King of Italy (Fausti Family Royal)

28. The Romantic Moon over the Mediterranean leads to Dancing and.Much More

Chapter 28

The Romantic Moon over the Mediterranean leads to Dancing and...Much More

W e had decided the reception would be held in a secluded spot on the island.

Right. A secluded spot on a secluded island. But…

It was a place visitors visited to get a feel for a world long gone. To reach the abandoned shell of the 15 th century castello , a dramatic drawbridge from the island had to be taken, and once over the inlet, the remains of what had once been royal stood, complete with stone towers and defensive battlements. The castello was perched on the top of its own hill overlooking the whispering sea.

The interior had been touched by the hand of time and the rough elements of the sea, so the frescoes depicted on the walls reminded me of art that had been pulled from the depths of the water, somehow faded but preserved at the same time.

The first time we explored the castello , Rocco had kissed my hand and told me a story. The man who had built the castello had built it for his mistress. He had brought her to the island to get her alone by promising her a world filled with riches and…him. The frescoes played out their love story, even down to courtly interactions between the lovers in a drammatico fashion.

Over a thousand candles must have been lit to give the inside of the castello an unearthly glow, and they spread along the floors, on tables set out for seating, in a variety of heights and widths. In the oscillating light, the frescoes seemed to come alive like I hadn’t noticed before. The swaying of the burning wicks gave them movement, instead of the garish light of day bringing to light the harsh reality of time. The thousands of flowers in contrast to the ancient stone…so romantic. It married the primeval and the modern in a union that would, no doubt, live on in our memories forever.

Rocco kept my hand firmly in his, leading me through the castello to the “yard,” where all our guests waited around a dance floor that had been built.

My hand squeezed his. I didn’t want to move yet. Didn’t want to rush through this night. The “yard” was the entire reason I fell in love with the castello for our reception. It had been overrun and reminded me of a magical forest created by land and sea. And for us, it had not been tamed, but… I wasn’t sure how many twinkling—fairy?—lights had been strung up in the trees, or how the decorator had managed to bring the magical forest to life by adding flowers that seamlessly tied together nature and the decorative touch of a person, but she had.

It seemed like the stars had been brought down, and the forest had exploded with flowers. The colors didn’t detract from the natural scenery but added to it—cream, white, gold, and green.

When my attention broke and I looked at my husband— my husband! —he was staring at me, all that shining light in his sea-green eyes, but it wasn’t from the light at all.

It was from me.

I smiled at him.

He grinned at me, taking my hand, breathing me in, then placed a soft kiss on my pulse.

“This pleases you, my Amora,” he whispered, his voice gruff and so masculine.

“Yes,” I whispered back, having a hard time catching my breath. He was the real reason behind this. The reason for it all .

All that was needed was him.

All.

That.

Was.

Needed.

Consider the power in that statement— all that was needed , and none of it had to do with what money could buy.

Not an actual place, but a soul that could sustain me for the rest of my life.

Shelter me.

Nourish me.

Love me.

“It pleases me so much, my husband.”

His entire face underwent a spectacular change, all controlled by his eyes. They lowered to almost closed, but the intensity in them was as if he was staring into my soul with the warmest candle not crafted by man. Like he had kissed me so deeply, I couldn’t remember who I was.

He pulled me to him so hard, I gasped when my body collided with his. But it was a smooth move. His strength kept me on my feet, even though I tilted into him. He had both of my hands in his, keeping me locked to his side.

“Say that again, my wife—” he rolled his lips “—and we will not be staying to celebrate with family and friends, ah?”

Oh. My. God.

My heart fell into to my stomach, rushed back up, and seemed to fly right out of me, hovering above my head like I had turned into one of those cartoon characters with hearts in their eyes and wings flapping above their heads. He pulled me close again, and the way he’d done it brought back vivid memories of us in the bedroom. How he would slide out of me just to come back with a thrust that sent the breath from my lungs. My thighs trembled in remembrance, and the sensitive nub of nerves tingled as if he had touched me there .

If he had been aiming to remind me to breathe, he had missed the effing mark.

Rocco was a possessive man, but after we’d said our vows, he looked at me differently. His touch felt different. The way he kissed me felt different. I could feel and taste the proprietorship in it. His touch wasn’t rougher, per se, but it was. His kiss wasn’t deeper, but somehow, it was.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect tonight. The uncertainty made me anxious, almost fidgety, even though he had my hands locked in with his.

Our first time was special. But the time to come?

I was his—in all the ways. We’d made a public declaration of our love before God, our family, and friends.

That wasn’t something he took lightly. I could feel the truth in our vows almost radiating off him. And whatever that was moving between us, it felt like the lingering heat from the day, except it was iridescent in the glow of all the candlelight and twinkling lights.

A smooth Italian voice announced from the stage in Italian, family and friends, it is my honor to introduce you to…Mr. & Mrs. Fausti!

Oh, that was right. In keeping one of my Italian American traditions alive, I asked that we be introduced as husband and wife before our first dance.

“Mrs. Fausti,” Rocco breathed against my pulse, “tell me, what is it to be, cuore il mia .”

Oh, right.

“I’ll…save it for later,” I whispered lamely in comparison to the pure masculine charm practically oozing from his voice.

Yeah, this was all nice, the celebration with family and friends, but my heart felt almost…not afraid, but something close to it at the thought of being alone with him for the first time as his wife. It wasn’t even physical, but something that went past flesh and met bone. Like he was going to make sure our vows found a home in what would someday be returned to heaven. My soul .

The violin began its solo, and after kissing my pulse again, his warm lips lingering over the frantic beat he was causing, the breath trembling out of my mouth at the feel of it, he led me to the dance floor, turned me around like he was a professional dancer, then brought me in. We gazed at each other as “At Last,” played, the background music to our love story.

At last, we had found each other.

He sang the song to me in Italian in that rich voice that was so much like his father’s, my hands stroking the back of his neck. Even though Rocco could dance, we swayed, both of us caught in the spell of each other’s eyes.

When the song ended, I asked the band to play another, because I wanted more time with him. “Have You Ever.” I sang it to him. My voice wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t where my magic lived—not like inside of these Faustis. But Rocco stared at me as if I was the most enthralling thing he’d ever seen in his life, and it was as if he was taking the lyrics and jotting them down in his heart with needle and ink.

“You are singing,” he said, leaning in to kiss me, “not only moving your lips.”

“Oh, like this, you mean?” I closed my eyes and lip-synced, like I usually did.

“ Sì ,” he said seriously.

I laughed, leaning into him some. “It’s…peculiar, isn’t it?”

“You are peculiar,” he said as if he was just stating another fact about me, like my eye color was hazel.

I blinked up at him. “Been told that my entire life.”

“You were created for me,” he said simply, implying that every part of me was perfect for him, even if I didn’t always feel like my…peculiarities were particularly attractive. I was always the odd ball at school. The girl who kept to herself, always dreaming and doodling, and hung out with her Nonna for fun.

Neither of us realized the second song had come to an end until applause went up around us, and the music changed. Surprising me, Papà Fausti asked permission from Rocco before he danced with me. Rocco kissed my hand, then handed it to his father. Damn. Luca was a good dancer, and he smelled…I wasn’t even sure if a word existed for how good these men smelled.

I’d come up with a secret one for Rocco.

Titillating.

Well, that was how he made me feel after I sniffed him.

His uncles asked me to dance next, followed by his brothers.

The entire time I danced with Brando, his eyes were mostly on his wife dancing with Rocco, and Rocco’s eyes were mostly on me. Scarlett and I met eyes and exploded with laughter. When we started dancing together, their eyes were on us. We laughed even harder at the almost blank looks on their faces at why we were laughing.

Scarlett threw an arm in the air, her hips moving seductively, as it seemed like every one of her footsteps matched the beat of the song as she danced toward her husband, and he came for her.

She’d said something in my ear before she left me, though. “I’m so frigging happy for Rocco—for you!” She’d glanced at Amadeo and Ludovico, and even though my heart fell at how their father’s wedding to another woman might make them feel, I plastered on a smile and sent it in their direction, waving a little. I’d made a silent vow to them, too, at the church. Even though they were grown, I wanted them as a part of our lives. A bigger part.

Amadeo approached me first and asked me to dance. Then Ludovico. Both men were grinning and laughing by the time our dances were over. After they left me, both of their shoulders were relaxed, and it was like they were breathing, not caring if too loudly or not.

The smile on Rocco’s face as he watched them made my heart warm. He loved his sons, even if he kept that love close to his chest.

Pisolino even made an appearance. I’d created him a tuxedo style collar, and he flaunted it around like he was a king. Except when I picked him up and was stroking his ears, I noticed that he had hair missing from his back. It almost looked like someone had tried to grab him too hard and pulled his hair out. It gave me an uneasy feeling. Rocco noticed the look on my face, and without him having to say his usual two words, tell me , I told him.

His face hardened, and he ordered one of the soldiers to keep watch of Pisolino until the night was over. Scarlett and Brando agreed to take him back to the mainland the next day, when the entire island would be cleared except for locals and soliders. That made me feel better, but I knew Pisolino was going to be mad at me. The vet would seem like child’s play if he didn’t leave the island with me. That seemed to be our deal. We were a package.

I pushed the thought aside, knowing I was doing the right thing for him. We’d be together soon enough, and maybe one of the soldiers could bring him back right before we left for the mainland after summer was over. He could say goodbye to his home with me next to him, since he became my family on this island before I found Rocco.

Mac got to his feet and clanked a knife against a crystal glass, capturing everyone’s attention. He wasn’t a loud man, and it wasn’t only because of the scar across his throat. He didn’t need to be boisterous. None of these men needed to draw attention to themselves. The attention was usually on them just naturally.

Mac cleared his throat and looked at us, standing side by side, Rocco’s hand on my hip. His hands were on me almost constantly.

“Rocco has been waiting for you, Ari, for what feels like centuries to him. He was as alone as I was, until Mariposa.” His wife took her place by his side, and without even looking at her, he took her hand in his. “So, when I speak these next words, I speak them in knowledge. In every face of every woman, in every touch of a body that didn’t belong to him, he searched for yours and found empty vows.”

Rocco pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed my wedding rings as I cried at Mac’s heartfelt words.

“Your love story is an accumulation of every love story he has ever witnessed and wished for himself. Aria Amora Bella Fausti. You are a wildflower. A rose. A butterfly. You are Italy. You are New Orleans. You are entirely his. And he is eternally yours. Senza fine . You are the queen of his heart, and he is the king of yours.” He lifted his glass, and everyone followed suit. He wished us a hundred nights such as this one and then said, “ Salute! ”

“ Salute! ” the crowd echoed.

Everyone downed their drinks in honor of Mac’s toast, and then Romeo serenaded us with a song that we danced to underneath the thousands of twinkling lights. “Senza Fine.”

Rocco dried my tears. I couldn’t stop the flow of them.

The night seemed to soften after that, everyone relaxed and having a great time. I took it as a good sign that suit jackets had been left at tables and sleeves had started to roll up. Until it seemed like a hush fell over the crowd, and the music had been turned up too loud. Rocco’s grip on my back was hard enough to rip the delicate fabric, but it held up. It was much stronger than it looked.

An older man and woman had arrived, and guests parted for them, giving them a clear line to Rocco and me.

It surely wasn’t my mom and her husband. She had declined the invitation, since she said her daughters only had a short time left of summer and they were looking forward to going to Six Flags—how could she disappoint them by changing their plans and taking them to Italy for an adult wedding? If I would have given her more time to plan, even though Rocco was paying for all of them, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, sure, maybe. But this wedding was so unexpected!

Before we hung up, I heard her say, hopefully he won’t be a philandering cheat like…

My dad.

Okay. That was the truth about my dad.

Still.

Pfff. Whatever.

This couple was staring directly at Rocco though. The man was dressed in an expensive suit, just like the rest of these men, and the woman was in a black gown with veil, like she was attending a funeral instead of a wedding.

Juliette slipped a glass of something full of alcohol in my hand. All I had was a sip of champagne in honor of Mac’s toast, but I felt entirely stoned. These people, though, were changing the mood. It felt like reality was starting to slip into our dreamland. Even though I was tempted to down the glass, I set it down, straightening my gown and standing taller next to Rocco. I held tighter to his arm as the couple approached us.

That was when it hit me.

I’d seen these people before on the television at the hotel in Naples.

Rosaria’s parents.

Rocco greeted them by name, then introduced me to them. The man nodded and the woman stared at me with the fire of judgment in her eyes, totally ignoring him. I could feel Rocco tense, about to react.

I cleared my throat. “You’re welcome to stay,” I said. “We have plenty of food and drink. And Amadeo and Ludovico are here, if you’d like to spend time with them.”

“ You are giving us permission to spend time with our grandchildren?” she snapped at me.

Again, Rocco was about to react, but I held onto his arm.

“No,” I said. “I’m inviting you to stay at our reception and spend time with them, if you want to.”

Since she couldn’t find any hostility in my voice, she was left with nothing. Nothing but her own feelings, which Rocco and I couldn’t change. Her eyes snapped from mine to Rocco’s. He nodded at her. A second later, her husband set his hand on her back, and they left.

But not before I heard her question how Rocco Fausti could replace their daughter’s role in his life with “… that?! He is wearing a wedding ring! She has a beast on a leash! ” She went on to say that at least their songbird was still married when she left them, and at least the world would say “ …he could not possibly find another suitable match for the role of his wife, so this is why he took her as a bride.”

Rocco turned to me, and I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, and meant it. “What’s a wedding without some drama?”

I thought I heard him grumble, an eternal fucking bachelor party , but I wasn’t too sure. I was too concentrated on getting him to shake off the situation.

Rosaria’s parents weren’t her and she wasn’t them, though I could clearly tell they were her parents, and not just by looks. But if their opinion of his marriage to me reflected how their daughter would feel about her role, not her love, being replaced, and it would pull him in the opposite direction again…

Walking backward, away from him, I started to sway my hips to the fast beat of the music.

Reach out and touch me… the singer whispered in a seductive, raspy voice, and I made a motion with my fingers, an invitation… come and get me, you sexy beast. (My word choice could be lame when I was drunk on life, okay? I didn’t work nonstop.)

Rocco stalked toward me, and before I made it fully into the center of the dance floor, he grabbed me around the waist, growling in my ear as I laughed, then held me while I started to dance to the song.

The night seemed to fly after that, each moment punctuated by different memories, like when all the women pulled Romeo to the center of the dance floor and sang, “You’re So Vain,” to him. He ate it up, fixing his hair and bowing. Or when Luca serenaded the crowd with a heartfelt ballad in Italian, and every woman had to touch up her mascara after. Or as the men watched all the women dance while they sipped whiskey and smoked cigars. Or when Rocco met me on the dance floor, and we swayed to the music even though it was fast paced. When all the men came together to catch the garter that Rocco pulled off my leg with his teeth. And when the women came together to catch my bouquet of peonies.

The darkness had thinned, and before the sun could make an appearance, we left in a cloud of smoke as sparklers lit our path and fireworks exploded over our heads. Women grabbed me from all sides to hug and kiss me, wishing us well.

A carriage pulled by dark horses with powerful builds waited for us as we made our escape. One of the two horses in the front whinnied, his eyes lighting up with the colors of the sky. The one next to him nudged him with her snout, shaking her head, her beautiful mane of black silk reflecting the sparking lights around us. She stomped her foot once or twice. She was ready to roll.

The driver went to step down when he noticed us, but Rocco held his hand up, signaling to the man he didn’t have to move, he had this. Rocco took my hand and helped me up the step, making sure I was all tucked in with my gown as he took his spot next to me.

We both seemed to take a breath at the same time, then turn toward each other. The smile on my face was in great contrast to the serious set of his. He lifted his left hand, with a new band of white gold as bright as light in the darkness over his ring finger, and as softly as the breeze caressing my face, he ran his fingertips down my skin. My eyes instinctively closed. The feel of it was tender, but the effect of it was as powerful as lightning against the sky.

A tremble tore through me before I whispered as he caressed my lips, “My husband.”

“Ah,” he breathed, his finger, smelling of whiskey and tobacco, stilling close to the part in my mouth. “You are ready for me, my wife .”

Two simple words that sent my heart into a free fall.

My wife.

The possessiveness in his tone sent a thrill through my blood. The meaning behind the two words was affecting me just as much as it was affecting him.

“ Mrs. Fausti .” The crushed velvet of his tone rubbed against my overly sensitive flesh—it felt like virgin skin.

I shivered.

I wouldn’t have cared if his last name had been a common one with common ties. It was his, and it was connected to me. I’d wear it proudly because he’d given it to me. I knew it wasn’t traditional for the women of Italy to take their husband’s last names, but in America, it was customary, and I felt it was one of the most romantic traditions we had.

Aria Amora Bella Fausti.

Rocco Fausti’s beautiful love song.

Only his.

And he was mine—mine alone.

There was such power in that promise, it made me feel as though my heart levitated outside of my body as it invaded all my senses.

We hit a dip in the road and my stomach fell before it floated back into place.

My eyes slowly opened to his.

He stared at me, unblinking. “A physical representation of how I feel,” he whispered. “I have never been so fucking rooted and weightless at the same time. The feeling defies all laws. You defy all laws. You are the wildest thing I have ever held in my hands, my wife . You set me fucking free.”

His face was close to mine. His mouth a kiss away. But he held my face in his hands, like he was holding the moment between us in it, forcing it to linger.

To touch.

To caress.

To have and to hold, even in death shall we never part…

His breath washed over my skin, and mine washed over his.

His breath was mine, and mine was his.

Our eyes gazed into each other’s—the view deep enough to reach our souls.

By the time we reached our accommodations, my heart felt like it was rebelling against my ribcage, trying to get to him, and I wasn’t sure if I could go on much longer with the amount of air I was taking in—or lack thereof. I was quivering, like I was cold, but the weather was tepid—perfect.

My eyes closed to his.

Too deep.

Much too deep.

So far of a fall if he ever let go of me.

And I wasn’t afraid of heights.

But of losing him?

The feeling went beyond terrified. That was a fear that had the power to truly haunt me.

The carriage lifted with weight being released, and after Rocco called my name, it took me a moment to open my eyes.

“Do not be afraid of what comes next, my wife ,” he whispered. “I will always take care of you, cuore il mia , always.”

He offered me his hand, singing, “I Have But One Heart ('O Marenariello)” in a voice that would make the strongest of steel melt. Even Nonna would have had to admit that Rocco’s voice put the original to shame. It would have been a sin for him to keep his voice to himself. It was that rich, with a natural grit.

I didn’t even glance down at his offered hand. I took it without even looking, entangling our fingers.

My heart commanded my body, and it already knew what he was offering, and had accepted long before my mind even knew he existed.

I remembered from the map I’d been given when I’d first arrived that there were four castelli on the island. The map dubbed them the four defining points.

Castello Sul Mare , located at the farthest point atop the island (the North Point and the newest point, though it had been built in the late eighteenth century) was where I’d first found Rocco staring at me through the glass.

Castello Di Sabbia (which meant sandcastle), where we’d held our reception, was the South Point, and the oldest point.

Castello Sonata (also known as “the haunted castle”), which was the East Point, had belonged to Rocco’s ancestor and his wife, Belladonna Conti.

Castello Burranea (named after the star-shaped flower that grew wild around it), which was where we’d be spending our wedding night, was the West Point.

Even though Rocco hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t asked, I knew Rosaria had spent time at Castello Sul Mare , and when I’d asked in a roundabout way if she had ever spent time at Castello Burranea , he’d told me no. I didn’t want to share our time with her. She’d had her wedding night with him?—

I had to cut the thought off, because whenever I thought about them together, a terrible green monster overtook me, and it was a completely wild one with sharp teeth. Wilder than anything but my—simple term for it— love for him.

The driver of the carriage turned the horses around and took the strip of land back to the island. Castello Burranea reminded me of Castello Di Sabbia in that way, except it didn’t have a drawbridge, though it was still over the water. It wasn’t atop its own hill.

Spotlights had been placed on all sides of its bulky form, and they lit up the solid cream stone, almost like candlelight would. The land around it was its own private inlet, but I’d noticed beyond the castle some type of cactus grew wild along with the burranea . The wind tugged at my dress and hair, the night air tepid and humid, carrying the scents of the sea.

After Donato greeted Rocco, he nodded to me. “ Signora Fausti.”

My cheeks rushed with blood at the new name. “Donato.” I nodded back.

Rocco kept one of my hands in his, the other on my lower back, as he ushered me inside. I could hear the howling of the wind outside like it was trapped in a tunnel. Fausti soldiers swarmed the place, but an older man with a gentle face that seemed to match his disposition stepped out of the shadows to greet us. He congratulated us on our nuptials before he led us toward our accommodations.

He opened a massive dark-stained wooden door with black iron decorations that led to the king’s quarters of the castle, showcasing it with his hand before he bid us both a good night. Rocco shut the door behind him and locked it.

A trembling breath escaped my lips.

My body couldn’t decide if it was cold or hot.

Hundreds of sweet-smelling candles had been lit. Rose petals had been scattered on the floor and along all surfaces. One lone red rose had been set between the pillows on the massive bed. The headboard of it seemed to crawl up the stone wall in an intricate pattern. The enormity of it was going to swallow Rocco. I knew my feet wouldn’t be able to touch the floor. They’d dangle from the sides when I went to step down.

Rocco’s body passed behind mine in a whisper that sent a rush of his cologne-scented air around me, and my lungs greedily gulped it down. When my eyes found him, they never left him. He was stalking around me. Not like a hunter after its prey, but as a husband would do to his wife. He was taking in every inch of me, like he had never seen a woman before, like this was the first time he was seeing me in the gown I’d wear to become his wife.

His wife.

My eyes closed to the truth of it, and my lips parted, a trembling breath leaving me again.

He wasn’t touching me, but it felt like he was. That was how intense his eyes were. Like a hand would absorb the feel of all different temperatures and textures, his eyes seemed to be absorbing me in a place where he never would forget.

“Tell me, my wife , are you nervous.”

“Yes,” I whispered .

“You have been with me before.” His voice had turned from velvet to warm sand, and it was caressing my skin. The tone of it was as warm as the waves of heat radiating from the roaring fireplace in the corner. The stone suite seemed to hold a chill, even in summer.

“I have,” I barely got out. “But this feels different. So different.”

“Tell me why,” he pressed.

“Because…” My hands fisted the delicate lace of the dress to keep the trembling at bay. It wasn’t helping. “Because you are my husband now. The newly crowned king of my heart. I know what this means for me—body, heart, soul officially belong to you, my king.”

He growled low in his throat. He was fighting with himself. He wanted to devour me, but like he insisted with the drawn-out moment in the carriage, this time between us would linger. Devour us both before this night was over.

He came to stand in front of me, and his warmth replaced the warmth of the fire.

Our eyes locked.

Another trembling breath. “I don’t want this night to end,” I whispered. “I don’t want…to move forward, not when now is so, so, so good. It almost makes me sad to think…time will go on, but this moment will stay behind.”

“Amora.” His tone was deep and gruff, his hand coming to the side of my face, his thumb caressing my cheek. “Do not grieve for what will never be lost between us. I vow to you this is only the beginning of whatever this is between us that goes beyond love. It had no true beginning on this earth, and neither shall it have an end here.” He placed my hand over his heart. “It will continue where it first began. In paradiso for all eternità .” He gently coaxed me forward into his embrace, softly kissing my lips.

My eyes refused to open entirely when the kiss ended. The sides of my eyes felt wet, an overflow of the emotions inside of me demanding to be set free. He led me to the bed, my head woozy, my heart in a daze, like this was all some dream I refused to wake up from. Lifting me up, then placing me down on the soft mattress, he took a knee in front of me. Gently lifting the hem of my dress as if he were respecting every inch of delicate lace, he removed my heels, caressing my ankles, my feet, even my toes before setting each shoe to the side.

He stood, taking a step back, staring at me.

“I have no words.” He mimicked the beat of his heart. Fast. Then he hit his chest. “I am at war within myself, my wife. I do not know whether to leave the dress on or take it off. You have walked out of my heart, queen of it, and are sitting before me as a vision come to life. The dilemma of a blessed man, ah?”

I smiled at him, and even though his was slow to come, come it did.

It was like watching the sun rise over exotic waters after the darkest night known to man.

That fast mimic of his heart suddenly reflected mine.

Using the matching wooden step stool to climb down, the stone floor cold underneath the pads of my feet when I reached it, I went to him. My eyes went to his feet. Without a word, he removed his shoes, setting them to the sides with his socks. I ran my hand over his shoulders, under the lapels of his tuxedo, feeling his hard muscles tense underneath my soft touch. I removed his jacket, setting it down on a chair in the corner. I unbuttoned his white shirt and removed it from his shoulders, the Fausti tattoo on his forearm coming to life in the glow of the firelight on his skin. It danced across him, almost thinning his layers and bringing all of him to the surface.

His eyes.

Those eyes.

They hypnotized me with their color, especially when the firelight hit them and made me think of the sun over the greenest parts of the Mediterranean Sea.

What was I doing again?

Oh. Right. Undressing him .

When I went for his pants, though, he stopped me by grabbing my wrist. His eyes stilled on me when my hand stilled on him.

A whimper left my mouth at the intensity.

The fire wasn’t making me sweat.

The look in this man’s eyes was.

He pulled me to him so fast, I lost my footing, but he was directing my steps. I landed against him, and he seemed to pull me even closer, his face turned down to mine and mine turned up to his. It was almost like he was preparing me for a dip kiss.

He was strong and confident.

I trusted him and relaxed into the moment.

We kept eye contact until he kissed me.

Kissed me so long, and so deep, I had no clue we’d made it back to the bed until he turned me around and started to release me from the gown.

“Be careful with it,” I whispered, my voice as dazed as the rest of me. “I…love this gown. I want to preserve it.” The vows. The touches. The happiness. All soaked into its fibers.

He made an animalistic noise that was the total opposite of gentle, but when I stepped out of it, he took the time to hang it up, running his hand down it reverently. Even though it was just fabric, it still bore witness to our vows. It was a central part of the first day of the rest of our lives as husband and wife.

That was one of the things I’d give the Faustis: they had brought out in me a romantic side that had always existed, but I had no idea it was there until Rocco had coaxed it out of me. I was the soft to his sharp, and we balanced each other out spectacularly, like two colors enchanting the shade of the other.

Underneath my gown, I’d worn white silk that wouldn’t show through my dress, and turning to him, I took a deep breath. He seemed to breathe it out. Then he picked me up, setting me down on the bed again, but this time, he situated himself next to me. He gazed into my eyes, using the rose to caress over my skin. My body instantly responded, my back arching, my breasts straining against the cool silk.

“I will explore every inch of your skin, my wife,” he whispered. “I will learn every line as if it is my own. I will study it and learn it so well that, when it changes, my body will change with it, keeping up with time. Because you are completely mine, Aria Amora Bella Fausti.”

He kissed me until I couldn’t breathe.

His lips ventured down to my neck, where he whispered a midnight vow over my pulse. “With my body, I honor you and you alone, my wife.”

Without a word, I undid his pants, and this time, he allowed me to. My eyes couldn’t take him in fast enough. The firelight should have softened his sharp edges, but it only seemed to play in his eyes and reflect his temperature. All his strong lines, every ripped muscle and hard bone, couldn’t even be softened by the warm glow of the room.

When my soft and cool hand touched him, though, a ripple went through him.

His hot hand tightened around the silk before he ripped it from my body, flinging it toward the fire. In a whoosh , the silk was nothing but a moth turning to ash for the love of the flame.

We were completely naked, and my body seemed to cry out at the feel of his next to mine.

A whimper left my mouth as he sucked on my pulse, purposely leaving the mark of his vow, while his hands did exactly what he said they would—study all my lines. Wherever he touched, my skin puckered.

His mouth kissed a path even further down, to my breasts, where he marked those too. I could barely stand it. His exploring mouth. His memorizing hands. He was all over me at once, and I was almost squirming, close to begging for…friction. For him to be inside of me.

“ Stai fermo, mio cuore che batte ,” he whispered, but my body listened as if it were a command. Be still, my beating heart .

I stilled, all the love and desire flooding my system overflowing from my eyes. My mouth was sighing out in pleasure while my hands were balling, trying to keep it all in. The pulse between my legs refused to quit. It beat for him—the only part of me he couldn’t silence, because he had turned it on, and it refused to turn off.

This.

This was exactly why my body hesitated earlier to leave our reception. I wanted the memories of celebrating our wedding, but…this. This claim. It was marking me past bone and marrow. It was as if he was speaking to all that made me…me, and he was claiming it as if it were his own long-lost treasure.

When his mouth came to my heart, he whispered one word, “Mine,” and then hit his chest so hard with his fist, the sound echoed inside of the cavernous room before his fingers started to explore again.

Moving the gold chain he’d given me with the lion’s heart pendant to the side, he sucked over my heart the longest and hardest, and I knew come morning, between my breasts, the blood would rise to the surface and look like a bruise, but it would be a mark of his love. A brand.

He moved even lower, his mouth over my womb, my legs parting a second before his finger slipped inside of me.

I cried out, my hips ready to push into the sudden contact. But I needed more. More of him. All of him. Stretching me. Touching me so deep, it made it hard to catch my breath. Him. Not giving me an ounce of room to hide, to pull away, to move.

“My home,” he whispered, his mouth controlling in which direction my blood went.

To the surface.

To him.

To his heart.

He slipped his finger in and out, the sweet smell of desire floating in the air around us. His nostrils flared, scenting it in the air, breathing it in and holding it in his lungs, then releasing it like smoke from a drug that had the power to get him high.

“All of me,” he rasped out. “All of me is a physical vow to you, my wife. Your lines have become mine. I have memorized them in the memories of my heart. When we grow, or do not, we grow together, or we do not.”

I whimpered at the loss of contact when he removed his finger, but he didn’t make me wait long. He used his tongue to seal his vows, from one end of my body to my mouth, and when he took my mouth in a commanding kiss, pulling my soul the rest of the way out, he entered me to the hilt. I cried out, and he groaned. Our vibrations met and created a song that was ours alone.

“My love,” he barely got out, his mouth pressed against mine. “My heart.” He groaned, and it was such a deep sound from the hollows of his chest. “That is it. Move with me. Give yourself to me. All of you. All of you.” He drank down the noises coming from my chest as if he’d found a well inside of me, and he could taste all that I had to nourish him.

All that I am, I give to you, and all that I have, I share with you … the promises of our vows seemed to echo inside of the room with us just like the noises we were making as we made love for the first time as husband and wife.

I had no idea it could be this way—as intense as a battle, as soothing as a warm hug.

My promise to him released something inside of me, and a feeling rushed up my chest and came out of my mouth in a low mewl that seemed to linger around us.

All that I was, I was giving to him.

All that he was, he was giving to me.

Our bodies were honoring.

Sealing vows between his heart and mine.

“ Ahh ,” I whimpered when he touched a spot deep inside of me that made the pulse between my legs increase in tempo.

He repeated what he’d just done, pulling out and coming back, and before I could make the same sound, he covered my mouth with his own, like he loved the taste of the sweet noise I’d made and demanded I make it again.

“Rocco,” I cried, my nails raking his chest. “Rocco.”

His eyes were barely open, but I could feel the fire in his eyes on my skin, and he shook his head. “I only answer to the name you have given me when we are this way.” He stopped moving.

Stopped.

Moving.

A strangled sound came from my throat. “ My husband .”

The noise he made sounded just as strangled as mine as he started to move again.

“My husband,” I called him again, clawing at his heart even harder.

“My wife.” He rammed me harder.

“ Ah. Ah. Ah. ” My voice quivered along with the rest of me.

“You will come to me now ,” he commanded.

He started moving harder, faster, and that pulse between my legs couldn’t keep up. I gave in to him with a cry that tore from my chest, meeting the growl that came from his—something touchable, physical, visible, that could be caught if fast enough. It seemed to linger around us, smoke after fire, as he filled me up with his seed.

It took him a few seconds to catch his breath. My lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen, and I was so sensitive to his touch, when he pulled me close to his chest and kissed me, I orgasmed again.

My body felt like it had been transported to a place where my eyes couldn’t open.

“ My wife,” he said, and I unconsciously set my hand over his heart. “ My wife. My heart. My side. My direction.” He stroked my skin, from jaw to neck to breast, and when his fingertips danced over my aching nipples, I trembled like a house in the grip of a powerful storm, quaking over his cock for a third time.

He started to kiss me again .

Love me again.

My body went instinctually to his and his to mine. We moved in tempo. Like our bodies were synchronizing. And even though I was new at this, he was building my stamina, his body teaching mine how to allow a moment to linger—to draw out the moment before, finally , the kiss . Sometimes my body had a mind of its own, though, and demanded to be set free from desire. I squirmed and clawed and couldn’t contain the amount of want inside of me for my husband.

This...insane crave went on for days and nights.

This new claim we had on each other. And I understood why he’d chosen this place to begin with. It had no windows, only the soft light of the fireplace and candles allowing us to see only each other through it.

I wasn’t sure what day it was.

I’d lost all sense of time.

And I realized… he didn’t want to let go of those new moments as husband and wife either. It was him and I, nothing breaking our wedding night.

Not the day.

Not the time.

Not even people.

Our claimed spot in the world became our eternal wedding night. All the food and drink we needed was with us in a separate area of the suite. We ate in bed, feeding each other, exploring every inch of each other.

We barely bothered to bathe or shower.

It was like we were purging ourselves of anything but each other.

The spell we had over each other couldn’t be broken in this room.

If we were not touching, we were kissing, and if we were not kissing, we were entangling our limbs which led to touching and kissing, licking and sucking and biting and constantly coming apart at the seams, only to repair ourselves, stitching each other back together with…each other.

I couldn’t remember light.

I didn’t care.

I couldn’t remember how clothes felt.

I didn’t care.

I couldn’t remember what it felt like to walk alone to the bathroom. He carried me wherever I wanted to go.

I didn’t care.

I couldn’t remember how a bath felt.

I didn’t care.

But on the…whatever day, I sat up from the bed, my hair a snarled mess, and leaned over my knee, resting my forehead on my palm. I took a minute to catch my breath and look around for my husband.

He was standing at the foot of the bed, but how he got there was a mystery to me. Last I remembered, I’d been on top of him.

Mmm.

The pulse between my legs started to thrum at the thought of the feel of him beneath me. Crazed for the connection. Starved for his touch like it was food or water.

His hot hands on my hips, branding me.

My hips swirling around his cock, taking him higher and higher.

My palms pressed against his chest, feeling the insane beat of his heart.

His hips pulsing up, ramming me, and I’d lose my breath.

My breasts jiggling with the momentum.

My nipples aching.

My entire body yearning for release.

“ Mmm ,” I moaned, my head lolling like when we were in the throes of passion and I couldn’t see straight—couldn’t see anything but him. Feel anything but him. I never wanted to leave this room. A place where time stood still and couldn’t move forward .

“Amora.” His voice was as soothing as the sea.

My eyes went to his to find the source of the water—his eyes. They glistened sea green in the dimness of the room.

“We are out of food and water.” He stood naked before me, tall and proud, the swaying light of the fireplace highlighting all his hard lines, except for those lips and hair. The black strands were unruly, standing on end, the silver sparking against the light. His fists were balled at his sides when he’d said those words.

We are out of food and water.

I knew what those words meant. Our wedding night was over. I had a feeling he knew we would be this way, starved for only each other, and planned for only so many rations so we would be forced to leave, breaking the spell.

“Does that mean the honeymoon starts?” I whispered, my voice like sandpaper.

“ Sì .” His one-word answer was almost strangled.

Nodding, trying to process, I went to get out of the bed, going for clothes, forgetting the massive drop. He was there to catch me, my body pressed against his.

Our eyes met.

He made another strangled noise. I made a surrendering one when his mouth claimed mine.

Who needed food and water, anyway, when all we needed was here, in us and between us?

All we needed was each other.