But I was tucked tight to Benny.
That was the only photo of Vinnie I kept out on display. A photo that included all of the Bianchis.
And I kept it out on the shelves in my living room that stood beside my TV.
This meant I saw that photo every day.
My eyes flew to Benny’s and I started, “I—”
I didn’t get another word out.
If I had it in me to guess, I still would not have been able to guess what I would read in his expression when he saw that picture.
But when I looked at his face, I knew he wasn’t thinking about the picture.
And I let go of the handle of my bag and was able to retreat three steps when he set the picture aside and rushed me, acting on what he was thinking.
It was only three steps because he caught me, turned me, and I had no choice but to press against the wall because his body wasn’t giving me one.
I looked up to see his face right there, a look in his eyes that made my stomach dip in a way I’d never felt in my life.
“Ben—”
His hands came to me, one at my hip, the other at the side of my neck, and he cut me off to ask, “Are you serious right now?”
“I—”
His voice was a growl that made my knees get weak when he stated, “’Cause I’m serious right now.”
Suddenly, I loved that he was serious, even though I wasn’t entirely certain what he was even talking about.
“Baby,” I whispered and I had no f**king clue why.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, his fingers on both hands digging in, his face getting closer. “You’re serious right now.”
That was when he kissed me.
No lip touch this time. He kissed me. Fingers digging in, mouth opening up, tongue thrusting inside, kissed me.
I didn’t make that first protest. Not even one.
No.
I tasted the hot, sweet magnificence of Benito Bianchi, felt his hands on me, smelled his aftershave. My hands lifted to his neck and slid up, diving into his thick, fantastic hair, and I held him to me.
When I did, Benny tangled his tongue with mine in a delicious way that made my toes curl in my sandals. He slid one hand in my hair, the other one over my ass to cup it, hauling me into him.
I pressed closer.
Benny kissed me harder.
God, he felt good. He tasted good.
I hadn’t had a kiss since the last one Benny gave me.
I was drunk then, but I still remember it was good.
This one was better. Much better. Too much better. Too dangerous.
Too amazing.
I had to have more.
So I pressed closer and whimpered that need into his mouth.
This had the unfortunate result of Benny breaking the kiss, his hand moving from my ass so he could wrap his arm around my waist, his other hand gliding down to wrap around the side of my neck again. He dropped his forehead to mine.
“Jesus, shit,” he muttered, and I opened my eyes to see his closed.
God, he was beautiful—close, far, eyes closed, annoying me, being gentle with me, being protective of me, after kissing me.
Always.
I slid my hands down to where I could press my palms in the muscle of his neck under his ears, but I kept my fingers in that fabulous hair.
His eyes opened.
More beauty.
“I hurt you?”
And more beauty.
“No,” I whispered.
“That dress, baby,” he whispered back as explanation for the kiss.
“It’s the least sexy one I have.”
His eyes closed again and he repeated, “Jesus, shit.”
Seeing as I’d lost my mind with that kiss right then, I wanted to smile. I felt it fighting inside to get loose. And I wanted this because it felt so f**king good to know all I had to do was put on a hot dress and I could make Benito Bianchi lose control.
It wasn’t a healthy thought. It wasn’t even rational, considering my frame of mind about all things Benny and me.
But I had it.
I beat it back, but just barely.
“You said you wouldn’t kiss me until Monday,” I reminded him, and his eyes opened.
“I didn’t know that on Sunday I’d get that dress.”
“I really don’t do jeans,” I shared.
“Just sayin’, tesorina, I’ll wanna kiss you, even if you’re in jeans.”
“I’m getting that sense,” I muttered, my gaze drifting to his lips.
“Baby,” he called, and I again focused on his eyes. “That picture.”
With those two words, I was torn painfully out of my happy just-been-kissed-by-Benny-Bianchi zone and thrown into my usual zone. A zone I didn’t like much normally, but hated right then.
I dropped my chin and pressed my forehead to his chest, saying, “Don’t.”
“You were mine, even when you were his.”
He was right. It was whacked. It didn’t even make sense.
But I’d always loved Benny. We were tight. We got along. Of all Vinnie’s family, I was closest with Benny. It made me happy being around him.
I was Vinnie’s, but with each passing week as Vinnie did stupid shit, I was also drifting away.
And I was Benny’s. Then when we lost Vinnie, I f**ked up and he pushed me away.
I closed my eyes tight and slid my hands down to his chest, curling my fingers in his tee.
“I gotta say this.” He was speaking into my hair.
“I’m not ready.”
His fingers at my neck gave me a squeeze. “This has to be said, cara. I get you’re vulnerable right now. That kiss came as a surprise…to both of us…but what I gotta say isn’t about that.”
“What do you gotta say?”
“I’m pissed at him.”
That was such a surprise, I tipped my head back and looked into his eyes. “What?”
“Vinnie. I’m pissed at him. Spent years pissed at you so I wouldn’t feel the way I feel right now about my brother. I look at that picture…” He shook his head. “What came back raw, after seein’ it clear what I did to you, why I did it, so I wouldn’t feel how I’m feelin’ about him right now…I look at that picture and I’m f**kin’ pissed he didn’t feel what I felt when we took that photo—Christmas, family, laughin’—and know he had everything in his life he needed.”
I let his tee go and my hands slid right back up to curl around his neck, hating every word he said, at the same time, but for a different reason, loving them.
And he was sharing. Honest. Putting it right out there.
It was my experience not a lot of men shared—not about their feelings, certainly not what was behind them. Vinnie hadn’t. He bottled everything up. He never talked to me about important shit, which meant I never understood when he did stupid shit.