all the proof that there was no hope of that.

I’d fallen into a sad sleep, plagued with vague dreams about drowning, the cold water surrounding me, the pressure building in my lungs as bubbles of oxygen escaped me while I kicked and writhed helplessly.

I woke with a gasp, shooting up in bed, panting for breath, my hand going to my throat, the sensation of drowning so strong, so real, despite never having swum a day in my life, having no idea what it actually felt like to be trapped under the water, struggling for air.

It was a long second before I realized I suddenly wasn’t alone, that there was noise coming from the bathroom.

The second my gaze shot in that direction, the door swung open.

And there he was.

With nothing on but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.

There was no way to prepare for the way desire crashed into me, a sensation as strong as a punch to the gut, stealing my breath, making my skin immediately warm.

Renzo was half a stride out of the bathroom when he noticed me sitting up against the headboard, my hand still around my throat, shamelessly watching him.

His head cocked to the side, his eyes sliding over me, and my skin pricked like his gaze was a physical touch, a caress.

Suddenly, I felt laid bare, like he was seeing me naked instead of in the pair of sleep shorts and roomy sweatshirt that I’d put on for bed.

He moved toward the bed, his gaze never leaving me.

And despite the embarrassed flush that started over my cheeks at my boldness, I couldn’t seem to look away from him either.

Standing at the side of the bed, he reached for the tuck of his towel, flicking it loose.

The material slipped to the ground, leaving him completely naked, standing there without a hint of shame or insecurity.

And why would he be insecure?

If I were chiseled out of marble, I wouldn’t feel insecure either.

Renzo said nothing as he got into the bed.

The heat of his body and the scent of him overwhelmed me, making it impossible to think of anything but the nearness of him.

Renzo turned toward me, his hand moving out, landing on my neck, fingers massaging the back of it, teasing into my hair, fingers lightly rubbing circles on my scalp.

I leaned toward the touch, aching for more of that sweetness, the touch I’d been craving for longer than I could admit.

“It shouldn’t have been like that,” he said, his voice a soft rumble.

I didn’t know what he meant.

And some part of me was terrified to say anything, to ask for clarification, and break the spell of this moment as his fingers drifted further across my scalp, making little currents of desire move across my scalp, then down my spine, pooling in my core… and lower.

“It can be good,” he added, fingers sinking into the back of my neck, pulling me closer, then ducking his head, his lips meeting my neck, making a little shiver course through me. “I’ll make it good,” he added, and this time, the shiver was in my core as his fingers sank into my hip, the touch firm and possessive.

His lips traced down my neck until the collar of my shirt prevented him from going lower.

“Do you want that, mouse?” he murmured against my skin.

I swallowed hard.

And I thought I might have nodded.

But I couldn’t be sure.

All my nerve endings were firing off at the same time.

I wasn’t thinking clearly.

“You need to tell me,” he said as his hand slipped under the hem of my sweatshirt, fingers teasing over my belly. “You have to tell me yes, or I have to stop,” he added as his hand flattened, moving upward, but stopping before he could touch my breast.

“Yes,” I whispered.

I didn’t care that the last time had hurt, that he hadn’t been satisfied with me, that it had been nothing like I’d dreamed.

All I cared about was more.

I needed more of this.

More of him.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured as his hand moved up, cupping my breast, dragging a whimpering sound from me that had his hand tightening on me before his fingers went to my nipple, circling, then rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

Heat flooded my system, making me curl toward him, my leg shifting over his legs.

A rumbling sound moved through Renzo, and I lost his hand as it slid back down to my hip, then lower to sink into my ass, pulling me until my leg met the mattress on the other side of his body, moving me to straddle him.

His other hand went to my ass as well, grabbing, and pulling me more firmly onto his lap, his hardness pressing against me.

My thighs tightened on his thighs, and my hips rocked against him, the ache inside growing.

“You’ll get my cock again, mouse,” he murmured, his lips meeting the other side of my neck. “But not until you’re ready this time.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I didn’t care.

All that mattered was his hands and lips were on me, that he was so close, that I had his full attention.

Renzo’s hands moved from my ass, snagging the hem of my sweatshirt, and drawing it upward inch by inch, until he couldn’t anymore.

“Arms up for me,” Renzo demanded, and some part of me objected to moving back from him.

But the idea of feeling his bare skin against me had me shifting back, and lifting my arms up over my head for him.

Renzo pulled me free from the shirt, tossing it toward the ground on the side of the bed, then leaning back against the headboard, his heavy-lidded gaze moving from my face and downward.

This time, the sound that escaped him was more of a growl than anything, and my sex clenched hard in response to it.

“Fucking perfect,” he murmured as his fingers moved up my sides to cup my breasts.

The praise moved through me like a warm liquid, chasing away four long days of debilitating insecurity.

Renzo’s hands slid behind me, pulling me up until I lost the press of his need against me, dragging a little grumble from me that had Renzo’s lips curving into a small smile before he ducked his head, and sucked my nipple into his mouth.

Desire surged through me, my back arching, pressing myself more fully into his mouth as his tongue traced and his lips sucked.

Just when I was sure I couldn’t take it a moment longer, Renzo’s head shifted, his soft, wet hair teasing across my overheated skin, and sucked my other nipple into his mouth.

I was a live wire of need, each inch of skin sizzling, threatening to catch fire, to consume me completely.

Soft whimpers escaped me as I tried to press my thighs together to ease the ache between. The movement was impossible, though, with both of Renzo’s legs between mine, keeping them spread.

Seeming to sense my desperation, Renzo’s head lifted, and his hands went to my ass again, yanking me down on his lap, his hardness pressing against where I needed him most.

A loud, throaty moan escaped me that had Renzo sitting back, watching me as his hands grabbed me, grinding me down against him again.

A whimper moved through me as my hands shot out, grabbing his shoulders, digging in, as the pleasure built.

“You like that, mouse?” he asked, voice rough as he rocked his hips, grinding against me again. And again. And again.

Until I was rocking with him, the pleasure too intoxicating to deny myself, no matter how strange and new this all felt.

I leaned forward, burying my face in his neck, breathing in his scent as my body drove up, my whimpers and moans muffling against his skin.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, making my sex clench hard.

Close.

So close.

“Are you going to come for me?” he asked, rocking more quickly against me as my breathing got fast and shallow, as I rushed right to that edge, teetered for just a moment, then fell over, crashing down into an orgasm that had me gasping, my body spasming, my cries filling the room.

“Mmm,” Renzo groaned when I started to come back down, clinging to him, my body trembling. “I need to taste you,” he said, his fingers drifted up and down my spine. “Do you want that?”

I wanted everything.

“Yes,” I whispered against his neck.

Then he was moving, rolling me onto my back, coming over me.

There was no time to feel any kind of uncertainty build as his lips were between my breasts, then moving downward.

Over my belly.

Tracing the waistband of my shorts.

He sat back on his heels, settling my feet on his bare thighs, then reaching past to grab the waistbands of my shorts and panties, waiting for me to press up, so he could slide them over my ass.

He pushed my knees to my chest to continue drawing them down, then off, tossing them to the side before grabbing my knees, and spreading me wide on the mattress.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, his finger teasing up my cleft, then circling my clit.

The intimate little touch may as well have been an electrical current with how my body jolted, how my breath seized.

“So sensitive,” he murmured, watching his finger as he teased around my clit for a long moment before lowering himself down, and continuing the sweet torment with his tongue instead.

My hands fisted his hair, holding him against me as he drove me upward yet again.

I melted into him, into the pleasure as it built, then crested, making my thighs clamp around the sides of his head, my back arch, and my moans fill the room.

Renzo worked me through it, waiting until my thighs finally released him, then turning, and playfully biting the inside of my thigh.

“You taste so fucking good,” he said as his lips moved up my thigh, across my belly, then between my breasts. “So sweet,” he added, his lips suddenly sucking the skin of my neck, making another jolt of need course through me.

“We could stop,” he said, lips moving over the shell of my ear. “Or I could show you more.”

“More,” I whispered, wanting anything and everything he could show me if it could feel this good.

“Yeah?” he asked, suddenly shifting up, moving to sit against the headboard, then reaching for me, pulling me between his legs, settling my back against his chest, his arm moving to anchor across my belly as his other hand drifted up and down my thigh, waiting, it seemed, for my legs to part for him.

As soon as they did, his hand was between, his fingers working me, teasing my clit, then sliding down my cleft.

“This won’t hurt,” he murmured as his fingers teased the entrance to my body, making me stiffen. “Trust me, mouse,” he murmured, his breath warm and his voice sweet in my ear.

I sucked in a breath, battling back the uncertainty, the memories of the pain, and relaxing back against him.

“There you go,” he said. His finger slowly slid inside of me. As he promised, there was no pain. Just a new layer of pleasure as my walls tightened around his finger as it started to gently thrust. “See how good it can feel?” he asked, his words making my heartbeat skitter and my belly flip-flop. “You want more?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whimpered, the ache growing again, an intolerable sort of need that felt like it might never get satisfied.

Renzo’s finger slid out of me, and when it slid in again, another finger joined it.

I started to tense, but felt nothing but a sort of rightness, a friction my body was begging for.

“You almost feel ready for me,” Renzo murmured, but I was too consumed with the sensations of his fingers curving inside of me to understand his words.

I just needed more.

Faster.

Because I felt as if I was about to burst.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he said. Then, as if my body felt compelled to agree with him, the orgasm screamed through me, making me rock against his fingers and cry out again.

Before the orgasm even finished cresting, I felt a slight pinch as Renzo slid another finger inside of me.

“Don’t tense,” he demanded. “You can take it,” he encouraged me, and I forced myself to exhale hard, relaxing against him. And realizing he was right. I could take it. The slight discomfort gave way to more of that familiar ache.

“Do you want to try again?” he asked, fingers still thrusting. “Do you want to feel me here,” he asked, thrusting a little harder, his finger separating, spreading me, preparing me for more.

I won’t lie and say there weren’t reservations, weren’t fears of the pain again. But I felt myself nodding, hoping he was right, that this time it could be different.

Renzo’s fingers left me, and then I felt myself being rolled under him again, his weight a surprisingly comforting pressure as I felt his hard length rock against my cleft.

“Stay with me,” he demanded, pushing up to look down at me as he shifted, and the head of his cock pressed against me. “I’ll go slow,” he added, increasing the pressure against me. “It will be different,” he assured me, pressing, pressing in.

I took a deep breath, trying not to tense, to prepare for the worst.

There was a slight burn as his thickness started to penetrate me. But it wasn’t like the last time, a slight ache, not like a stabbing, as he inched inside of me, stopping if I tensed, waiting for me to relax into the new sensation again.

“Feel how good you’re taking me?” he asked, his words making my walls quiver around him, making that little rumbling sound move through him in response. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned as he finally stopped surging inside me when he was settled deep.

He paused then, taking a slow, deep breath, seeming to try to find some control.

“Am I hurting you, mouse?” he asked, the smile tugging at his lips saying he already knew the answer as my hips rocked tentatively against him.

“No,” I said, my hand sliding up his sides.

“You want more?”

“Yes,” I said, my hips doing another rock against him.

Renzo withdrew slightly, then slid back in, a velvety soft sensation, a fullness that felt so right.

My legs rose, crossing around his lower back, urging him on.

He was so slow at first.

So gentle.

Wanting to prove his earlier words right.

It could be good.

He could make it good.

My hips rose to meet his thrusts, my nails digging into his skin, my moans growing as the orgasm built.

“Can you take it a little harder for me?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes,” I moaned, rocking into him as he surged harder, deeper.

“Fuck, just like that,” he groaned. “That’s a good girl,” he said, driving faster, harder, sending me right to the edge, then shoving me over, the orgasm tearing violently through my system, intensified by the fullness of him within me.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he groaned as my walls pulsed around him over and over. “Fuck, that feels good,” he said, thrusting through it, then suddenly pulling out, his release hot on my thigh as he cursed in pleasure.

I watched him after, looking like a god, sitting back on his heels, his head thrown back, his body tense and glistening.

I couldn’t seem to stop from reaching out, my fingers teasing over his thigh.

The barely-there touch had his eyes opening, much clearer now with the need abated.

“Made a mess of you,” he said, then slid off of the bed, coming back again with a warm washcloth, wiping between my legs, then his release off of my thigh, before disappearing into the bathroom again.

Alone, all I felt was a deep-rooted sort of joy as all those fantasies I’d had came true.

Renzo came back out a few moments later, climbing into the bed, and pulling up the covers.

He didn’t reach for me, and I tried not to allow the disappointment that started to build to grow.

He’d shown me softness and generosity and sweet words.

I had to learn to be excited by what I got, not constantly wanting more.

So I snuggled into the covers, turned toward him this time, and let myself drift off to sleep, contentment warm in my chest.