Julia
Chapter Seventeen
By morning, rain is still falling, but the storm has worn itself down to a steady drizzle against the windows.
I am awake in Ricardo’s bed and have been for several minutes.
The idea of waking up in his bed should make me nervous, but mostly I'm too comfortable to move.
The sheets are soft against my skin, cool in some places, warm in others, and the blanket is tucked over my shoulder. Ricardo is behind me, one heavy arm wrapped around my waist, his chest pressed to my back, his breath slow and even against the back of my neck.
At some point in the night, he carried me upstairs, where we made love again and again. I have a faint memory of finally passing out against him in the early hours of the morning. I remember feeling safe.
I stay still, listening to the rain and the sound of him breathing. His body is warm around mine. One of his hands is spread over my stomach, his fingers relaxed, and there is something so intimate about it that my face heats.
I am sore.
Everywhere.
Deliciously, unmistakably sore.
My thighs ache. My hips ache. There are places inside me that feel changed, opened, and new.
I do not feel ashamed.
That realization is a bit startling.
No cold drop in my stomach. No urge to bury my face and pretend I am elsewhere. No need to explain last night away and make it into something smaller, safer, easier to explain.
I am in Ricardo’s bed after spending the night with him, and I do not regret it.
His arm tightens around me.
“Buongiorno,” he murmurs against my hair.
His voice is rough from sleep, deep enough to move through my body and make me yearn again.
My lips curve before I can stop them. “Good morning.”
His mouth brushes the back of my shoulder.
“How long have you been awake?” he asks.
“A little while.”
“Are you all right?”
There is no performance in the question. He is asking because he wants to know. It's as simple as that.
I turn carefully in his arms until I am facing him.
The movement makes me wince a little.
His hand stills at once. His eyes sharpen.
“I’m okay,” I say before concern can take over his face. “Just sore.”
“Hmm,” he says, his lips pursing. I can tell the movement is hiding a smug smile.
“Don't look so proud of yourself,” I tell him.
“Then how should I look?” he says, unbothered.
“Chastened.”
“Never going to happen.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but it is playful.
The truth is he looks more than proud of himself.
He looks damn good. His hair is a dark mess over his forehead, and the stubble on his jaw is heavier than usual.
His eyes are still sleep-heavy, and there is a relaxed ease to him that is different from the edgy power he usually carries.
It is unfair, really, that a man can look like this first thing in the morning.
“Don't look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you want to eat.”
My cheeks flush.
A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.
“Unless,” he says huskily, “you intend to finish what you’re starting.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I know what he is thinking about. Or at least, I know what I am thinking about.
I lean in and kiss him. There is no hesitation now. There is no second-guessing. There is only the simple, undeniable want.
He kisses me back, and it is the kiss of a man who is still hungry even after a feast.
His hand slides from my stomach to my hip, and he pulls me closer.
My body, traitor that it is, is more than ready for a repeat. A deep, liquid heat pools in my stomach, my nipples tighten against the hot skin of his chest, and a soft sound escapes my throat.
His fingers trace the line of my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lips. “I want you again.”
““You’re insatiable,” I say, my lips twitching.
“Only for you.”
The words are so direct, so sincere, that they make my breath catch.
He shifts, rolling me onto my back, settling himself between my legs. He is already hard against me, and my body responds instantly, a rush of desire that makes me ache with need.
He lowers his head to my throat. “Tell me you want me too,” he murmurs against my skin.
I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair.
“I want you too,” I whisper.
He groans. And then he’s kissing me again, and I am lost to the feel of him, the taste of him, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.
He doesn't rush. He takes his time, as if he has all the time in the world. His hands explore my body, relearning every curve, every dip, every hollow.
It's a while later before we're sated again, tangled in the sheets, our bodies damp with sweat.
Ricardo is on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, a satisfied smile on his lips. I am lying on my stomach, my head turned toward him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"I should get up," I say, though I have no intention of moving. "I have to go to work."
"So do I," he says, not moving.
"We're not going to get anything done like this."
"It seems we've gotten quite a lot done exactly like this."
I have to smile at that. "We can't spend the whole day in bed."
"We could with one phone call," he says.
The thought of it, lounging around in bed with Ricardo is so tempting, it makes me ache.
But for some reason, I can’t do it. The idea of hiding away with him, in this little bubble of pleasure and intimacy, is tempting, yes.
It's also a bad idea.
The real world is waiting for us out there. A world where he is Ricardo Conti, and I am Julia O’Brien, and we are not supposed to be here together.
I push myself up, the sheet pooling around my waist.
"I have to meet with Mario today," I say, forcing myself to be practical. "To go over the guest list for the anniversary gala."
Ricardo's arm drops from his face, and he turns to look at me. "Very well." He heaves a sigh. "But I am going to feed you first."
A laugh slips out of me at the casual way he says it. “Feed me first?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get any say?”
“Yes.” His mouth brushes mine. “You may decide how you take your coffee.”
I laugh again, and this time his arms close around me.
The sound fades, and then there's just tenderness.
I have never laughed in bed before. Not with a man. It is a new and strange and wonderful thing to realize.
Ricardo seems to realize it too, because he pulls back to look at me. His eyes are dark and serious, and there is something in them that makes my heart ache.
"What?" I ask.
His thumb traces my lower lip.
"I like it when you laugh," he says. "You should do it more often."
My throat gets tight. I want to look away from the naked honesty in his face, but I don't.
I hold his gaze. "Okay."
Ricardo kisses me soft and slow. His hand moves up my back, into my hair, and I let myself sink into it for a few seconds.
The kiss does not try to become more than it is.
He doesn't try to heat it up or pull me back down to the mattress for another round.
He kisses me just for the sake of kissing me.
When he pulls back, his eyes search my face again.
“What?” I ask.
“I like you here.”
My heart gives a strange, hard beat.
There is no way to answer that lightly.
“I like being here,” I say.
He leans back against the pillows and brings me with him, pressing my face to his chest. I don't know what time it is, but the light outside the window tells me that it's early enough that I don't have to jump out of bed.
The rain fills the quiet. The room is dim, all deep wood like the rest of the house.. His bedroom is large but restrained. No unnecessary show. Just a wide bed, a fireplace that has by now burned itself out, with a comfortable chair sitting in front of it.
It's a simple room but lived in.
Then he reaches toward the bedside table and picks up his phone briefly, likely just to check his messages.
Reality enters the room with that small movement.
It's just enough to remind me that there is an outside world waiting somewhere beyond this bed.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“A little after six.”
I close my eyes. “Oh.”
“There is no crisis.”
“That you know of.”
“I would know if there were any.” He has already set the phone back down. “No missed calls from Mario. No urgent messages. The city survived without us for an evening.”
“Miracle.”
His mouth curves.
I look toward the windows. “Do you think the roads are clear?”
“I think,” he says, “I regret having picked up that phone. If I knew this barrage of questions was coming, I wouldn't have.”
I lift my head. “Are you always this difficult in the morning?”
“Only when a beautiful woman is in my bed and all she can talk about is leaving.”
My cheeks heat. “I’m not talking about leaving. I just... know it's going to have to happen eventually. So I like to be prepared.”
Without warning, he rolls us so that I am on my back and he is pressing me into the mattress. He takes my hands and stretches them over my head, linking our fingers together.
“Stop planning,” he says. “Stop looking at the door. Stop worrying about what comes next. For one hour, Julia, be here with me. Right here.”
The command is a low murmur against my skin. His hips settle between my legs, and I am achingly aware that he is naked and hard again.
My body is more than ready for him. It wants to do exactly what he says. It wants to be here, right here, with him.
My eye search his face. There is no teasing now. There is a raw intensity there that makes my breath catch.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His hands release mine and move to my hips, pulling me closer, deeper. He lowers his head to my neck, and his mouth is hot against my skin.
“Good,” he murmurs.
His teeth scrape my throat, and I arch into him, a soft gasp escaping my lips. My hands slide up his back, my nails digging into his skin, holding him to me.
He groans, a low, primal sound that I feel in every part of me.
A knock on the door makes us both freeze.
My heart pounds against my ribs.
For a wild second, I wonder if it's Mario or Dante or—
“Signore Ricardo.”
Marisa’s voice is muffled but clear.
Ricardo lets out a slow breath. He pulls back enough to look at me, a wry, frustrated expression on his face.