Page 31 of Veil of the Past
His fingers slip beneath the lace, pushing inside with a swift, determined motion that makes me cry out, my body arching against him. He moves with a purpose, each thrust of his fingers rough, relentless. His thumb circles, teases, drives me closer to the edge. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps, my heart races, my body trembles.
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, and he groans softly, the sound vibrating through me. “Come on, Alessia,” he whispers, his voice low, commanding. “Let go for me.”
I feel the tension coil tighter, winding through me like a spring about to snap, and then I’m there, shattering around him, my body trembling as I gasp his name—my voice breaking, raw and desperate.
He keeps going, his fingers pushing deeper, harder, until every nerve is on fire, and I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only feel. When I finally come down, my chest heaving, he pulls his fingers out slowly, watching me with a dark, satisfied smile.
He lifts his hand to his mouth, his gaze never leaving mine as he licks his fingers, tasting me with a look that sends another shiver down my spine. “Sweet,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, his eyes blazing with heat.
I swallow hard, my heart still pounding in my chest, my legs weak, unsteady. “Maybe we should… we should stay in tonight,” I manage to say, my voice shaky, breathless.
He grins, taking my hand and pulling me toward the door. “Not yet, Red,” he says, his tone teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a promise of more. “But soon.”
We step out into the hallway. He leads me down the stairs, his hand firm and warm around mine, and I can’t help but smile, feeling light, almost giddy.
The drive to the diner is quick, the city lights flashing by in a blur of neon and darkness. He keeps his hand on my thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles against my skin, and I feel a constant, steady pulse of heat wherever he touches me.
When we arrive, he pulls up outside the little diner, the one we always come to, our secret place, our refuge, the one that gave us hope. The lights are dim, the sign flickering softly in the night, and I feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me as we step inside. We might have been here the other night, but this feels different.
Greta gives us a knowing smile from behind the counter, nodding as Romiro leads me to our usual booth. A bottle of wine is already waiting on the table, two glasses beside it.
He pours us each a glass, his movements smooth, controlled. I watch him, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the wine. “So,” he says, his voice soft, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, “are we finally going to talk about this?”
I take a sip of my wine, feeling the warmth slide down my throat, and settle in my belly. “Talk about what?” I ask, feigning innocence, though my heart is pounding.
He leans forward, his eyes locked on mine, his expression serious now. “About us, Red. About what’s been happening between us for years.”
I bite my lip, looking down at my glass, then back up at him. “I thought it was obvious,” I say quietly. “I’ve… I’ve always had feelings for you, Romiro. I just didn’t think…”
He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, his grip firm, reassuring. “Didn’t think what?” he asks gently.
I swallow hard, meeting his gaze. “Didn’t think you reciprocated those feelings.”
He laughs softly, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand. “You don’t understand do you?” he says, his voice warm, affectionate. “I’m completely obsessed with you.” He swallows before continuing. “I’m…fucked up. Someone like me doesn’t deserve to have you. But I’m done trying to stay away. I’m too selfish to not chase after the only person I’ve ever wanted.”
I feel a rush of warmth, my heart swelling with hope, and I smile, a real smile this time. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He shrugs, his eyes darkening slightly. “Because I was scared. Scared of what would happen if I let myself feel this… if I let you in.”
I nod, understanding more than I want to admit. “Me too. I don’t want to lose our friendship,” I whisper.
He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “We won’t be losing anything,” he says firmly. “From now on, you’re mine as much as I’m yours.”
I feel a surge of emotion, my throat tightening, and I nod, squeezing his hand. We sit there, holding hands, the wine forgotten, the world outside fading away, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
* * *
The sun is shiningthrough the tall, arched windows, casting a soft golden pattern on the wooden floor as I make my way down the long hallway toward the dining room. I feel lighter, almost like I’m walking on air, with the events of last night still buzzing in my veins. I can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips, a secret smile that I try to hide before I step through the doorway. I look fresh, I feel alive, and I know I look it, too.
I pause for a moment just outside the dining room, taking in the scent of fresh coffee and warm croissants that wafts out to greet me. My Mamma’s favorite, of course. The familiar sound of silverware clinking against china drifts through the slightly ajar door, accompanied by the soft murmur of conversation. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. This morning, I feel different, renewed, but I know I need to keep it to myself.
I push the door open gently, stepping into the room. The chandelier above is a cascade of crystals, catching the morning sun and scattering fragments of rainbows across the navy walls. The long, oval dining table gleams, polished to perfection, with its rich wood reflecting the light like a mirror. The silver place settings glint in the sunlight, perfectly arranged around delicate china plates with gold trim.
The room feels like it’s waiting, like it’s always waiting—every detail meticulously curated to create an air of elegance, a sense of old-world grandeur. The kind of room that doesn’t belong to the everyday; it’s meant for grand moments, for decisions that ripple through the lives of those seated at the table. Today, it feels almost too big, too grand, for a simple breakfast.
My eyes sweep over the tall, heavy curtains that frame the windows, a deep shade of emerald that contrasts beautifully with the navy walls. They’re pulled back just enough to let the light pour in, making the crystal glasses sparkle. The floral arrangement in the center of the table catches my attention—a burst of soft pink roses and ivory peonies, lush and fragrant, arranged in a silver vase. A touch of softness in a room that always feels so… serious.
Nonna is already seated at the head of the table, her back straight as an arrow, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. She glances up as I enter, her eyes sharp and assessing, but there’s a small smile on her lips. “Alessia, cara,” she says warmly, her voice like honey, but with an edge that tells me she’s not done with her questions from last time.
