LUCA_Her Ruthless Don Page 11

  It’s the night before our wedding. Technically, I was supposed to stay at Zahir’s hotel tonight, to not bring bad luck to our marriage by seeing the bride before the wedding. But tonight, I give zero fucks about luck or tradition or everything I’m giving up to be with her.

  Fuck Zahir’s and Holt’s half-ass intervention. I have never been surer of anything in my life than I am of Amber. That night, I claim her like a beast, proving it to myself and her over and over again until she tells me I’ve got to leave her alone.

  “I’m not going to make it through the reception if you don’t let me get some sleep,” she mumbles when I reach for her again.

  I’m still hard for her, but I settle for pulling her warm body into my arms. “You got any idea how much I fucking love you, baby?” I ask her.

  “As much as I love you?” she asks back, and I can hear the smile in her sleepy retort.

  “More,” I assure her.

  But instead of settling into sleep, she suddenly stiffens and asks, “Is that what tonight was about? Why you didn’t go to Zahir’s hotel like you planned? Because you’re trying to convince yourself to go through with this. That you really do love me enough to give up everything? Because if that’s the case—”

  I stop her right there. “Baby, that ain’t the case.”

  “I’m just saying I know a one-bedroom in Astoria with the blind girl isn’t exactly what you had planned.”

  “Nope, it’s even better than what I had planned,” I answer, meaning it. “Didn’t know how puny my imagination was before I fell for you.”

  She never laughs at my jokes. And technically this isn’t one. But she gives me a sleepy chuckle.

  “You know what, Ambs?”

  “What?” she asks, voice fading fast.

  “I already know even if you don’t, you and I are going to be a very good year.”

  Maybe she gets the Frank reference, maybe she doesn’t. Either way, I fall asleep with the certainty of those words humming warmly inside my chest.

  15

  I’ve Got The World On A String

  I’m right about it being a very good year. The next day we get married without a hitch. Naima, Zahir, and Holt show up to the courthouse at the appointed time. None of them are shamefaced or even apologetic, but they keep their fucking mouths shut about my marriage. No last-minute interventions. No call outs during the short ceremony in front of some judge, none of us have ever met before. Holt even manages a toast at the Benton Grand Manhattan reception.

  Amber loves it. Not because it’s particularly touching—it’s not. It does, however, give her a touchstone for total insincerity. Holt’s wedding toast becomes her new version of sarcasm. Whenever she disagrees with me, she says, “Yes, you’re totally right.” Then raises her invisible glass to say in a near-perfect facsimile of Holt’s tight New England accent, “Luca is a good friend and Amber…seems like a nice woman. Congratulations to you both and good luck.”

  The joke only makes sense to the two of us, and maybe that’s why we laugh so hard whenever she tells it, diffusing any argument before it has the chance to get lit.

  Not that we argue that much. After we come back from our honeymoon—a four-day music festival in upstate New York, we settle into a routine of working long hours and lots of weekends. Both of us grind harder than anyone else we know to overcome our disadvantages. Her sightlessness and my last name.

  But all the extra work starts paying off sooner than expected for Amber. Both Naima and the overburdened Legal Aid Society refer any emergency clients willing to pay her reasonable flat fee to her private practice. And the Legal Aid Society even lets her use one of their cubicles until she saves enough money to rent a small office space of her own, just a few blocks from our apartment.

  As for me, I bust my ass at CalMart, and pass the bar myself by the following July—a whole 10 months after Amber, but hey I only discovered true motivation, like, a year ago, so not bad. And even though I don’t have the three years of experience CalMart wants for the job, I apply for an open Paralegal position the week I get my results.

  I’m still hoping to move on to a company that isn’t CalMart one day. As boring as I imagined an 8 to 5 might be when I was shaking my head at all the other dudes in the BizLaw program, being a coordinator is even worse. Tedious as hell, and I’ve got no illusions about this paralegal gig being any better, even with the 20K raise.

  But just a few weeks after she signs the lease on her office, Ambs starts saying stuff, like “No, we can’t afford it,” when I suggest doing normal shit, like eating out or just making a Starbucks run. She never complains about how little I make, despite my combined degrees. But, I can tell she’s worried about investing in her own private law practice when I’m barely clearing 50K.

  She’s still wearing the suits she wore for stuff like mock trials and law clinics back at Columbia. And not to be funny, the suits were kind of raggedy when she first got them. Secondhand stuff, pulled off thrift store racks by Talia and Naima, and some of them are getting more than a little outdated.

  I do the best I can. Place the worst ones to the back of the line, so that Amber’s best choice is always on deck, but I hate that she won’t just let me buy her a few new ones.

  The old Luca wants to just buy her some new suits, like there. But new Luca’s too afraid she’ll throw a fit when she feels new suits where her old ones used to be, and demand I take them right back, because, wait for it…we can’t afford it.

  I’ll tell ya, it ain’t a good feeling.

  I’m her husband and supposed to be taking care of her now, but she freaks about money when I suggest a shopping trip. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Hell, over the last year, working in a cubicle while both my best friends enjoy the benefits that come with rich scion status, I understand pride better than most.

  But still, something catches in my throat when I walk into the apartment less than a month before our first anniversary and find Naima on the couch with Amber, doing what looks like a bunch of patchwork sewing on her best suit. She’s got a thread and needle, and three of her other suits are lying on the arm of the couch like they’ve called next.

  “Hey Naima,” I say, carefully. “What’s what?”

  “Hey, Jake,” she answers just as carefully. Then she grabs the suits and tells Ambs she’ll drop them off tomorrow at her office…seriously it’s no problem. Blah, blah, blah.

  Before I can ask any questions, Naima mumbles something that only partially resembles her usual sunny good-bye to me, then she’s out the door.

  And by the time, I turn around after letting her friend out, Amber’s already in our sliver of a galley kitchen.

  “Pork chops okay for tonight?” she calls out. “They had some on special at the grocery store when Naima and I went, and I have to cook them today.”

  I post up against the entrance with a sigh and try not to hate on all the laminate 90’s era blond wood going on in the apartment. Obviously, it doesn’t matter to Amber, and it was pretty much the best we could do, with my dad giving me only a few days to move out of the Upper East Side apartment and neither of us having a job at the time.

  But Amber said no to upgrading to a better place when our lease came up for renewal a few months ago, and I couldn’t come up with a good counter argument about why we shouldn’t conserve money and stay here.

  “You don’t have to go to the grocery store with Naima. Just send me a list,” I tell her, in lieu of complaining about the ugly-ass kitchen.

  “You always spend too much,” she answers, dipping down into the fridge. It only takes her a millisecond of feeling around, before she finds the meat drawer and comes back up with the pork chops. “Remember that time you spent over 100 dollars for, like, two days’ worth of food?”

  Yeah, I do remember…mainly because she brings it up every time I offer to go to the grocery store. “Oh my God, you’re the worst at living on a budget,” she had said with a laugh when I’
d read the receipt back to her earlier in our marriage.

  It’s been a very good year. It feels like my love for Amber doubles every day. I haven’t thought about another woman, much less regretted marrying this one. But some days, she makes me tired with this. Acting like I’m still a rich kid incapable of doing anything beyond washing dishes.

  “If you need your suits patched up, I can take them with me when I go to the dry cleaner on Wednesday.”

  “Naima’s got it, and she’ll do it for free,” Amber answers. She puts the pork chops on the patch of counter next to the stove, then plucks three different spices from the nearby rack hanging on a wall, which she places next to the stainless-steel S-shaped salt dispenser and the P-shaped pepper dispenser. I’m still not exactly sure how she cooks so easily without ever messing up or burning anything when I can barely make eggs for myself in the morning. But she has a system that works every time as long as I don’t do anything stupid, like touch any spices but the salt and pepper, and put things back exactly where I find them in the fridge.

  “Are those HanoverFest tickets we got for next month refundable?” she suddenly asks.

  I jolt, surprised by the subject change. “You want to cancel our wedding anniversary trip?”

  “No, I’m just saying we could do something else for our anniversary. Like stay in all weekend and not spend over a thousand dollars to freeze our asses off in some tent. I mean, I liked the music, but it rained last year….”

  My brow lowers, because fall in New York isn’t that cold, especially after this out-of-control summer we’ve been having this year. And besides, me keeping her warm in that tent while the rain was beating down on it is one of my favorite memories. Of all time. And until this moment, it didn’t occur to me that it wasn’t one of hers, too.

  Amber turns on the right-side burner, only to curse and wave a hand over the flame. “What the…”

  “Sorry,” I say, wincing when I realize that she probably wants the cast iron pan she usually keeps there. “I made the last of the eggs this morning,“ I said.

  “In the cast iron pan?” she asks. “Why not the non-stick?”

  This must be a rhetorical question because she doesn’t give me the chance to answer, before she’s complaining.

  “Plus, you didn’t put eggs on the Alexa Shopping list. I could have gotten some more at the grocery store, not to mention, cleaned the pan before I got everything out.”

  I grimace, feeling like a piece of shit because I know Amber doesn’t just want an orderly kitchen, she needs it to get anything done.

  “Sorry,” I say again when she starts feeling along the counter for the pan I left for tonight because I’m the one who does the dishes. But usually, after we’re done eating since the kitchen’s not big enough for both of us to be in there at the same time.

  “Hey, let’s just order takeout,” I say. “I’ve been craving Thai.”

  “Yes, don’t just clean up after yourself like a normal fucking person,” she snaps back. “We should just throw money we don’t have at this dinner problem.”

  I still, because for the first time, since we moved into this apartment together, this isn’t Holt toast sarcasm coming out of her mouth.

  “Ambs…I’m sorry,” I say, feeling useless and lame. The complete opposite of the confident guy who pledged his forever troth to her in a courthouse wedding a little less than a year ago.

  A few beats of silence and Amber brace her hands against the sink, before saying, “No…I’m sorry, baby…I had a weird day, and then Naima was already here when I got home, and I felt bad for keeping her waiting. I’m sorry I’m being so bitchy tonight. I think…I think I just need some time to myself. Do you mind? I love you. But could you just…”

  She doesn’t finish that sentence, just asks the Alexa device Zahir sent me for my birthday, to play some Amon Amarth album, which I only know because she listened to that Swedish death metal band non-stop when she was studying for the bar last year.

  I watch her back, tight underneath her short-sleeved blouse as she washes out the pan. It’s another dog of a New York summer, and our AC’s not even trying to act like it’s up to the job. I can see beads of sweat already pooling on the back of her neck as she handles the heavy cast iron, and it makes me curse out loud.

  Not that she can hear me over the music. I’ve been working a ton of weekends on extra projects for the legal department, going in early and staying late most nights to prove to Kevin that I’ve got what it takes to do this paralegal job. That means we barely get to spend any time together these days. It also means we haven’t had sex in weeks. Not days—weeks. But now Amber’s saying she needs alone time?

  I’m trying not to feel pussy hurt. I get that it’s hot and she’s cranky and worried about money, even more so now that she’s fully committed to working for herself. And I’m supposed to have changed into a new guy these days. I mean, I never did take that app off my phone, but I haven’t used it in over six months. I’m a better man. One who can back off when his wife asks for some space. One who doesn’t act like a fucking obsessive psycho when it comes to Amber Reynolds.

  But nonetheless…

  I pull out my phone and put in the order at our favorite Thai place while she finishes washing out the pan. And when she tries to turn on the burner, I squeeze in behind her, reach around her waist and turn it right back off. “Alexa!” I yell over the music. “Stop.”

  Both the singer and the guitars stop snarling death, leaving me with enough quiet to say, “Alexa, play ‘Somethin’ Stupid’ by Frank Sinatra.”

  “Luca…” she says.

  “Mrs. Ferraro,” I answer, even though she never changed her name. Then I turn her around to tell her, “We’ve got twenty minutes before the food gets here. Let me apologize…”

  Her eyebrows immediately draw in, worried and confused. “Wait, you ordered out? But why—”

  “Is it so fucking hot outside?” I finish for her. “I have no idea. That global warming stuff was, like, the one thing I wasn’t lying about when we first hooked up.”

  Her lips clamp, and though she still looks worried, I can see she’s holding back a smile now. “C’mon, baby, you’ve had a hard day,” I say, reaching up to cup her beautiful face. “And I’m thinking twenty minutes will be enough time for me to make it up to you for not cleaning that pan and putting it back in the right place.”

  Then, before she can agree or disagree, I sweep the package of pork chops and the spice bottles she set out into the sink and get to work. For the next twenty minutes, I do stuff to her, which, thanks to Professor Cluce, I know for a fact would be breaking several public health laws if we were in a commercial kitchen.

  Soon Amber melts under my mouth, her legs loosening and falling open as if their owner forgot how to be mad at her husband. Her hands are in my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp, in a way I’ve become used to. Amber likes her skin on my skin, even if it’s just her fingertips on my scalp. But I love it. Love her, and though this is supposed to be an apology, I’ve suddenly got to stand up, get inside of her, reconnect in the oldest way known to woman and man.

  But I pause because damn, the sight of her like this: breast swollen, pussy glistening, mouth panting, and her eyes glassed over with more than blindness. She’s gained some weight since she started her own law practice and I like the way the extra pounds have softened up her curves, making her body that much more lush and inviting.

  But apparently, she’s doesn’t appreciate my appreciation. “Luca,” she moans, pulling me in impatiently and running her hands up under my shirt.

  She needs me inside of her, just like I need to be there. I pull myself out of my pants. It feels like I’m answering both our prayers when I push in and start taking her on top of the kitchen counter in hard controlled thrusts with my pants around my ankle.

  Not days…weeks. The grip of her around my cock feels like a welcome home. This is what they don’t tell you about marriage sex
, how good it feels to push inside your wife, to have her contract around you like her pussy was molded just for you. I spent so long avoiding relationships and the kind of intimacy that might lead to more than a few nights of fun. But Amber, she’s a gift that belongs to me now. Me and only me.

  And my control doesn’t last long. Nearly a year of marriage, and I’m still not immune to the way she grabs on to me with what feels like every part of her body when we fuck. Her thumbs circle my nipples, and her legs squeeze around my waist, while her pussy pulls on my dick, tight as a fist. She’s also licking and biting along my shoulder and neck. Consuming me while I fuck her. It’s too much stimulation, and when she cries out with the beginning of her climax, my controlled thrusts devolve into sloppy pounds as I finish claiming what’s become mine.

  The orgasm shoots up my back without warning, and I release without any kind of restraint. My hips pump wild and rough until I’m done spilling everything I have into her. I could blame it on the sex drought, but I know that would just be an excuse. One year of marriage and she still undoes me faster than any woman who came before her. Hell, I don’t remember anyone before her. Those names and faces blurred, and now I can only see, smell, and taste my Amber.

  Her hands are on my chest now. Flat and unmoving. And I look down at her, because I learned early on in the honest iteration of our relationship that her touching me this way is her equivalent of holding my gaze.

  “What you thinking about, Mrs. Ferraro?” I ask.

  And her mouth quirks, like it always does when I call her by the old-fashioned name she refuses to take. Then she says, “You’re not my father. We’re not my parents.”

  Weird fucking observation to make after sex. But I get it. I do.

  And I push my forehead into hers to assure her, “No, we’re something brand new.”

  “Okay…” she says. “I love you.”

  For some reason, those four words sound like, feels like a decision. Even though we pretty much established how we felt when we got married against all advice.

  But before I can inquire about her tone, she pulls me in closer, and her mouth brushes my ear, as she huskily murmurs, “Apology accepted.”