The sobbing. The sniffing.
In relief, I fill my lungs with a long, deep breath. He’s here … but something is wrong. Rocco does not cry. My chest deflates. Whatever is going on behind that door, it doesn’t sound good. No one cries over unpaid fines.
To put his friend’s mind at ease, I quickly shoot a text to Spencer.
Me: He’s home. I’ll find out what the deal is and get back to you in the morning.
Carefully I open his door. A flash of lightning beams into the room through the open blinds, highlighting Rocco’s curled up frame, his back to me.
“Rocco?” I whisper over the constant patter of rain against the window.
He sniffs and his shoulders slump, yet he doesn’t say a word. Whether he wants me to or not, I slip under the sheets behind him and squeeze around his middle.
“What’re you doin’, Suds?” he rasps.
I tighten my hold on him. He grips my hand and pulls it to his chest.
“We’ve all been worried sick about you,” I say softly.
“Who?”
“Me, Spencer, Mac.”
“What the fuck for?” he barks. Did I say something wrong?
“When you left … with the cops and you wouldn’t answer your phone, Spencer was the first person I called.”
“I didn’t have my phone.”
“I went down to the nearest police station and asked for you. Demanded someone fucking talk to me, but no one would.” The rain pounds harder against the window frame, sending a chill through me. I hold him tighter, drawing on his warmth.
“You did that for me? Not even knowing what the fuck the cops were doing here?”
“Yes. I was worried.”
He lets out an exasperated breath. “Fuck me, girl.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Don’t ever fuckin’ apologise for shit like that. Not to me or anyone else.”
“What’s happening with you, De Luca? Talk to me.”
He fists the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Argh!” he growls.
I lower his arms to his chest and take his prickly jaw in my hands. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”
He chokes on a sob, and it slices right through my heart. “Vinnie.” His voice breaks at the mention of the name. “He’s dead.”
I gasp for air.
No. He’s lost his brother?
The police were here to tell him? Where did they take him?
“I’m so—”
“Sorry?” he spits out.
Tears fall down my face, as I blink and nod.
“Please don’t fuckin’ cry. I can handle that on top of this.”
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my cheeks with my palms and suck in a deep breath. “That’s why the police were here?” I try to say it with some kind of composure. I have to be strong for him.
“I had to”—he strangles a heart-breaking sob—“identify him.”
Oh my God. I cover my mouth with my hand. He was at the morgue? He had to do that shit by himself?
“His death is on me, because I opened my mouth and they put him in protection. I did this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him as I take his closest hand and squeeze. Surely he doesn’t think that?
Rocco growls loudly and clears his throat. “Fuck this shit,” he curses, and tosses the covers off him. He stalks into the kitchen, still wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with what looks like remnants of flour on it.
Frantically, he opens and slams cupboard doors until he finds what he’s been looking for. He slams the familiar-shaped bottle on the bench.
Tequila.
I thought we’d tipped every last drop down the sink. Did he buy some since or had he stashed some? My Nana had trouble destroying it all, and it took years before she had the strength of will to.
“Rocco, no.” I try to say it firmly, but my voice is strangled by unshed tears. Don’t cry. You’re not helping.
He takes a glass from the dish drainer on the sink and sits it hard beside the bottle. Tears stream down his pale face as he unscrews the bottle top.
“Don’t,” I say in a quiet voice, placing my hand on his forearm.
“You don’t know how fucking hard this is,” he yells. He can’t even look me in the eye.
With my finger I turn his head to face me and stare him down. “You’re right, I don’t, and I’m so sorry this happened. Don’t fall back into old habits now.”
“Me being sober isn’t gonna bring him back. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matter.”
“I have no one left.”
Tears blur my vision, then trail their way down over my cheeks. I dig my index finger into my chest. “You. Have. Me.” With each word I tap over my heart. “I’m here for you.”
He pours the liquid into the glass, right to the brim. I won’t lie. It hurts like hell. Did he even just hear what I said?
I want to slap his face, yell at him, but I can’t bring myself to raise my hand. I don’t want to hurt him. Instead, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and lay kisses on his wet cheek. The saltiness zaps on my tastebuds as my own tears fall.
This is a man at his lowest. I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone at this point of desperation and sorrow.
“Suds,” he growls. “Don’t try and stop me.”
“If you won’t put that drink down for yourself, then do it for me.”
Something dark settles in his eyes. I’m pushing a man who’s teetering on the edge. His chocolate pools brim with tears. It’s as if I’ve broken him that little bit more.
His warm lips smash against mine. The kiss is hungry, fuelled by passion and desperation. He flicks the stud against my tongue as he fills my mouth, driving me to the point of breathlessness.
This kiss is nothing like it was in Vegas. This kiss is opening up my heart to him, and breaking it at the same time.
There are so many mixed emotions that plague me when it comes to this man. I’m sad for him. I’m proud. Some days I hate him, and some days I really like him … or is it more than that?
Rocco’s fingers dig into my arse cheeks as he takes hold of me, lifting me onto the edge of the bench. I link my ankles around his waist and squeeze my thighs around him, locking him against me.
A garbled cry fires from my lips as he moves his hips between mine and rubs the tip of his hard dick over the thin cotton covering my clit.
With determined strides he carries me to his room, our lips fixed together until he lays me back onto his bed, kneeling beside my outstretched legs.
His hands tremble as he pushes the hem of my shirt up to reveal my bare breasts. He greedily draws a hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking with desperation before he moves on to the other. I fist his hair in my hands, tugging as his mouth sends ripples of pleasure through me.
Before I know it, his hands have gripped my shorts and the wet heat of his mouth is lapping at the bundle of nerves buzzing at my clit.
Wait. What’s happening here? His brother just died. Does he even know what he’s doing?
“Roc,” I grunt out as he spreads my knees apart with his calloused hands, and thrusts his warm tongue inside me. Jesus, that’s incredible. The intense action of his mouth drives my senses into a tailspin.
“What’re you doing?”
Rocco continues his delivery of this tortuous pleasure, ignoring my attempts to lift his head. His fingers rake against my inner thighs. The relentless flicking of the stud renders me useless, unable to exercise my vocal cords.
He lifts my jelly legs to rest over his shoulders. I gasp as he trails a finger through my pussy lips, spreading the wetness right around to my back entrance, swirling the puckered hole with his finger. It stirs a flood of crazy sensations right through me. I can’t deny that I want this.
He slides a finger inside my pussy, and pushes another in the back until he can’t probe any farther. With measured thrusts he curves his digits, massaging me inside to that point of no return.
With trembling hands I fist his hair and gasp for air.
His tongue grinds faster and then his hot mouth sucks my swollen clit. I arch my back. A sharp cry breaks from my lips as I come. Pleasure thunders out to the tip of every limb. My body buzzes with electricity as the movement of his fingers slows, wringing out my release until I’m reduced to a shattered mess, unable to move.