Chapter 29
One moment, Giana was laughing, the taste of Rodrigo's surprise still warm on her lips. Next, his hand was tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and his mouth was on hers.
Rodrigo kissed her with the desperation of a man who had teetered on the edge of losing everything and now found solid ground beneath his feet.
Giana's hands went under the soft wool of his sweater, needing to feel his skin.
This heat and the raw, consuming connection were the only things that shut out the world that wouldn't stop trying to kick her. It was a middle finger to her past, to the ghosts whispering duty in her ear.
She bit Rodrigo's lower lip, a sharp nip of retaliation for the way he had made her watch him unravel hours before.
He growled into her mouth, the vibration humming through her bones. His other arm banded around her waist, crushing her against the unyielding plane of his chest. The scent and heat of him flooded her senses, dizzying and dangerously familiar.
Rodrigo walked her backward until her back hit the cool, smooth plaster of the studio wall. The impact jarred her, a gasp escaping into the heated space between their mouths.
Rodrigo didn't relent. His kiss deepened, and one large hand slid down from Giana's waist, over the curve of her hip, gripping her thigh just below her ass. He hauled her up and wrapped her leg around him.
The hard ridge of Rodrigo's dick pressed insistently against the seam of her leggings, against her core, drawing a ragged moan from her throat. The sound only ignited him further. His hips rocked forward, a slow grind that sent sparks skittering up her spine.
His lips left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point.
Giana leaned into him, her head thudding back against the wall, exposing more of her neck. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped her, making his breath hitch against her skin.
"Giana." Her name was a ragged rasp against her collarbone.
Rodrigo lifted his head, his pupils blown wide and fixed on her. The passion in them was staggering. It wasn't just lust. It had never been just lust between them. His thumb brushed over her kiss-swollen bottom lip.
"Can I touch you?" The question was low, gravelly, layered with a tension that vibrated between them. It wasn't a command. It was a request, so raw and vulnerable that it barely sounded like him.
Giana's mind screamed a thousand warnings. Her body, craving the release only his touch could bring, overruled the fear and the voices telling her how bad an idea it was. She wanted him, and she didn't care if it was right or wrong anymore.
"Yes," she whispered.
The single word shattered Rodrigo's remaining restraint. His free hand slid from her waist, slipping beneath the loose hem of her T-shirt. Calloused fingertips traced a burning path up her ribcage, skimming the sensitive skin just below the swell of her breast.
Giana shivered, her nails digging into his shoulders through the sweater. His palm flattened against her stomach, warm and possessive, before sliding lower, over the soft cotton of her leggings, pressing firmly against the heat building between her legs.
"Fuck," she gasped and moved against the pressure. She needed more. So much more.
Rodrigo watched her, his gaze locked on her face, cataloging every flicker of sensation that crossed her features. His thumb found the center of the pressure, rubbing in slow circles through the fabric.
She whimpered, her leg tightening around his waist, pulling him closer, grinding herself against the hard ridge of him, the friction maddening and not enough.
"Rodrigo..." His name was a plea, torn from her lips.
He didn't speak. His eyes held hers, dark and fathomless, as his fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings and the thin cotton of her underwear beneath and pushed them down.
Cool air chilled Giana's exposed skin for a fleeting second before the heat of his touch replaced it. His fingers slid through her slick folds, finding her clit with unerring accuracy.
A ragged cry escaped her, and her head slammed back against the wall again, making stars burst behind her eyelids. His touch wasn't a tentative exploration. It was confident, demanding. He knew her body and what it wanted without her saying a thing.
Rodrigo's thumb circled her clit, applying perfect, torturous pressure, while two fingers slid deep inside her, curling upward in a motion that had her crying out, her pussy clenching desperately around the intrusion.
"Kiss me," she breathed. Her hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, then tangled in his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. It was messy and desperate as he worked her.
Rodrigo set a brutal rhythm, fingers plunging deep, thumb pressing and circling, igniting a firestorm within her. The sensations were overwhelming, obliterating the past few hours.
There was only the hard wall at her back, the solid strength of him pinning her, the exquisite torture of his fingers moving inside her, the perfume of paint and wood and him filling the air.
Giana was hurtling toward the edge, fast and terrifyingly out of control. Her breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps against his mouth. A low, animal sound vibrated in his chest, echoing the frantic pulse thundering in her own.
"Come for me, amore mio." Rodrigo shifted the angle of his fingers slightly, pressing deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten.
Her back rose off the wall, a raw, guttural cry tearing from her throat as waves of pure, blinding pleasure crashed over her. Her inner muscles locked, convulsing around his fingers, her nails biting into his scalp.
Rodrigo held her through it, his arm like an iron band around her waist, his mouth capturing her cries, swallowing them whole.
He didn't stop. He kept moving his fingers, gentler now, prolonging the aftershocks until she was a trembling, boneless heap against him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick sound obscenely loud in the quiet studio.
Giana kept her face buried against the soft wool of his sweater.
She forced herself to lift her head, pushing weakly against his chest. He loosened his hold immediately, allowing her to slide down the wall until her feet touched the floor, though her legs felt like water.
She leaned back against the cool plaster, trying to summon the rage that had sustained her for so long, only to find it missing.
"Knowing you can do that… I think I hate you more now," she stated and meant it.
Rodrigo didn't flinch at her words. He lifted his hand that glistened with her release. His eyes never left hers as he brought his fingers to his lips.
He licked them clean, slowly, thoroughly, the tip of his tongue tracing the length of each digit with a deliberation that sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to her core. A low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest.
Giana's traitorous body reacted instantly, a fresh pulse of slick heat between her thighs betraying her.
Rodrigo lowered his hand, a dark, knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"Your hatred has always tasted sweeter than any love I have ever known," he murmured, his voice like rough velvet.
The words slammed into her, stealing the air from her lungs.
Rodrigo took a step closer, invading her space again, his heat radiating against her flushed skin. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine despite the residual heat flooding her body.
"The next time you want to prove how much you hate me, amore," he whispered, the endearment a dark caress. "I will use my tongue instead of my fingers, and you'll scream twice as loud."
It was a threat wrapped in silk and darkness that had her knees threatening to buckle all over again.
Rodrigo pulled back slightly, his eyes sweeping over her face, lingering on her parted lips, the flush staining her neck. He didn't kiss her again. He didn't touch her. He simply turned and walked toward the studio door, the latch clicking as he closed it behind him.
"Holy shit," Giana whispered, sliding down the wall until she was sitting on the rug-covered floor. She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, trying to contain the tremors still racking her body.
Rodrigo Colleoni just got you off. She bit back an inappropriate laugh. It was hard to have any regret when her body was still thrumming with endorphins.
She couldn't sit on the floor all day. She was working on something on her laptop, an idea to get back at Vincenzo in her own unique way.
She didn't want to tell Rodrigo or anyone about it until she was sure she could pull it off.
It would have helped if Rodrigo hadn't scrambled her brain, not just with the orgasm but by giving her a beautiful space that was hers alone. Again, she found she had no regrets.
Giana lifted her eyes to the massive oak worktable, the pristine canvases leaning against the wall, the rows of pigments and paints neatly arranged on the shelves.
The raw, screaming edge of her emotions softened and was suddenly replaced by a deep, humming stillness. The chaotic whirlwind in her mind quieted, funneling down into a single potent point of focus.
Giana pushed herself up and walked toward the shelves, her feet silent on the thick rugs. She stopped before the paints, her fingers closing around a tube of Titanium White. Pure, blank potential.
She turned the image blooming in her mind's eye, fully formed, visceral.
Something that built on the sketch she had begun on her computer.
A portrait of Rodrigo caught between shadow and light, his eyes holding the tempest and the terrifying vulnerability of the calm after.
Il Mostro and the man who had just gifted her this sanctuary and then shattered her against its wall.
The creative urge, dormant for so long, roared back to life with the force of a flash flood. She wanted to cry because, of course, Rodrigo had to be her muse as well.
It didn't stop her from feeling like she needed to capture it. Now. Before the fragile, terrifying truth of what had just happened between them could fade. Before the storm within her shifted again.
Giana tore the cap off the tube of white paint, the strong smell cutting through the lingering scent of Rodrigo. She squeezed a thick dollop onto the smooth, scarred surface of the oak table. She didn't reach for a brush. Not yet. She dipped her index finger into the cool, viscous paint.
The studio door was locked. The villa was on high alert. War was brewing with Sicily, but in a sanctuary built by the monster who craved her, Giana finally picked up a brush and got to work.