Grasmere #2
My body stiffens when he delves his fingers into the ridge between my buttocks.
He stops instantly, but this time, I murmur for him to continue, to probe farther than he ever has.
He knows me well and leans down to bite on my shoulder—not too hard but enough to distract me—when his fingers push inside while his hot erection rubs along the oiled surface of my backside.
The sensation is new, and after the initial burn, I am pushing back onto his fingers.
All too soon, he withdraws his hand, and I wait for him to finally fuck me.
“Not today, mio amato,” he whispers in my ear. “You are still not ready. But soon. Turn over.”
Maybe I ought to be cautious of how Lorenzo can easily manipulate me, but tonight I happily succumb to his wishes.
He oils up my straining erection and sinks onto me.
The tightness and warmth feel better every time we make love, and once he is loosened up, I take over, thrusting into him.
When I see his eyes rolling back in his head as he jerks his cock, I pull his mouth down for a kiss, and his eyelids flutter open in surprise.
But I pay them no heed because I need my fill of him.
He comes seconds before me, shooting his hot seed onto my stomach.
My hands clamp around his shoulders when I fill him.
We collapse together, and I pull his body to mine, letting the sticky mess on me glue us together.
How I’ve lived so many years without allowing my body to experience such pleasures is a crime, and I do not plan on wasting more time.
With Lorenzo, I may let him take control and get his fill of me, but I am also conscious of returning his attention with as much passion.
And when we climax together, it feels as though we are one person.
For the following days, we fall into a comfortable routine of swimming, lighting fires, eating and making love—and the world stops spinning.
Romano’s suggestion that Sylvie’s words meant Scotland has stirred something inside me.
Some nights, I find myself lying awake for hours, trying to grasp the meaning.
I have a strong intuition that my journey’s end is near and lies somewhere in Scotland, but like an elusive dream, I have no idea where to begin looking.
On the upside, I wake each morning to Lorenzo’s warm body pressed into mine and permit myself to wallow in the happiness of his proximity.
Before anything else, we head down the narrow tree-lined path that meanders from the lodge to the lake jetty.
Stripping down to our swimming shorts, we dive into the mist-covered waters.
Since arriving, I have ditched the wig, but, as a precaution, I always wear a black baseball cap when in the water.
Lorenzo invariably mutters a few curses at the shock of cold when he surfaces, but after swimming alongside each other for a few metres, the exercise warms our bodies.
We swim to the north and around the island before heading to the south, where the River Rothay joins the lake.
At that time of the morning, there are no kayaks or rowing boats on the lake, but the road that hugs the east side of the lake can get busy, so we stay away from the shoreline.
The swim takes over an hour and is a chilly but pleasant change from swimming lengths.
We race each other freestyle back to the jetty ladder.
I am always the first to climb out and wait to help him from the water.
Lorenzo then races me barefoot back to the lodge and, naturally, he wins.
Lorenzo showers first in the lodge while I put our towels and shorts into the dryer. When he’s finished, I take my turn, after which he helps me to change the dressing on my wound. Each time he voices his surprise at how quickly I heal.
Like Albert, I have never been interested in television entertainment, but Lorenzo enjoys having the news on in the background while he fixes us breakfast each morning.
I am tasked with tidying the bed and bathrooms, fixing the bedcovers, removing trash and, after eating meals, washing dishes.
I’m sure he’s as amused as I am by our assumed domesticity.
On the tenth day of our stay, I hear him call out as I make the bed.
“Gabriel. Come quickly.”
I enter the kitchen to the pleasant odours of toasted bread and bacon frying.
Although he is at the cooker, I notice he has also been cleaning his handgun on another counter.
But his attention is fixed on the wall television.
A female reporter stands in the middle of a road in London where a police cordon has been set up.
“—embattled recently with allegations of rigging a medical trial. We understand from officials that he was staying in London at the penthouse home of a friend before planning to travel on to the WHO headquarters in Brussels to attend a tribunal. A police investigation has been opened into the cause of this tragedy. Naturally, they are unwilling to speculate, and all they can tell us at the moment is that a passerby found the body of Professor Sergio Puchinsky on the pavement outside a residential apartment block in Holland Park. They also confirmed that Puchinsky died from injuries caused by the fall.”
I stare at the screen momentarily, Romano’s words returning to me.
“Dr Romano told me Puchinsky would never stand trial.”
“Let me tell you something about il dottore. His first priority is to his country and national security, which extends to those who work for him. But he is also a man of traditional Italian values. Once he considers you worthy of his friendship and trust—and your friend Albert was considered such—you become an extension of his family. And anybody foolish enough to mess with his family will pay a price.”
“Does he consider me—?”
“He considers us both family. Close family.”
Right now, I am grateful to have Romano on my side. Lorenzo brings over plates of food, and we sit at the table by the window, eating in comfortable silence. But I can tell by the furrow of his brow that he is mulling something over.
“I have not heard from him,” he says when he notices me studying him.
“Is that normal?”
“Not normal. I have sent messages to both of them. But even Mrs Bellacci is silent. I know you do not check the internet, but there is another thing.”
I wonder if something has happened back in Italy.
“Nothing was reported about the attack on Sylvie Leblanc. Or about the men I shot on the street who followed you home. Not a thing. Usually, the police would ask the public for information. I also have access to secure sites that report incidents of this kind. But it’s as if this one never happened. ”
Multiple reasons pop into my head, one being that the police or other intelligence services suppressed the news until the assassin had been interrogated.
The upside is that my—Aksel’s—face has not been released to the media.
How long that will remain the case, who knows?
Romano, of all people, would have more information.
But we must stay under the radar until we hear from him.
“He told us to go to ground for two weeks,” I say. “Said he would contact us when he believes we are out of danger. I suggest we hold the faith and trust him.”
Lorenzo nods once but does not meet my gaze.
“I’m here, Enzo. Right by your side.”
That remark draws his beautiful dark eyes to mine and gifts me with one of his rare smiles. He reaches across the table and grabs my hand.
“I know,” he says, before going back to the food. “Do you think we will ever have this life?”
“What life?” I ask.
“This,” he says, looking around the lodge.
“Lorenzo, you wouldn’t last three months. Probably less. Look, you’re already getting bored cooking breakfast, so you decided to clean your gun.”
Lorenzo laughs before shrugging. “I am not used to being inactive for so long. What time is it?”
“That was the nine o’clock news. Why?”