Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty Four
Elena
We linger at the table until the sun shifts and the shade slides off my knees.
I’m full but not weighed down, warm from the broth and the branzino, the warm apple tartlet served with a scoop of ice cream. When Luca suggests a walk, I realize my body was already craving one.
“Show me your kingdom,” I say, trying for light.
He rises and offers his hand. I ignore it and push up on my own, because I’m contrary and because if I put my hand in his, I might not want it back.
We take the steps down from the terrace.
The pool gives way to a lawn clipped so precisely it looks ironed.
Beyond that, the garden opens like a surprise with paths of pale gravel, beds bordered by low boxwood, tall spires of foxglove, and delphinium punctuating drifts of lavender.
Bees work the purple, flitting from flower to flower.
He slows when I do, letting me set the pace. The gravel crunches under our shoes, and a breeze carries rosemary and something sweet I can’t name. Two olive trees stand like guards over a stone bench. Beyond it, there’s a small creek with the water tinkling musically over the rocks.
I stop dead.
“This is ridiculous, Luca,” I say, but I’m smiling. “You have a creek in your backyard?”
“It’s not a creek,” he says, amused. “More like a water feature.”
“Oh, and that’s nothing, I suppose,” I say dryly.
We stop next to it and watch the water sheet over a flat slate stone and split into two silver threads. Sunlight catches it and throws coins of light on my arms.
I crouch and trail a fingertip along the surface. It’s cold enough to make me hiss. “Show-off.”
“I enjoy my comforts.’” He’s closer than he was a second ago; his voice drifts down over my shoulder. Heat ghosts along the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the sun.
I straighten. A curl has glued itself to my cheek. Before I can reach for it, he does. His knuckles graze my skin as he tucks it behind my ear. The touch is barely anything. It detonates anyway.
“Luca,” I say, warning threading my voice.
“Elena.” He says my name like he’s tasting it. His hand doesn’t linger, but I feel the heat of it long after it’s gone.
We fall in beside each other again, and the path narrows so our arms brush every couple of steps. The contact is accidental. Until it isn’t. The jasmine on the pergola ahead is in wild bloom, sweet and indecent in daylight, and I swear the scent is doing something to me, making me dizzy with need.
“Better than court?” he asks lightly.
“Marginally,” I say, then ruin my aloof act by glancing up. The gray at his temples has caught a sliver of light. It makes him look like someone who’s lived through a storm and stepped out the other side. Something catches in my chest, and I force myself to let it go.
He gestures to a small alcove along a gentle section of the creek. It’s just a stone bench surrounded by small trees, but it looks dangerous. I go anyway.
He stands back to let me enter first. I do, and the air cools a degree.
It doesn’t help.
We sit at the edge of the water. Our reflections shiver next to each other, touching and not touching. His hand comes to rest on the stone ledge between us, mine finds the same spot, and our little fingers flirt.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
“Stop,” I whisper.
He goes very still. His eyes hold mine, heat banked, waiting. The restraint makes something in me break open.
“I said stop,” I murmur, and shift closer.
“I haven’t moved, Bellissima,” he says, his voice going dark with need.
I turn my hand, slide my little finger over his, then lace our fingers together. His breath hitches, and that’s all I need. I rise onto my knees on the cool stone and lean in until his shoulder brushes my chest, until his cologne threads through the jasmine.
His mouth is right there. I tilt his jaw with my free hand and kiss him.
Soft at first, testing. His lips answer, slow, patient, like he’s letting me set every pace.
I remember the way he took control before. Demanded, owned, controlled. Heat flashes between my legs.
The world starts and ends at the point where we’re connected.
I angle closer and taste him for real, a deeper press, a slide of lips that lights the spark. He’s careful—painfully so—holding still enough that I have to chase him, which only makes me want more. I do, opening to him, taking another kiss and then another, each one a little hungrier.
His free hand lifts, stops short, then settles feather-light at my waist. I want him to slide it into my hair and hold tight, look me in the eyes as he plays master to my body.
I make a sound, long and low, and feel him answer it in the way his mouth firms, in the way his fingers curve just enough to keep me close without pulling.
The breeze rustles. The creek sings over rocks. I kiss him again, harder this time, wanting more. So much more. Then I finally draw back, but only far enough to feel his exhale on my lips.
His breath ghosts over my mouth, and I chase it, kissing him again, a little more desperately. A drag of tongue that unspools every careful rule I walked in with.
He doesn’t rush me; he lets me take, lets me decide how far, and somehow that only makes the hunger worse.
“Luca,” I murmur, warning and wanting tangled in that one word.
“Dimmi,” he answers, so low it thrums in my bones. Tell me.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
Something tightens in his face. Heat, relief, restraint snapping all at once. His hand at my waist firms, drawing me in. The kiss takes a turn. He tilts my chin and takes my mouth with a fierce promise. I go lightheaded, fingers fisting in his shirt.
The jasmine is dizzying. The bench feels too small. The whole garden does.
He breaks away to breathe, forehead against mine, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he can’t stand not touching me. “Elena,” he says, and the way he says my name—low, husky, reverent—makes my knees weak.
“This is insane,” I manage, even as I kiss him again.
“Yes,” he agrees into my mouth.
I press closer, reckless, until there’s no space left for the wind to blow. He groans low in my mouth and skims his knuckles along the line of my thigh, a question asked with touch. I answer with a shiver and a soft, helpless mewl.
“Inside,” he says roughly.
The word is like a match on that spark.
I look at the path back—the bright lawn, the blue slice of pool, the glass doors standing open to shade—and swallow. My pulse trips. I could say no. I could sit back down and smooth my hair, and he’ll let me. He’ll let me do just that.
And it seals the deal.
I slide my hand down his chest instead and feel the breath leave him.
“Okay,” I whisper.
For a second, he just looks at me, like he’s committing me to memory, and I wonder what I must look like right now. Flushed, swollen lips, desire and surrender warring in my eyes.
Then he rises and offers his hand again.
This time I take it.
The house is cool and quiet, and the housekeeper is nowhere to be seen. He leads me upstairs to the bedroom and stops at the threshold, letting me step in first.
My pulse skitters and jumps, a nervous colt.
It isn't a room, it's a suite. There's a sitting area and a bed the size of a boat. A terrace that overlooks the garden.
"This is a big bedroom," I murmur, looking at him.
"I have a lot of things." He touches my cheek. "This is what you want, no?"
He's giving me another out.
"Yes," I say, a little breathless.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, the place his thumb touched, and my knees get weak.
He draws me in, a kiss that deepens slowly, and the world shrinks until it's just this room, this man, the bed, and the afternoon sunlight streaming in.
I break away and step back, and his expression changes.
"What is it?"
"Take off your clothes," I say softly.
I see the surprise register and the desire right behind it.
His hands lift, and he pauses. Then he shrugs off his jacket. Drops it. Lifts his shirt and draws it off, and the muscles in his chest and stomach flex. The light gleams off his ink.
My throat gets tight.
He unbuckles his belt and lets his trousers drop. He's not wearing underwear. His cock is hard and thick, curving toward his stomach, and he watches me as I feel the shiver slide down my body and my desire for him grow.
"Your turn," he murmurs.
My hands go to the waist of my pants, and his eyes track the movement.
I pull my blouse out slowly and unbutton it before drawing it off and tossing it to the side. His jaw tightens. I slide my trousers down and toe off my flats.
His breath leaves him in a long, slow hiss.
"Bella," he whispers, and reaches for me.
I evade him. "Wait."
"Elena—"
"I'm not done."
His expression turns feral, and he lets me go.
I reach behind me and unhook my bra, draw it off, and drop it, watching his reaction. He's not looking at my face. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my panties and pause.
He makes a sound, a low growl. "Take them off."
I do, and then it's just me and him, and the sunlight on the floor, and his eyes burning holes into my skin.
"Magnifico," he whispers, and I flush.
"No one's ever looked at me like that."
"You should be looked at this way every day."
I flush hotter, and he steps closer, but I step back.
"Wait," I say again.
"Are you going to make me beg, Bellissima?"
I consider. "Maybe."
He makes another sound, a low, dangerous noise, and I step back.
"Touch yourself," I say, and watch him go still.
"What?"
"I want to see you touch yourself. Make yourself feel good."
I half-expect him to refuse. But instead, he wraps his hand around his cock and gives a long, slow stroke.
"Like this, hmm?"
I nod, watching him stroke, his grip firm and sure.
"Do you ever think about me?" I ask, and hear him groan.
"Yes."
"Do you imagine touching me?"
"Yes."
"Imagine me touching you. My hand."
"Yes." He strokes himself again, harder, his breath going ragged.
"What else do you think about?"
"This," he manages, his hips flexing. "Your mouth."