Nineteen
Glad To Be Unhappy
Amber
Almost Five Years Later
A hand shakes me awake. “Hey, Mrs. Ferraro. Time to get up.”
“Ten more minutes,” I mumble, burrowing into the pillow.
“Ten minutes means I get to do whatever I want to you,” he warns, his Jersey accent taking on new Rocky Balboa heights.
I almost tell him that. But Luca always complains when I try to compare them. “I’m from Jersey. Stallone’s from New York, baby…”
So, I just agree to his terms, “Mmm-hmm,” with a sleepy smile.
The bed dips. One knee, and then another, until he’s right behind me, turning me over.
He drapes both my legs over his shoulders, and I can feel underneath my calves that he’s already put on his suit.
“You should have woken me up sooner,” I complain on the suit’s behalf.
“Sssh, you,” he answers.
Th
