Chapter Twenty Ella
Chapter Twenty
Ella
His tone is serious, as if he’s not joking at all.
I turn as red as a tomato.
We haven’t even kissed yet. Just the thought of his hands on my body makes me weak at the knees. Good thing I’m sitting down.
My throat goes dry, and I cough to dislodge the frog that’s taken up residence there.
“You look adorable when you blush, princess,” he teases.
He tries to reach for my hand, but I grab my glass instead, drinking away my embarrassment.
The cool liquid soothes my parched throat but does nothing to lower my body temperature or quench the thirst for the man sitting next to me.
Dammit, I’m slipping under his spell more and more.
“You’re hilarious,” I retort. “Have you considered I might not want any kids?”
“Don’t you?” Tiero sounds surprised, his expression turning serious.
“Of course I do,” I admit softly. “But not for some time.”
Tiero’s smile returns. He raises his glass and clinks it against mine.
“Are you going to follow in your dad’s footsteps and groom your kids for business from an early age?” I ask.
That would be a far cry from what I’d want for my children. I’d want to protect them from the cruelty and responsibilities of our world for as long as possible. Let them be kids.
I’m not sure why his answer matters so much to me, but I’m holding my breath in anticipation.
Am I hoping for a future with Tiero beyond this vacation?
If I’m being honest with myself, I think I am.
Which is ridiculous, given I’ve known the man for all of two days.
But the attraction between us is so strong I can’t help thinking about what could be. There’s a familiarity that shouldn’t exist, given we barely know each other.
“No,” Tiero finally replies, pulling me out of my reverie. “I want my children to have a childhood filled with happy, carefree memories. The family business is serious and can wait until they’re older.”
I sigh with relief and lie to myself that I’m just happy for his future children.
After the heaviness of the previous topic, he asks what Rhia and I have planned for the next day, and from there the conversation flows easily.
The food is delicious, one of the best burgers I’ve ever had, and it surprises me to find it in Sicily. Live music drifts in from outside, the perfect backdrop to this wonderful evening.
We have several more drinks. We laugh and flirt, and over the course of the evening, we drift closer and closer together. By the time we’re finished with dinner, our legs are touching, and we’re practically sharing the same breath.
When midnight strikes, we make our way back to the cars. Relaxed and slightly buzzed, I snuggle against Tiero’s chest in the backseat when he pulls me close. His scent envelops me, and my blood heats.
To distract myself and regain a bit of self-control, I analyze the components of his aftershave. There’s a hint of sandalwood.
Hmm, I’ve always liked sandalwood.
When Rhia and I were teenagers, we dabbled in magic spells, and fragrant incense was always part of it.
Actually, even before that, when I was growing up in Austria, Ma used to visit an old lady named Hilda, and her house always smelled of sandalwood.
When she opened the door, she greeted us with a blessing and taught me to bless everyone and everything I came across.
She said it created magic. I never really understood, but it felt nice.
Those ideas took root even more when Rhia became interested in spells. Once, we wrote our wish on a stick of sandalwood and burned it. It was meant to carry our hearts’ desires to the heavens on drifting smoke and set the wheels of destiny in motion.
I wished for love… and the very next day, I met Donald, my first boyfriend. He rang my doorbell, delivering parcels. It was his part-time job while he was at university. I believed in magic then.
The warmth of Tiero’s arm draping around me brings me back to the here and now. Who cares about Donald or any other man? Gualtiero De Marco is here in all his glory.
He pulls me flush against him, and I feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against my back.
Good. I’m not the only one affected by this electricity sparking between us.
His hand slides slowly up my arm, then back down again, unhurried. Goosebumps chase his touch. My skin feels too tight for my body. And all he’s doing is tracing my arm.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
My breathing falters.
Will he lift my chin next? Will he finally kiss me?
Would I let him this time?
I drop my gaze, unable to face the answer.
That’s when I see it.
The unmistakable bulge straining against his jeans.
My face goes up in flames, but lower down, something else tightens. The knowledge that I’m doing that to him sends a hot, dizzying thrill straight between my legs.
He’s everywhere. His scent. His heat. The rough drag of his breath against my hair.
Thinking becomes impossible.
My resolve to resist this playboy isn’t just weakening. It’s dissolving.
Each slow stroke of his fingers strips another layer away. Every brush of his skin against mine thins the fragile barrier I built to protect myself.
With his hard muscles pressed against me, my nostrils filled with his scent, and his ragged breath in my ear, he’s turning my insides to mush.
I can feel him. All of him.
And I can’t stop looking.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes drift back down. I want to touch him, want to slide my palm over the thick hardness pressing against the fabric.
What would he feel like inside me?
The thought hits low and deep. My pussy clenches. Dampness gathers between my thighs, my panties suddenly too uncomfortable.
And still, he keeps touching me.
Slow. Steady. Patient.
He must know what he’s doing to me.
My pulse pounds in my ears. His heartbeat thunders against my shoulder. They’re in sync.
If I move, I don’t know what will happen.
Would he kiss me?
God, I want him to.
And I don’t.
I don’t care about being another notch on his bedpost anymore. That fear feels small now.
What terrifies me is how quickly I get attached. And he’s already carved out a space inside me.
If I let him in just one time, it will hurt having to let him go. And if I allow him inside my body, a part of him will stay with me forever.
Am I prepared for that?
The end of this trip is coming.
Seven days.
Seven days until I’m going home.
My stomach twists.
Desire pulls me one way. Self-preservation drags me the other.
I’m suspended between them, trembling, breathless, on the edge of something that will either ruin me or change me forever. Perhaps both.
What am I going to do?