Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 47

Ava

I want to crawl into this kiss and start a new life. All of the anger and hurt that I saw on the bridge has given way to the demanding pressure of his lips on mine as we take and give, give and take. I’m so wrapped up in the sensation of his tongue that when I come up for air, I can’t help but giggle at the fact that we’ve somehow made it from the foyer to the settee, James pinned beneath me while I straddle his lap, the bottom of my dress scrunched up around my hips so that nothing separates James from me but a layer of lace and his jeans.

“Something funny?” he says into my neck as he presses kisses down toward my clavicle. When his teeth graze softly against my collarbone I curse and press down against him and he lets out the most delicious sound in response.

“Dolcezza,” he whispers and I pull his mouth back up to mine, graze my tongue against his lower lip. I want to taste the Italian, and he seems to sense that because he continues to say something against my mouth, all dipping vowels and rolling Rs.

“Posso toccarti?” he says softly.

I have no idea what the hell he’s asking, but his hands are at my hips holding me steady so that I can’t grind against him, so I answer the only way I can.

“Yes. Sì. Do whatever the hell you—”

His fingers slip beneath the lace between us and I’ve forgotten what I was saying. His hand—Dio—his hand. Who knew a hand could do this to a person—send so much pressure and pleasure through them that they might tear at the seams. But then somehow, impossibly, it gets better, and his fingers stop stroking and find a place inside of me that screams Thank you at the top of its lungs, and he curses on a breath as I clench around him. He works me slowly, pushing me closer and closer to the edge, one hand cupping my hip—moving me against his palm while his fingers circle deep inside, coaxing me toward release. And I’m there already—as if my body’s been waiting for weeks for this.

“Let go, Ava,” he whispers, then something in Italian, and his voice in my ear lights the fuse and everything explodes. The dam bursts and I’m flooded, every piece of me drenched in warmth, wave after wave of pleasure. When the last tingles float away in the tide, my limbs feel heavy and useless, and James slides his hand away from me and keeps me upright by the hips. The intensity in his gaze makes me want to give him everything I just felt and more.

He kisses me softly and whispers, “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Impossibly, the sound of his voice stokes an ember I didn’t even know was still lit inside of me. I slide against him, and a new flame erupts when I feel how hard he is beneath me. He curses, and his fingers dig into my hips, and then he lifts the dress over my head slowly, taking me in like he did back in Urbino, like we’ve got all the time in the world. His mouth finds mine, and I barely register the fact that he’s lifting me—carrying me through the darkness to—I don’t care where because the taste of him, the softness of his lips and the firmness of his body—I can’t think past it.

I don’t unwrap my legs from around his back as he lays me on the bed. The light from the lanterns along the canal reach through the window and fall over my body, and he tries to move away to admire me, but I lock my ankles.

“You can take your mental photographs later,” I say, reaching into his hair and pulling him down over me.

The vibration of his laugh makes me squirm beneath him, and I arch my hips to get closer, which immediately makes him stop laughing.

“I need you to have less clothes,” I tell him.

“You need to unhook your ankles then.”

I don’t want to. Then there will be space between us. I hate space. I can see his brow lift in amusement as I weigh my options. And when I finally let my legs fall on either side of him, he pushes back, but I go with him, my hands at his waist making quick work of the buttons and zipper on his pants. He runs his finger along my jaw and I pull my gaze up to his.

No one has ever looked at me the way James is looking at me right now. The last time we shared this look, I wasn’t ready and he ended up walking away. But now I want nothing more than for him to look at me like this—like I’m oxygen and desert, sunlight and art—everything he needs and wants in this world.

He lifts his shirt over his head and steps out of his pants and underwear.

“Jeezzz-us,” I say and he laughs. When I start to trace the lines between his abs, he shuts his eyes like he did earlier today, and I let my fingers explore, lower and lower until they land where I want them and he lets out a sharp breath. I need him to make more sounds. I need to watch him get off like he watched me, but when he finds me looking up at him while I stroke, all of the sweetness from a moment before disappears and his eyes darken to the color of the canal outside the window.

His mouth crashes onto mine, and his hands are everywhere, and my body is just one giant ball of aching need as I move against him.

“Please, James. Please,” I beg.

“Please what, Ava?” He’s slipped the lace of my bra under my breasts and his tongue is doing wickedly amazing things; every tug on my nipple sends a shock down to my core.

When his mouth and body leave me so he can reach into the pocket of his discarded jeans, I can barely stand his absence.

“James.”

The sound of a foil being ripped. He’s taking too long.

“Yes, dolcezza?”

He returns to me, condom in place, and I whisper in his ear, “I need you,” then take him in my hand between us as he slips the last bit of lace down over my legs. “Please.”

And with that last plea he pushes into me, and everything I’d been imagining eviscerates into the ether because this—the way he feels inside of me—this is beyond anything I could have dreamed of. He’s slow at first, his eyes on mine, assessing, gauging every reaction on my face as he stretches me, our bodies moving together in this exquisite rhythm that makes the dueling pianos from tonight look like amateurs. He gives me one long, lingering kiss and the touch of his tongue on mine erases my self-control. I hook my ankles around his ass, pulling him deeper, and he groans. He wants what I want. Our pace picks up—both of us climbing the same mountain—both of us wanting nothing more than to reach the top and spill over the other side.

My hands tangle in his hair, rake down his back, pull him deeper and closer as he says my name so reverently I forget it’s just a name. I beg and plead and he answers—every touch a gift as everything tightens and coils, and then he’s telling me again to let go and I listen. I’ll do anything he says. When his lips find mine again, my release shatters me into pieces so small they might blow away with the breeze coming through the open windows from the canal. I cry out into his mouth, and the sound pulls him down with me, the pulsing of his orgasm riding the tide of warm heat that courses through me, pulling and stretching the pleasure like taffy until we are both wrung completely and deliciously dry.

Our breathing mingles in the dark—our chests still pressed together—hearts so close I can feel his beating into mine. He turns onto his side, runs his hand down my stomach.

“You have five minutes to rest,” he says, and a hysterical giggle bubbles out of me as I watch his gorgeous ass head to the bathroom.

When he returns, I turn on my side and look up at him. His eyes look dark and serious—just like they did when he pushed—

“Zero minutes if you keep biting your lip like that,” he says.

I push myself up onto my knees on the mattress while he stands in front of me.

“I’m ready when you are,” I say, with a soft smile.

And he doesn’t answer. Just lowers his mouth over mine because he’s ready too.