Flaws And All
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are no to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Nikki Winter
Editor: Katriena Knights
Cover Art: Marteeka Karland
ISBN: 978-1-304-50606-1
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Two months without sex has left Luciano Antonelli on the proverbial edge of sanity. The need for his wife's touch, kiss, and scent wears on him constantly as he gives her body time to heal after the birth of their daughter. And now the night has come where he can
finally
get his hands, mouth and tongue on her. There seems to be one problem. His
bella
has the silly idea that his attraction to her has faded due to post baby weight. What Samara clearly doesn't understand is that he loves her--flaws and all. But she will, because he plans on showing her over and over and over again...
“Wait, are you actually stating you’re
not
excited about being able to
finally
fuck your husband after an eight-week hiatus?”
Samara Blackwell-Antonelli took a quick glance around the small café that she and her older,
louder,
sister were currently sitting in and…yup, there were stares. She glared across the table. “Say it louder, Nyssa. I don’t think those currently residing in Narnia
heard you.”
Why did she do this to herself? Telling her sibling things was a natural inclination, but Jesus Christ at the moment she would rather being doing
anything
else…like taking a fist to the ovaries.
“All I’ve been hearing from you for weeks on end is how much you miss the
D,
need the
D,
want the
D,
and now the
D
is in your hands and you’re not gonna take it?” Nyssa sat back, rubbing her temples as if they were publicly discussing
her
vaginal demands. “I feel like pieces of the sky are about to start falling on my head.”
“How about we make it lumps of
dirt?”
Samara hissed. “Stop announcing to the world how much I’ve been longing for the use of my spouse’s sexual organs.”
Nyssa’s arms flung out as she bellowed, “It’s a
cock!
Call it a
cock!
You’ve been married for what three years now? I think you’re allowed to refer to it as a
cock!”
“Sweet Jesus…” Samara’s forehead hit the table as eyes swung in their direction. “Why is God punishing me? Why are we related? Why was Jane Lynch not chosen for the role of my sister?”
“Because no one else would do it better than
I
do.”
“I’m going to argue that point because Jane Lynch does
everything
better than you do.”
She should’ve seen that pinch coming.
“Ow!”
“Stop your whining and tell me why you’re suddenly uninterested in a certain Italian’s salami,” the other woman prodded.
Samara sat up, eyes narrowed on her sister. “It’s not that I’m uninterested, it’s just that I prefer that my husband not
go screaming into the night the moment I get undressed.” There. She said it. She was insecure. For nine long
months and two weeks of extra time Samara had shared her body with one of the most beautiful human beings she’d ever have the pleasure of knowing—her daughter. Beautiful? Yes. Angelic? No.
Gianna Samantha Antonelli had come into the world screaming
her outrage about being kicked out of her comfortable, but very cramped, living arrangements in her mother’s womb. At a full nine pounds and ten ounces, she’d managed to beat her older brother’s record of being the heaviest goddamn baby Samara had ever seen. When Samara’s water hadn’t broken on its own after a week and a half past her daughter’s due date, her OB/GYN decided it was time to induce. The relief from that choice was forgotten during her hours of labor and delivery where there was continuous screeching in her husband’s face that consisted of, “I don’t love you anymore!” “I can’t believe I let you touch me!” and “If you ever put your cock near me again by God, I will peel it like a plantain!” Of course afterwards there were more reasonable comments like, “Look at what we did,” “She has your eyes,” and “You know I didn’t really mean it when I said I’d stab you in the face, right?”
Her husband, her Luciano, saint that he was, had held off from doing more than brushing his mouth against her own or the occasional backrub since their new resident made it very clear she was not
here for their shit. Gianna was demanding in three areas—time, food, and attention. So help you God if you were to get slack in even one
of those. So Luc had patiently held out, giving Samara glances every now and again that distinctly said, “Why can’t I play with my favorite toys?” and “Why does baby Jesus hate me so much?” It was nice to know she was desired. The issue was, Samara wasn’t feeling
desirable.
After Vincent, their first child, things just seemed to kind of…snap back into place. This was not the case with Gianna. Samara was beginning to lose the weight but it was a slow, slow
process. Taking off her clothes in front of a man who looked as though he’d been carved from granite and painted in gold? Er…no thanks. She’d managed to avoid being in anything less than a T-shirt from the time she and Gianna had been released from the hospital. Not an easy feat by any means.
Luciano was naturally affectionate and more than a little good with words. He knew how to talk his way out of a night on the futon in the office, had mastered the art of carefully deflecting awkward questions and even understood what should be done when Mother Nature left a her small monthly gift on their doorstep, but Samara doubted if her spouse was diplomatic enough to handle the fact that, for the first time in their three-year marriage, his wife didn’t want to keep the lights on while making love. Maybe she could dart out of the bathroom naked and dive under the comforter?
“Okay, kid, talk to me.” Nyssa sat back, waving her hands about. “I understand that sometimes you must come to the altar of the wise one and lay down your burdens.”
“Jane Lynch has an altar?” Once again, she should’ve seen that pinch coming. “Stop
doing that!”
“Stop making me mental!”
“Nature already took care of that, you sideshow freak!”
Nyssa growled. “What is wrong with you?”
“A lot! Starting with the fact that you and I share genetics!” Samara snarled.
“Why do I talk to you?” Her sister tossed up her arms.
“Because other people are afraid of you, and I’m all you have!”
“Bitch.”
“Twat-face.”
“Big Mac ho.”
“Condom thief!”
The older woman gasped, leaning forward. “I told you never to mention that. It was one time—
one
time—and it’s not stealing if it’s a free clinic!”
“You dumped the whole bowl in your bag! That was doing the public a disservice, you whore!”
“We’re not talking about me right now!” Nyssa reached over and poked Samara in the forehead. “We’re talking about
you.”
“Yeah, well, how about we stop that now, eh?”
“Nope.” Her sibling drew the word out then twirled a finger in the air. “Out with it, Lady Dramatic, she with the bad poker face.”
“Clever name. You come up with that while Sunny was humming on your—”
“And
this conversation is now over.” Nyssa stood, still clearly in denial about her obvious feelings for Samara’s brother-in-law despite the fact that she was riding him harder than a business man on the red-eye to L.A. “Good day, ma’am.”
“But—”
“I said good day!” In typical theatrical fashion, Nyssa swept out of the café, leaving Samara to sit and wonder how she was going to manage to keep her husband from noticing all the imperfections she now had. Not an easy thing when she was dealing with a man whose favorite words were “Naked ass naked.”
***
“I want you to listen to me carefully, Sunny. Tonight is the first night in two
months,
two whole months,
where I can do something other than—”
“Quietly sob in the shower stall?” Sansone gleefully supplied.
He resisted the urge to punch his brother. Why? Because Luciano was currently holding his perfect, precious little angel and, although she seemed to enjoy sporadic bouts of violence, exposing her to that constantly couldn’t be healthy. He figured this out when she elbowed her bother in the throat for touching her pacifier. Vincent still
gave her the side-eye when he thought no one else was paying attention. Marco simply avoided her as much as possible. For some reason they were afraid of his baby.
Personally, he couldn’t understand why. Okay, so maybe she’d hissed a few times at strangers who got too close. And yes,
there was that one incident where she’d stared down one of Samara’s friends but honestly, Gianna was perfect.
“Why is she looking at me like that?” Sansone’s panicked voice suddenly caught Luciano’s attention. “Make her stop.”
“She’s probably trying to figure out why she sees all these pretty faces on a regular basis and yet yours is so…tragic.”
His brother scratched a brow with his middle finger on full salute.
“Can’t you just be a wonderful uncle and watch my children for one
night? Just one? I need my wife.”
The asshole smirked, leaning back on Luciano’s couch, feet propped up on the unnecessarily expensive coffee table Luciano’s wife had insisted they needed. The same coffee table he desperately wanted to be able to fuck her on for hours. “And what have you done for me lately?”
Luciano’s eyes narrowed. “Are you about to start a
Rhythm Nation
flash mob?”
“You’re awfully mouthy for someone who needs my help.” Sansone sighed. “I mean, why should
I
devote my time and attention to your progeny? Why should I make my greatness available? Why should I—”
“Because my balls are going
blurple,”
he growled, cutting his sibling off. “If I don’t use them soon, they may just dry into a husk and fall off. Is that what you want? For me to lose my balls?”
Sansone eyed him. “I fear it is far too late for that, my precocious brother. Sammie took them the moment you laid eyes on her.”
“I am not going to argue that, being that I’m standing here in a T-shirt that says
Daddy Loves his Princess.”
Luciano had been bearing the title “pussy whipped” for years now, and it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. He’d seen enough pictures of himself on Google with the caption “
Philly Brawler gone soft”
to know what most of the world thought of his position as a husband and a father. Women seemed to love it, men mocked it, and his previous opponents never shunned an opportunity to make fun of his choice to retire. What none of them understood was that he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat if he had to. Samara was…well…she just
was.
The sight of her smile when she opened her eyes for the first time in the morning, the sound of her laugh when she was teasing him, the feel of her lips when she kissed him, the soft, insistent touch of her palm when she was trying to get him to relax had brought Luciano a unfathomable amount of joy. She defended him, she challenged him, she amused him, she exasperated him and she loved him. She honestly, truly
loved him, and that was more than any accolade a fan could give him, more than any boxing match. So yes, to the rest of the world he might very well seem cock-less. None of them would say this to them in person of course, not after the last time Luciano’s wonderfully bloodthirsty wife verbally disemboweled an extremely annoying reporter on the carpet of an awards show they’d gone to one year. It had gotten to the point where he now simply stood back and let her have her way. There were a few occasions where he had to remind press personnel that disrespect wouldn’t ever
be tolerated, but for the most part he knew that Samara could handle herself.
Now
he
wanted to handle her, desperately
.
Luciano had given her extra time and space to make sure her body was ready for intimacy again. He’d been counting down the days, even had a small calendar in his nightstand drawer. Lying next to his wife every night, unable to touch her the way he really wanted, had been nothing less than pure torment. He couldn’t remember it being this bad after Vincent but maybe that was because his sweet little Gianna was a bit of a heavyweight champ. When she left the ring, she may have torn a thing or four. Luciano had seen the size of his child’s head and shoulders. He would’ve been the worst kind of bastard
not
to give Samara extra time.
