Mrs. Carnevale looked at her husband. "We can't tell her what to do," she reminded him gently. "She is an adult."
"Thanks, Mom," Drew said.
"You shut up," her father said, pointing at her. "I don't like it. I want to talk to this Heath myself."
"John, come on," Drew said. "I'm not a teenager."
Her father stepped toward her and put his hands on her shoulders. "No," he said. "You're not a teenager. But I don't care how old you are. You're my daughter, and I wouldn't be all right with this even if you hadn't been attacked and almost killed last year. But since you were, I'm really not all right with this, and I want to talk to this boyfriend o' yours to make sure he doesn't get any funny ideas."
"Dad," Drew said exasperatedly.
"That's my condition," he said firmly. "I talk to your boyfriend."
Drew's face darkened. "He's not –"
Her father waved his hands. "All right, all right. He's not your boyfriend. I don't care. I still talk to him. Or no trip."
"Joe, we should go," her mother interjected. "We need to get to the bank and then I want you to take me to lunch. Drew—we'll bring you and Bunz back something to eat. And we'll see you on Sunday and maybe later and tomorrow too."
Drew sighed. "Mom, I won't be there on Sunday. Remember? I told you I'm goin' to his family's house for dinner."
Her mother stared at her. "You're not comin' on Sunday?" she demanded.
"Mom, I told you this already."
"I thought you meant Saturday, tomorrow!" she said. "Not Sunday. You can't miss Sunday!"
"I said Sunday, Mom," Drew said. "And what's the big deal? Sometimes Nik and Toni miss Sundays when they go to Vince's or Ryan's families."
"They're married," Mrs. Carnevale insisted. "That's totally different. You're a single girl, you belong with your mother at her house on Sunday!" She waved her hand, her other clutching at her heart. "Fine, fine. You go with them on Sunday. Forget about your mother. I'll be fine."
"Let's go, sweetie," Mr. Carnevale said, taking his wife by the arm and fixing Drew with a piercing stare. "You remember what I said," he said, his tone vaguely threatening. They left the café and as Bunz came out from the kitchen, Drew dramatically collapsed over the top of the counter.
Bunz was chewing a piece of the freshly baked Italian loaf she'd just made. "Well," she began, chomping on the crusty bread with her eyes wide. "I'd say that went about as well as you could hope for." She offered a piece to Drew, who grabbed it. It was perfect—hard and crusty on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside.
"Yeah," Drew mumbled through a mouthful of bread. "I'm exhausted."
Chapter Twenty-Two
As the day wore on, Drew found herself unable to think of anything but the previous night. It had been so perfect, the way every date ought to be, and it was the sort of thing that she'd never really believed existed in the real world for people like her. But, it had happened.
And, as it had been doing most of the day during lulls, her mind turned to the couch. She could still feel his fingers moving against her, teasing her, touching her so perfectly and exactly how she never knew she liked to be touched, until her peak had burst out of her stronger than she could ever remember experiencing. She couldn't even really recall with any accuracy the last time she'd had an orgasm; it had been long before even the attack, although the attack had solidified the obsolescence of that part of her body. She never thought that she'd ever feel arousal or desire again; in fact, she assumed she would never have sex again for the rest of her life, never want it again. She'd healed physically, although that had taken months; she'd had to undergo a series of several surgeries, and the damage done from her attacker's body and his "toys", including her own kitchen knife, had caused the need for an impromptu hysterectomy at the ripe age of twenty-six. Mentally, she'd assumed not only would she never be intimate with anyone again but she would also never be with anyone ever again, and up until meeting Heath, she'd done just fine.
And then, he'd completely discombobulated her.
She thought about the idea of having sex with him. The thought, on a surface level, made her want to run screaming for the hills; not because of him—the overall idea of allowing anything to penetrate her again terrified her. But as she forced herself to envision it, using the context from last night, she wondered if it couldn't be as wonderful as people made it out to be. Her body instantly grew warm as she imagined his skin sliding against hers, his fingers working the magic she'd come to realize they were capable of, his lips moving against hers in the way she loved. She felt her skin flushing and tightening at the thought. Then, she imagined him gently parting her legs and settling in between them, and that large, hard bulge she'd felt through his pants last night moving against her core. Her stomach felt tight and tingly and her breath started to hitch a little faster. Then she imagined him moving into her, invading her most sensitive and most abused area with himself, and panic settled over her like a wave and her eyes flew open as her heart began to beat erratically and fear made her vision swim.