Chapter Nine
Bianca
The house is dark and cool. I fold into the pillow and go under fast, like a stone.
In the dream, I’m in a kitchen that isn’t mine. Not Regalia. Not Nonna’s. Smooth counters, heavy knives, a window that looks out over a city I know without seeing.
His kitchen.
He’s behind me before I turn. Quiet in that way he has. Heat pumps off him even though the room is cool. He doesn’t touch me at first. He sets a board next to my elbow and says, “Show me,” like it’s a test.
I reach for a lemon. The knife slides through. His breath moves the loose hairs at my neck. “Thinner,” he says, and I go thinner. I feel it everywhere.
A pot hisses. I lift the lid, and the steam kisses my face. He steps closer to look. His hand comes around, not on me—on the handle I’m about to grab barehanded. He crowds the space just enough that my back molds to the shape of his chest without actually feeling it.
“Careful,” he says, low. “I need your hands.”
The word “need” is heavy in my gut.
I stir. Tomato and garlic open up, and the air gets rich with it. He reaches past me for the spoon. The back of his wrist grazes my hip. That small drag of knuckles through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt lights me up as if I stood too close to the oven.
“Taste,” he says. The word hits the same spot low in my gut that it did at Regalia two nights ago. He holds the spoon up, daring me.
I lean. He doesn’t put it in my hand. He brings it to my mouth. I open. The spoon is hot. Sauce even hotter. He watches the way my lips close around the metal. I breathe out through my nose so I won’t make a sound I can’t take back.
“Salt?” he asks.
“A little,” I manage.
He turns his wrist, flicks a pinch in. The muscles in his forearm jump. I watch them like an idiot. He sees me seeing and smiles.
He moves to the sink, and the back of his shoulder brushes my chest. I pretend it was an accident. We both know it wasn’t.
There’s bread. He tears off a piece and hands it to me. Plain. No oil. No plate. I bring it up and he catches my wrist, gently, thumb just at the inside where my pulse is trying to break out. He watches it jump. His thumb presses once, like he’s testing doneness.
“Slow,” he says.
“I am,” I say, but I’m not. I’m nowhere near calm.
He lifts my hand the rest of the way and takes the bite I was about to take. The bread is nothing, but the sound he makes is not. A quiet hum that travels through his palm into my wrist, up my arm. He doesn’t let go right away.
“Again,” he says. He means the food. It doesn’t feel like he means the food.
I turn to the board because I need something to do, or I’ll do something else. He comes with me like I’m a magnet. The knife starts its rhythm—heel to tip, heel to tip—and I feel him fall into it, right behind me, a breath off my spine. My body knows where he is, like it’s a sixth sense.
“Bianca.” Soft, at my ear.
I put the knife down. I’m not stupid. My hands don’t need to be near blades right now.
He takes my wrist again and sets my palm flat on the counter. His hand covers mine. Larger, warmer. “Hold,” he says, like I’m about to move before I should.
I don’t move.
He steps that inch closer that puts him against me. Heat all down my back. My breath shortens. My knees want to buckle. I lock them and hate myself for it.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do. Slowly, because I decide to. Not because he told me to. The lie helps.
His face is right there. Closer than we’ve ever been. The pot on the stove bubbles. A timer ticks down somewhere and doesn’t matter. His eyes drop to my mouth and back up. He’s asking without asking.
I tip my chin. That’s all he needs.
He kisses me like he does everything else—decisive, controlled, no wasted motion. Not soft, either. Not rough. Just sure. His hand slides from the counter to my waist and fits there like he knew it would. I open for him like a flower in bloom. It’s embarrassing how easy it is.
The kiss isn’t polite. It gets messy fast. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt because I need something to hold onto, or I’ll float off the floor. He makes that sound again, low, and I swallow it like I swallowed the spoonful of sauce.
He breaks the kiss first, which somehow infuriates me. I chase him back, and he laughs against my mouth, breath warm, and that’s a problem because I like the sound too much.
“Easy,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to the side of my throat, thumb under my jaw. Not choking. Not even pressing. Just there. Claiming.
“You started it,” I say, which is childish and true.
“I’ll finish it,” he says, and I feel that promise all the way through.
The timer dings. Neither of us moves. He kisses the corner of my mouth in apology and steps away just enough to reach the knob and kill the flame.
That little crack of space feels wrong. He fixes it fast. His palm is at my hip again, dragging me back.
His mouth finds the spot under my ear that undoes me.
“Giovanni,” I hear myself say on a moan, and his name on my tongue does something to him. He growls against my skin, goosebumps breaking out all over.
“Say it again,” he says.
I do. He answers with teeth, a sharp scrape that lights every fuse I’ve got.
His other hand brackets my ribs. He breathes me in like I’m a dish he’s wanted all night. He makes himself stop. I feel it—the restraint. It shouldn’t make me so needy. It does.
“Tell me to go,” he says, voice rough.
I don’t.
He tips my head back with the hand on my jaw and looks me right in the eye. Something dark passes over his face.
My hands move. They don’t ask for permission. They reach. The buttons of his shirt give way. He lets me get all the way down, and then he takes my wrists and pins them at my sides. I make a noise. Protest or plea, I can't tell. He makes one back.
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, featherlight. My breath catches. My body arches, searching. He watches. He does it again. This time, his nail grazes, and the spark lights between my legs.
The counter digs into my back. The rest of him is right there. His hands holding mine hostage. His chest against my breasts, my ribs, his hips flush with mine. He doesn't move. I can't. I feel him everywhere, and still not enough.
His forehead drops to mine. We breathe. I can't remember what it felt like not to have him this close.
I don't say anything. I can't.
His tongue touches the corner of my mouth, a small taste. "You'll let me," he says. It isn't a question.
I will.
I should tell him to stop.
Instead, I lift my head and take his mouth.
He releases my hands. I use them. His belt goes. The button and zipper of his jeans. He breaks the kiss and pulls my shirt over my head. His shirt follows. My hands find skin, and it's everything I imagined and more.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't need to. We're already on the edge.
One hand dips into the back of my panties, fingers splayed across the curve of my ass. His other slides between my legs, and he tests me with two fingers. It's all I can do not to moan and arch and beg.
"Bianca," he says. It's almost a growl. Almost a plea.
I can't speak. He's there and not, and I need him there. I don't care what happens after.
His fingers are gone. They find the waist of my panties and push down, and then I'm naked. He lifts me onto the cool countertop, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
His mouth is back on mine, and his hands are everywhere, and I feel him right where I want him. He breaks the kiss to breathe against the shell of my ear, his voice thick. "Say it."
"Yes," I whisper, and it's the best and worst thing I've ever said.
His mouth falls to my shoulder. His teeth graze the skin, and it's almost, almost too much. I don't have the words. I have my hands in his hair, nails against his scalp.
He reaches between us, and the blunt head of his cock replaces his fingers. It's a lot.
His hips roll, and I'm not prepared for the pressure or the stretch as he fills my pussy. His fingers grip my thighs, pulling me closer.
My body opens and takes him. He buries his face in the side of my neck and makes a noise that goes straight to my clit. He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. He starts to move.
My eyes fly open and I jerk awake, crying out "Giovanni!" into the dark room.
I blink. Stare at the ceiling. Breathe.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I turn onto my side and bury my face in the pillow.
It was a dream. It was a goddamn dream.
The sheets are twisted around me. My tank top is sweat-soaked. My underwear is ruined. I've never been this wet.
"Goddammit," I groan.
It was a dream. Nothing but a fucking dream.
I'm going to lose it.
I'm so horny, it's painful.
I can't do this.
I have to do something.
I can't think about him. I can't touch myself. It'll only make things worse.
But I'm wound so tight, I might explode.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling again. My pulse is throbbing between my legs. My skin feels hot and cold and electric. I've never been so turned on, and the thought of him makes it worse.
I'm going to lose it.
It can't just be a dream. It can't.
I'm a grown-ass woman.
I need to do something about this.
I need a release.
I have a vibrator. Back in Italy.
It's not like I packed it for the trip.
I slide my hand down my body, over my breasts, still trapped in my tank top. I rear up to pull it off.
It's a relief to be bare.
My hand comes back down. Over the swell of my breasts, the dip of my stomach, and then into the elastic waist of my underwear.
My fingers slide against hot, slick skin, and it's such a shock that I almost stop.
I'm so fucking turned on.
I find my swollen clit and start to rub, and the noise that comes out of me is so raw, it scares me.
But it feels so good.
I'm wet and hot and slippery. My hand moves. My hips rock. I'm not going to last long.
I picture Giovanni over me, his strong arms bracketing me in while his thick cock moves in and out of me.
I imagine his lips against mine, the feel of his breath mingling with mine.
I feel his hands, large and warm and calloused, on my skin, touching, stroking, teasing.
His lips around my taut nipple. I roll my nipple between my fingers and squeeze my sensitive breast.
The muscles in my belly flutter, and the ache deep in my core intensifies.
I'm close. So close.
It's not his fingers, his tongue, his cock.
His tongue. I lock on that thought. His tongue moving between my legs, licking my sopping wet pussy, finding the little bundle of nerves, and sucking until I can't breathe.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
My thighs shake. My orgasm is so close, and yet I'm not there.
"Fuck," I hiss, squeezing my eyes shut.
I see his face, his intense eyes watching me fall apart under his tongue, his hands.
My hand works furiously. I'm so close. So fucking close.
I arch off the bed, a strangled cry leaving my lips.
"Giovanni," I cry out.
My body stiffens, and the coil deep inside me snaps.
The orgasm hits fast and hard, and I'm coming so hard, it's a surprise. My back bows, and my muscles lock up, and my hand stills between my legs as the pleasure rushes through me.
I ride it out, a high-pitched sound falling from my lips as I writhe against the sheets, the aftershocks still rippling through me.
I sink back against the mattress and close my eyes.
Fuck.
That didn't help.
Not at all.
I'm still wet and wanting.
I'm still horny as hell.
I have never been this frustrated in my entire life.
I roll onto my stomach, drag the pillow over my head, and scream.