Chapter 9 Dancing in the Moonlight #2
Franki raps the doorknocker and an older man, maybe sixty, opens the door. The woman beside him is as round as an apple and shorter even than my sister. The two of them beam at us and clasp one of Franki’s hands.
My Italian is passable, but the excited chattering between my wife and the woman is far too rapid for me to make out more than a word or two.
Still, I manage the gist as the two of them lead us through a hallway, the floral scents of the shop surrounding us.
We follow them up a flight of stairs where they enter through another blue-painted door, leading us into an apartment.
Ryan, the guard on duty, sits at the round kitchen table with a tiny cup of strong black coffee and raises his hand in greeting at my nod.
The woman points out the kitchen and bathroom, then sweeps open a door to a bedroom.
Nothing about the apartment is particularly elegant. The villa we left behind was polished and expensive. “This place is homey.”
Franki grins. “Rustic.”
I sweep my knuckles down her spine. “I love rustic.”
“I know.”
The woman drops a set of keys into Franki’s palm, wiggles her eyebrows at me, then nudges Franki with a giggle.
I’m nearly positive her words translate to something about making babies.
“Where are they going?” I ask when she and her husband exit the apartment with Ryan close behind.
“Ryan will work the usual detail. He’ll be downstairs.
Lucia and Giovanni are going home. They keep this place for their adult children when they come from the cities to visit.
Their house is too small for all of them with the grandchildren and spouses.
They hold out hope one day their youngest daughter will move in permanently, but the children all work away. ”
“How do you know them?”
“I met them the last time we were here when I bought flowers.”
This is the essence of my wife. More than a year ago, she had a conversation with a flower seller, and now she knows their life story, and they’re welcoming us to stay like we’re family. “How did she know about our plans to attempt procreation?” I ask curiously.
Color rises in Franki’s cheeks. “She didn’t know. I said we wanted time away from the crowd at the villa. She inferred from there.” She bites her lip. “Are you really going to call it procreation?”
“It’s an excellent word. Accurate.”
“But not a sexy one,” she says.
I close the bedroom door and lean against it, knowing Ryan would have run a security protocol before we arrived. Loosening my tie and unbuttoning my shirt, I assure her, “I can make it sexy.”
She hooks her cane over the knob of the closet door. “Not even you.”
“There you go again, issuing a challenge.” Finished with the last button, I shrug off the tie and white cotton shirt, tossing them to the wooden rocking chair in the corner. My glasses are next. Then I prowl toward my wife.
She backs up, matching my steps in reverse until she runs into the bed. I advance until my body presses flush against hers.
Though the room is warm, she shivers, the hard little points of her nipples grazing my chest through the filmy fabric of her strapless dress. With a twitch of my lips, I lift one hand and give her a gentle shove.
Laughing, she lets herself fall backward onto the white chenille bedspread, her hair falling loose to frame her in soft ribbons of brown and caramel.
I follow her down, bracing myself over her, and take her in a carnal kiss.
She reacts like kerosene poured on a fire, both of her hands diving into my hair and dragging me closer.
I find her side zipper and slide it down, then peel the dress off her body.
“Oh, now, I like this,” I say when I expose her breasts and palm them, my hands covering them in their entirety.
I kiss my way down her body, removing the rest of her clothing as I go. Then I rise up, slide my hands down the length of first, one leg, then the other, removing her sneakers and tossing them behind me before placing a kiss on the inside of each of her knees.
She fumbles for the clasp on my waistband. I take over until we’re both wearing nothing but our skin.
When I lower my head to kiss her clit, she drags me upward by my hair.
“I’ve had two days of foreplay. If you don’t get inside me now, I’m going to die.”
I don’t argue. She wants the same thing I do.
My brain offers an automatic fleeting reminder to use a condom.
We don’t need one. The thought sends a bolt of pure lust spearing through me.
Wait. “Is this okay? Should we research if there’s any particular approach we should take or start vitamins and see an ob-gyn first or—”
She clutches my hair and growls, “Henry McRae, give me that dick.”
I’m supposed to laugh. I know without a doubt she said it that way to be funny. Except she meant it too, and I don’t want to laugh. I want to fuck.
Gathering both her wrists in one of my hands, I pin them above her head and push inside her silken heat. She’s wet and ready.
Franki’s gasp reaches my ears even as my own leaves my mouth. Skin to skin with her is heaven.
I was once cautious with her to the point of pissing her off. Her RA matters, and I never want to hurt her. But after all this time, I know her body and what she likes.
She warns me when I need to be gentle. Which means tonight, I don’t.
I thrust again, and she meets me, lifting her hips, her eyes locked on mine.
I kiss her neck, absorbed in her scent and feel. Lost in bliss in a way that never happens in any other part of my life. Only with her. It’s only ever been her. “You are my first. My last. My always.”
She nods. “Always yours.”
I release her hands and roll us over until she’s on top. She rises up and rides me as her hair tickles the tips of her breasts, the look in her eyes heated and tender.
“Take what you want.” Giving up control is another thing I could only ever do with her.
In response, she swivels her hips and smiles.
I roam her body with my hands. Revel in the sight of her. Find her clit and give her what she needs.
Managing to hold it together for her tests my endurance. After she squeezes and shudders around me, I roll her onto her front, tug her hips up, and drive into her until the tight coil of my arousal releases in a tsunami that sheets my vision white and steals space and time.
She falls forward in another orgasm of her own, and I follow her down, my lips against the sweat-dampened skin of her temple. “Love you. I love you, Franki.”
Her response is more of a contended hum than understandable speech.
We lie together, breathing hard.
My recovery comes faster than hers. When I shift her to the top of the bed, roll her over, and tuck her against my side, I don’t even try to suppress my arrogant triumph at the sight of her, wrung out and satisfied, her muscles loose as spaghetti.
“Franki won’t get pregnant the first time we have unprotected intercourse,” I remind myself.
“It’s statistically unlikely,” I mentally correct. But women can sometimes become pregnant even while using birth control, let alone unprotected. If our timing is right, it is possible.
She rouses to attention with a double-blink when I stand on my knees, spread her thighs to examine her, then press her legs back together and lift her ankles in the air.
“What are you doing?” The words are half squawk, half squeak.
“I don’t know! I haven’t had time to research this, yet. It seems reasonable to keep as much of my paternal DNA inside you as possible to optimize the likelihood of fertilization.”
Her abdominals tense when she giggles.
“Stop that. You’re pushing out the gametic sample,” I say.
Her giggle turns to a full-on belly laugh. “I thought you hadn’t done research.”
“I haven’t. Stay still. I’m going to push my escaping genetic contribution back inside you.”
She laughs harder as I do just that.
I suppress my smile and give her a (very gentle) swat on the ass. “Get control of yourself, darling. Baby making is serious business.”
“Then stop being so funny.”
Shaking my head, I release her ankles and sink back on my heels. Then I pounce forward and brace myself over her. “We have to start over. Round Two.”
“You’re ready to go again? Already?”
“Think about the view you just gave me.” I lift my right eyebrow. “Yes, love. I am ready to go again.”