Leblanc
Chapter Twenty-One
We arrive at the next safe house around four in the afternoon, to a sky as grey as the landscape.
Dr Romano must have called in a favour because the huge farmhouse on the outskirts of somewhere called Balchraggan in the north of Scotland appears neglected, bordering on ramshackle.
All the downstairs windows are boarded up.
According to the car’s satnav, the house is a seven-hour drive from the Lakes, which turns into eight after a discreet comfort stop at a garage shop, followed by a sandwich eaten in the car.
Ironically, we drove past Carlisle on our drive north.
I was tempted to ask Mrs Bellacci to stop and drop me off, but I knew Lorenzo would protest. Besides, we need a few days to lie low after the attack on the lodge.
Although he said nothing, I suspect Romano thought the same thing, which might have been why he chose the remote location.
Unlike the lodge at Lake Grasmere, no supplies have been provided for our arrival, and utilities are switched off.
Everything inside has a thin veneer of dust, and there are none of the lodge’s modern conveniences.
However, the farmhouse has seven or eight bedrooms, and when we pick our rooms, Lorenzo and I make sure we drop our bags in ones opposite each other.
Although mine has a single bunk, he has a large double mattress on a sturdy pine frame, where I know I will lay my head at night.
The rooms are cold, and the bedcovers musty with age, but they will suffice.
Only Mrs Bellacci is unfazed by the rudimentary facilities, as though she expected nothing more.
Within the hour, we have the place tidied with lights on, water running, and a fire burning in the grate.
Mrs Bellacci even manages to get the old iron stove in the kitchen to pump out heat.
Another upside of having her along is that she insists on cooking.
She pulls out her ingredients and favoured cooking utensils from among the array of specialist weaponry in the back of her car.
That night, after each of us has taken turns to bathe—no shower in our highland retreat—we are treated to a meal of freshly made linguine.
As always, she makes enough for ten, and she serves the meal with an unlabelled bottle of full-bodied red.
After days of bland frozen meals, Lorenzo and I eat silently at the kitchen table, thankful and savouring each mouthful.
“What will you do?” asks Lorenzo. “When you meet Leblanc?”
I shrug while running a finger along the coarse surface of the oak table. “Find out what he knows.”
“You think he will speak to you? Of course not. We both know it would be better if I came with you. Use me to break in and subdue—”
“I’m doing this alone, Lorenzo. If he refuses to speak to me, I’ll think of something else.”
Lorenzo mutters something in Italian, and I pick out the word stubborn, which causes Mrs Bellacci to turn from her chores and give him a piece of her mind, using his own words to describe and castigate him.
I smirk at the table, pleased that I’m picking up more Italian than I realised.
Halfway through her diatribe, her phone makes a strange sound, and she stops speaking to stare at the display.
Even Lorenzo’s attention is distracted by the sound.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Il dottore needs us back in Rome the day after tomorrow. We have tickets to fly out from Aberdeen airport. Our president is giving a public address to the nation from Palazzo del Quirinale, which is being broadcast live. All national security agents are being recalled to help police the event and provide protection.”
“Does he need me, too?” I ask. Time will be tight if I am to visit Leblanc.
“He says you can sit this one out until your Italian has improved. And he is aware that you have other matters to deal with. I will take you there tomorrow.”
That evening, Mrs Bellacci turns in first after we’ve locked up the house.
Lorenzo and I bid her good night but remain behind.
We wait until the logs in the grate burn low.
Fiery embers reflect from the dark intent in his eyes.
Not a word is uttered because none are required.
The air between us is taut with desire. He rises to close the heavy curtains, and I spot the outline of his erection against his jeans.
Before he can sit down again, I take his hand and lead him out of the room and up the stairs, switching lights off as we go.
I notice that our bags are in his room. Did he move them, or did Mrs Bellacci?
Lorenzo’s lubricant dispenser lies on one of the pillows.
Once the door is closed, he pushes me up against the frame and kisses me.
I find pleasure in letting him control me.
He tastes of wine and smells of his unique brand of spicy Italian soap.
We fumble out of our clothes and kick them onto the floor.
As always, our first connection is like a wrestling match, with both trying to master the other and wanting as much contact with the other’s flesh as possible.
Tonight Lorenzo slows first, crouched over me, and pulls his head back so we can look at each other.
“You know what I want?”
I nod once, which is all he needs from me. Seeing my response, he grabs the lube and places the dispenser beside his thighs, within easy reach.
“Then try to stay calm and let me control. Are you okay with that?”
“I am.”
With a gentleness he has never shown before, he massages me from neck to midriff to upper thigh, purposely—painfully for me—avoiding my straining erection until he reaches my ankles.
Once there, he lies back over me, aligning our cocks and kissing me deeply.
He does this three times, but on the fourth, he settles between my legs.
Fisting the base of my cock, he glides his tongue up each side, slicking the surface wet each time, until finally taking me into his throat, the warmth wrapping around my girth.
He does that so well. I release a sigh of satisfaction when his head begins to bob up and down, but I also feel his fingers venturing between my legs.
Savouring the sensations of his mouth, I close my eyes and hear the squirt of lube.
Without stopping what he is doing, Lorenzo smears my ass with cool liquid before pushing a finger inside.
My instinct is to reach down and stop him, but I consciously restrain myself and let the invasion continue.
The feelings are new, and after the initial discomfort, it’s not long before I push my backside into the finger, wanting more.
He obliges, taking his time until I feel an explosive orgasm inside me begin to build in a way I’ve never known before.
Instinctively, I clench my ass muscles around his fingers.
Lorenzo must sense the change in me, the shallower breaths and heightened arousal, because he releases my cock, removes his fingers and lifts my legs onto his shoulders.
Only then do I open my eyes, mourning the loss of warmth and contact.
His eyes are ablaze with need, and he shuffles forward until the tip of his cock touches my ass.
It’s all I can do to stop pulling him into me.
When he does push forward, he does so painfully slowly and carefully.
I know he is trying to minimise the pain, but my body is aching for him, so I wrap my legs tightly around his waist and urge him in.
I am unsure if the guttural sound of pleasure comes from him or me, but I know my body is alight with new sensations.
Every so often, Lorenzo changes position, clutches both my legs on one shoulder, and the penetration hits a different spot inside.
He also changes gear frequently, using short, fast strokes, sometimes long and slow, and occasionally stopping entirely inside and kissing me deeply.
I do my best to prolong the build of pleasure, but my control slips.
After he settles into a round of ramming hard, my orgasm becomes unstoppable.
Again, he seems able to read my body and keeps going to ensure I get the best climax of my life.
I am not even touching myself when my cock erupts, spurting the first load as far as my cheek.
Lorenzo is not far behind me, and I am still wringing out the last of my orgasm onto my stomach when he empties his warmth inside me.
For a long time, we remain still, our bodies entwined both breathing heavily, unmoving. Eventually, Lorenzo begins to pull away, to lie next to me, and only then do I catch his expression as he studies the ceiling. There is a sadness in him that I have not seen before.
“I wanted to hate you when you came to Eagle House,” he says.
“Everything was bearable before that. I told Mrs Bellacci that if you did not leave, then I would ask Dr Romano to reassign me. Of course, she scolded me, told me to stop behaving like a child. But she did not understand that you scared me, because you attracted me like nobody else ever has.”
I ponder his words and remember how he shunned me during those early days at the villa.
“The first time I met you in the bar at Pensione Galli, I sensed an edge to you, something raw and dangerous,” I reply. “My instinct was to avoid you. But then your outdoor showering performance kept drawing my attention.”
He snorts at that and takes my hand in his. Small gestures like this should not mean as much as they do, and once again, I marvel at the change in me.
“Do you wish I had never come to Eagle House?” I ask him.
“How can you ask me this?”
We make love again, and this time he appears calmer. After cleaning up, we settle next to each other. I feel myself drifting off, but am awake again when he shifts his weight on the mattress.
“If you will not take me with you,” he says, reaching to the floor. “Then take this.”