“Antonio! What did I tell you in the car?” Lucia grabs his face and fires off the rest of the sentence in angry Italian.
The little boy drops his eyes. “Sorry, Mumma. But Zio …”
“Eh!” She holds her hand out to stop him and points to me.
Pacer puts the little girl down and the two come over to me, standing shyly in front of me.
“Hello, Chelsea.” The two singsong my name together.
I smile back. “Hello. What are your names?”
“Are you going to marry Uncle Pacer? My mumma wants to know,” The little girl asks while pulling at her pigtails.
Lucia holds her hand to her mouth in shock. I am now definitely speechless … and still holding a baby … in front of the man I only confessed my love to last night, with his mother and sister staring at me—this is so many levels of awkward. Holding a baby was a very bad idea. Say no to holding babies.
Lucia rushes over to me, the crimson in my face definitely obvious. She quickly takes Camilla and scowls at the twins. “Kids say the funniest things sometimes.” She mouths sorry. “This is Antonio.” She points to the curly-haired little boy. “And the one with the big mouth is Anabella.”
Anabella stretches her mouth out wide, taking her Mum’s words literally. Kids are so strange. Pacer thankfully comes over to my rescue. “How about you come and help me with the cases of wine before the others arrive.”
Others. Why do Italians have to have such big families? Like this wasn’t bad already.
He holds my hand as we walk out and the Italian gossip picks up in the kitchen the moment we’re out of sight. Pacer chuckles at whatever it is they’re saying.
“Sorry about that. The twins are a real handful,” he says as he takes out the first case of wine from the car.
I take the box from him. “Yeah, I see that,” I say, trying to find the fun in that moment. Whatever that is.
“My sister has five kids. Two older boys to her late husband, Pauly. He was a pillar of a man. We were best friends from babies.”
“Were?” Dare I ask.
“Yeah. He was murdered in front of the two older boys, Giorgie who you met the other week, and his brother, Rico. Rico’s even quieter than Giorgie. Lucia re-married and this new husband is fucking useless. She thought by marrying someone who wasn’t in the familia, she wouldn’t worry about him dying. But those brats are the result, and her life isn’t the same.” He tips his chin in the direction of the screams within the house. “Her husband doesn’t respect her. I know he treats her like shit. She comes to ma’s at least once a month, upset.”
I don’t want to tell Pacer that I read about his brother-in-law dying the other night in the archives. He needs to be the one to tell me things like this. There are probably things I know about Pauly’s murder that not even Pacer knows. But none of the words I read can ever give me the emotion of the case that Pacer just delivered. I see the hurt in his eyes, the real in the situation.
“I’m sorry about Pauly. That must be terrible for her two older sons.”
“We don’t talk about it much. Ma doesn’t like us filling the house with negative spirits. She’s had all sorts of priests in here, blessing the house and trying to lift the curse she thinks we have on our family. That’s when Lucia found her new husband.” He sighs.
“So what does her new husband do?” I follow Pacer back inside.
“He’s a computer wiz. Works for one of the investment banks in the tech department. He’s a fucking soft-cock nerd, and my sister deserves better.”
“Maybe she’s happy?” I question.
Pacer looks back at me for a moment before grinning. “Does she look happy to you?”
I shrug. “Maybe the kids just stress her out?”
“Always defending someone.” He shakes his head as he drops the boxes down next to the bar, in the large lounge area.
Just when I thought the house couldn’t be any more Italian … It looks as if every Italian designer has puked their entire fabric collection all over the furniture and carpet. I instantly recognise the patterns of Versace and Moschino on the cushions. A golden Versace circular floor rug sits in the centre of the room with a marble coffee table on top. More Versace medusa heads on vases and coffee table books on Italian designers are stacked around the coffee table. If Mrs Fratelli was keeping it all in theme, then I’m pretty certain the leopard print in the curtains and arm chairs would have to be Dolce & Gabbana.
“Ma likes Versace.” Pacer smiles.
“Couldn’t tell,” I joke.
He laughs too. I wonder what his house is like? If it’s anything like his treetop love-nest, then he does have some taste.
Holding his gloved finger to his mouth to shush me, Pacer takes my hand and leads me down the stairs to the lower level of the house. This level leads down to a boathouse and jetty. There are always two kinds of rich families in the city—those who live on hills and those who live on the water’s edge. I don’t know what it would be like to live on the water, but I could always tell the boys who came from harbour-side mansions. They drove boats. Boats are hot.
Pacer points to the boathouse down a pathway … and they have boathouses.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Pacer wiggles the latch of the boathouse door and it opens. We both grin at each other, like a couple of naughty schoolkids. Once inside, Pacer pushes me against the door as he closes it. Sliding his gloved hand under my sweater and shirt, he finds my already hard nipple in my bra. The coldness of the leather feels so sexy against my skin. I yearn to feel it against my clit. Unbuttoning my jeans, I push them down my thighs. Pacer’s wandering hands pause for a moment. His eyes meet mine and he smirks. His sex appeal and leather glove have me bamboozled. I turn into a super-charged sex fiend.
Running my fingers around the back of his hair, I pull him to me and kiss. We kiss hard, and we kiss hot. Taking Pacer’s hand that’s been merrily flicking at my nipple, I direct it down to my sodden underwear. The coldness of the leather hits my clit and my knees weaken. As he makes circles around it, the leather lightly catches against my skin, making me flinch from the delicious vibrations it fires off every time it happens.
The leather feels hard against my sex. I want that coldness inside me, before we have to stop. My squirming doesn’t go unnoticed, and his gloved finger squeaks its way inside me. I’ll never tire from the feeling I get every time the leather grabs at my skin. The juddering is like little earthquakes inside me. It’s an incredible feeling. He pulls his gloved finger out slowly, and a whimpering moan sizzles out of me.
The leather of his glove always feels foreign and hard compared to his naked finger. I love the feeling of it. I want it. He drives his gloved finger in and out of me, the leather rubbing against my skin again and again. I can feel my orgasm building, the deep pulsing forcing my legs to strain stiff and straight.
His leather catches against my clit and my knee quivers. Just one. That quiver spreads the next time I feel leather brush past my lips again. The leather is warm now, absorbing all my juices. His leather glove slides around my sex with lubricated ease. His presses his palm hard against my clit as his finger punishes me underneath with fast strokes. The eruption reaches its breaking point and I moan a little louder than intended.
“Shhhh.” He kisses me to muffle my involuntary sounds.
I kiss him back as the full force of my orgasm takes over. The heat from my body is trapped in my head and my face feels flushed.
He slows his finger and gently cups me, rubbing the gloves against the lips of my sex. My body trembles as I come down from the climax.
We grin at each other for a moment before I realise that he’s missed out on the pleasure. “Your turn?” My fingers find their way to the top of his pants.