Valentina
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He won't tell me where we're going.
That's the first thing. The second thing is that there's a car waiting outside at five in the morning with two bags already packed, mine included, which means someone with access to our things made decisions about my wardrobe on my behalf.
Salvatore is standing beside the car in a white linen shirt, collar open, sleeves already rolled to his forearms. He looks like a man who has had exactly enough coffee and has decided today is going to go exactly the way he wants it to.
"You're not wearing black," I say. "Should I be worried?"
"Get in the car, Valentina."
"You packed my bag."
"Rosa packed your bag."
"That's not better."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Get in the car."
I get in the car, holding onto my blanket knowing I'll be sleeping on the way to wherever it is we're going.
The drive is long enough that I fall asleep somewhere past the city limits, my head against the window, and when I wake the landscape has changed entirely.
No more buildings. No more traffic.
Just open road and the particular pale gold light that belongs to the coast.
"Where are we?" I ask, voice still thick with sleep.
"Almost there."
"Salvatore."
"Ten minutes."
I look at his profile. He's watching the road with that quality of stillness he has when he's thinking about something he hasn't decided to say yet. Not tense. Contained.
"Are you going to tell me anything?"
"In ten minutes," he says.
I settle back and watch the coastline appear through the trees.
The car pulls through iron gates that swing open as we approach.
The house sits on a rise above the water. Low, white, sprawling. All glass and salt-bleached wood, built so that every window faces the Atlantic. The kind of place that looks like it was designed specifically to wake up in.
Below it, a crescent of pale sand. Private. Untouched.
"Come," he says, already out of the car, opening my door, offering his hand.
I take it.
He leads me through the unlocked front door—someone has clearly been here ahead of us—through an open-plan interior that smells faintly of jasmine and sea air, past a kitchen with white marble and soft linen curtains moving in the breeze, straight through to the back.
The terrace runs the length of the house.
Below us, the beach. The water is deep blue in the morning sun, almost green where it meets the sand. There are no other houses. No boats. Just water and sky and the low, steady sound of waves.
"This is beautiful," I say quietly.
He doesn't answer.
When I turn, he's holding an envelope. Cream paper, unaddressed.
He offers it to me without ceremony.
"Oh no." "Just open it."
The deed is two pages. Legal language, clean and precise. Property address in the upper right corner. Lot description. Transfer of ownership.
And at the bottom, in black ink:
Valentina Vitale.
My name.
"This is in my name," I say slowly.
"Yes."
"You bought me a beach house."
"I bought you the house. The beach came with it."
I look up at him, and he's watching me with an expression I've only seen a handful of times—uncertain. Like he's not sure if this will land the way he intends.
Salvatore Vitale, uncertain.
"You can't just do these unrealistic things."
"It's yours," he says. "No conditions. No strings. Your name on the deed, your name alone. Whatever happens, it belongs to you."
The waves crash below us, steady and relentless.
"This is very excessive," I tell him.
"Yes."
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." He pauses, watching me. "There's a garden. South side. Walled off from the wind. I had them put in a bench."
I blink. "A garden?"
"Geez… and all I got you was socks," I tease, a soft laugh slipping out.
"They were perfect," he says, brushing a kiss to my forehead like he means it.
His gaze lingers on mine. "I know you love to sit and write in the garden at home. I wanted to give you a place that's completely peaceful. In case you need to get away. To write."
I don't know what's causing the butterflies—the beach house, the garden… or the man standing in front of me. The man I once only imagined. And now… he's my husband.
"Or make love to my husband on the beach?" I ask softly.
His eyes darken. "That too."
"But not yet." His hand comes to my waist, firm, possessive. "I want you to see everything first. Then I'll take you apart on every surface of this house until you can't remember your own name."
Heat floods through me.
"That's a promise, Mrs. Vitale."
I fold the deed carefully and step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, pressing my face to his chest. He closes both arms around me and holds on.
"Thank you," I whisper against his shirt.
His hand moves up my back. "Happy honeymoon."
He shows me the garden after lunch.
It's tucked into the south side of the property, protected by white stone walls that block the wind but let in the sun.
There's a bench exactly where he said, positioned beneath a pergola woven through with jasmine and climbing roses.
A small table beside it. The kind of place that feels like it exists outside of time.
"It's perfect," I tell him.
"Good." He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with that focused attention he gives everything that matters to him. "You can write here. Or just sit. Whatever you need."
I walk over to him, slide my hands up his chest. "What if what I need is you?"
His jaw tightens. "Valentina."
"You said you'd take me apart on every surface of this house."
"I did."
"So take me apart." I hold his gaze. "Right here. In my garden."
He doesn't move for a long moment.
Then his hand comes to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, his thumb against my pulse, and he leans down until his mouth is at my ear.
"Not yet," he says quietly. "When I fuck you in this garden, it's going to be slow. I'm going to lay you down on that bench and take my time with you until you're begging me to let you come. But not now. Maybe not today."
"Why not?"
"Because today," he says, his hand tightening just slightly, "I'm going to fuck you on the beach. And I'm not going to be soft. I'm not going to be gentle. And when I'm done with you, you're going to understand exactly what it means to be my wife."
My breath catches.
"Now go inside," he says. "Change into a swimsuit. We're going in the water first."
"Yes, the water does look welcoming. But why do you want to swim first?"
His smile is slow and dangerous. "Because I want to watch you get wet before I make you wet."
Heat pools low in my belly.
I go inside.
The ocean is cold and perfect.
I wade in up to my waist, gasping at the temperature, and Salvatore is right behind me, moving through the water with the same controlled intensity he brings to everything.
"Come here," he says.
I turn, and he's already there, hands at my waist, lifting me effortlessly so my legs wrap around him.
The water rises and falls around us.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi."
He kisses me, slow and deep, his hands splayed across my back, holding me against him. I can feel him already hard beneath his swim trunks, pressing against me through the thin fabric of my bikini bottoms.
I reach down.
"Not yet." He bites my lower lip. "I told you. I want to take my time."
"I don't want to anticipate. I want you inside me."
His grip tightens. "You'll get what you want when I decide to give it to you."
There he is. The controlled Don.
He carries me deeper into the water, and we swim until my muscles are loose and warm, until the sun is directly overhead and the beach is blazing hot when we finally walk back onto the sand.
"Inside," he says. "Shower. Then lunch."
"You're very bossy on vacation."
"I just want everything to be perfect." He swats my ass as I walk past him. "Move."
I move.
Lunch is on the terrace.
Cold wine, fresh bread, grilled fish that tastes like it was caught this morning. We eat slowly, and I watch him across the table. The way the light catches in his dark hair, still damp from the shower, the way his linen shirt hangs open at the collar.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"I'm admiring my husband."
"Mm." He reaches for his wine. "Admire faster. We have plans this afternoon."
"What plans?"
He looks at me then, and the heat in his eyes makes my stomach flip.
"I'm going to fuck you on the beach," he says calmly. "Then I'm going to bring you inside and fuck you again in the shower. Then, if you're very good, I'll let you come."
"If I'm good?"
"If you're good."
I set down my fork. "And what if I'm not good?"
"You'll find out."
By the time the sun starts to sink, I'm wound so tight I can barely sit still.
He's been touching me all afternoon. Casual, deliberate touches that feel like promises. His hand at the small of my back when we walked through the house. His fingers trailing up my thigh when we sat on the couch. His mouth at my neck when I stood at the kitchen counter.
Never enough. Always just enough to make me want more.
"Salvatore—"
"Patience."
"I'm out of patience."
"Good." He stands, offering his hand. "Then you're ready."
He leads me down to the beach.
There's a blanket already laid out on the sand—he planned this, of course he did—and the sun is starting to turn the sky pink and orange at the horizon.
"Lie down," he says.
I lie down.
He stands over me for a moment, just looking, and the weight of his attention makes my skin flush.
"Do you know what I thought about," he says quietly, "every night since the wedding?"
"What?"
"This." He drops to his knees beside me. "You. Here. Mine."
His hands go to the tie of my bikini top.
"I thought about unwrapping you like a gift." The knot comes undone. "Taking my time." The fabric falls away. "Making you wait."
His mouth closes over my nipple and I arch off the blanket with a gasp.
"But I'm done waiting," he says against my skin.
His hand slides down my stomach, under the waistband of my bikini bottoms, and when his fingers find me I'm already wet.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked."
"I told you—"