31. Vivi
VIVI
It’s midday when I wake up. Yesterday’s trip to Sant’Angelo drained me in a way I wasn’t expecting. A purge of my past that required a full mind and body reset.
On our trip back to the island, conversation was limited.
I must’ve dozed off several times, tucked against Gio’s side in both the car and the helicopter.
It couldn’t have been comfortable for him; the seatbelts and safety harnesses kept getting in the way.
But every time I tried to move and give him breathing room, he hauled me back, resting me against his chest, his arm curled around my waist, my head tucked beneath his chin.
His heartbeat became white noise, lulling me into a dreamless sleep.
I don’t remember waking up when we got back to the island. I don’t even remember how I got up to my room. Gio must’ve carried me.
I’ve been asleep for almost eighteen hours.
Which means…
Holy crap. Today is my birthday. I’m officially twenty-one.
With everything that’s happened, I’ve barely given it a thought. I haven’t done a proper birthday celebration in a long time and have developed the habit of thinking about it like just another day. No more or less special than all the rest.
I doubt today will be any different, other than the fact that for the first time in a long time, I have no clue what I’m going to do.
An enormous growl escapes my stomach. It’s been too long since yesterday’s decadent traveling breakfast buffet. I have the vaguest recollection of Gio suggesting dinner as the helicopter touched down on the island, but I must’ve said no. I was too tired to eat.
That’s not true anymore. I’m already placing a call to the kitchen when I notice a piece of paper sitting on top of my stack of books. It’s folded, my name written on the top.
On the phone, someone picks up the line, confirming that my breakfast is on its way. I’m so distracted I barely manage a thank you before I disconnect.
The note is from Giovanni. Elegant script that says:
Yesterday was long, passerotta mia. Take today to rest, eat, relax. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll see you at four o’clock.
xx G.
See him at four? For what?
Our trip to Sant’Angelo lurks in the back of my mind. Gio told me that once I answered his questions, he’d answer mine. Explain why he went to such extraordinary and merciless lengths to make me his wife.
I want to know. Need to. Obviously.
But not today. Whatever is happening at four this afternoon, I hope it has nothing to do with that.
For once, I want a day off from the questions and secrets. A day to relax. A day to just live.
Quite frankly, I’ve earned one.
“What do you say, Little Bird?” I peek at her in her new box. It’s larger, giving her more space to move around and regain mobility now that Gio has cut the bandage off her wing. She’s not ready to fly away yet, but she’s getting there. “I think you are I are going to have a very lazy day.”
For the next several hours, I do everything Gio’s note suggests. When my breakfast tray arrives, I enjoy every bite. The sweetness of the berries, the tang of the lemon curd on the toast. The espresso that, genuinely, is the best I’ve ever had anywhere.
I don’t need to eat my meals in my room anymore. Since recovering from the arsenic attack, I’ve been free to come and go as I please. The doctor told Gio that fresh air and moderate exercise would help me get my strength back, and once I started exploring the villa, I didn’t want to stop.
The place is truly beautiful. A stunning combination of modern Mediterranean elegance and old-world wealth, spaces filled with as much precious artwork and exquisite craftsmanship as comfortable furniture in coastal colors and wide open doors framed by gauzy white curtains.
Every flat surface boasts a gorgeous arrangement of lush flowers, and a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t caught the smell of freshly baked bread wafting up from the kitchens.
I’ve been able to wander through the palatial ballroom and antique-filled sitting room, the indoor pool and spa facilities, the in-house movie theater, countless bedrooms and bathrooms, multiple galleries, and at least three wine cellars.
It’s vast. Far too quiet.
Maybe that’s why I decide to stay in my room. As strange as it sounds, now that I’m not locked inside, I’ve come to like it.
Not love it. Knowing the abandoned bedroom is one freshly-plastered wall away makes that impossible.
But the sunlight is excellent for reading and drawing, and the vases of fresh flowers that keep appearing on my breakfast trays make the place smell like a garden.
After I eat, I slip into the bath. It’s heavenly. Not as large as the one I spotted in Gio’s suite, but still perfect.
I sink into the lather, warmth suffusing my limbs, jasmine scenting the steam that curls up from the water’s surface.
If this is the feeling people get from going to a spa, I finally understand why my mother spent half her time there.
I disappear into a protective bubble, unreachable to the outside world.
My brain slows, thoughts getting sluggish, quiet.
Yesterday’s trip to Sant’Angelo fades into the far distant background.
All of the questions I have about Gio and our marriage lose their urgency.
He’s been thoughtful, caring. Attentive.
Checking on me religiously during my recovery.
Taking care of Little Bird when I couldn’t.
Ordering a library’s worth of books written in English so I never run out of reading material.
Holding and kissing me whenever possible, like he can’t stop himself from touching me.
His lips. His hands. His body.
For someone who used to shy away from all physical touch, I’m astonished at how quickly I’ve become addicted to his.
The longer I soak, the more relaxed I get, the harder it is to stop the memories of what happened on Giovanni’s terrace from percolating to the surface. Was it really only two nights ago? Two nights since I had my first orgasm?
I barely think the word before vapor trails of sensation start to curl around my breasts and an ache blooms between my thighs.
Head against the edge of the bath, I close my eyes, let my hands coast to the curve of my belly. Giovanni touched me here, his eyes molten as he caressed parts of me no one ever has. Worshiped parts of me no one ever has.
Not even me.
You know what to do—he showed you. If you want to touch yourself, do it, Vivi. Your body is brilliant, beautiful. Enjoy it.
My hands need less persuasion than my mind. They’re already moving before I’m done my mental pep talk, palms cupping the undersides of my breasts, pushing them high until my nipples skim the top of the water. The contrast from warm to cold is a shock, a delight. They peak instantly.
Emboldened, I touch my nipples, teasing circles before I carefully pinch. First one, then the other. Gently, then harder.
Pleasure coalesces with each tug, my legs parting under the water, my body shifting as my heart rate accelerates.
Gio touched me like this. Used his hands and mouth to turn me wanton, desperate. Just like I’m doing now.
I squeeze my breasts together, loving how full they feel, how absolutely luxurious. My skin is soft, my nipples sensitive, the pink color darkening the more I play.
Another pinch, the hardest one yet. My neck arches, my hair cascading over the edge as my hips lift off the bottom of the tub.
I rub my thighs together. I can’t help it. The subtle ache has become an insistent pulsing. A growing clamor I can’t ignore.
One hand still on my breast, I slip the other beneath the water. Draw it across my abdomen. I don’t rush. I feel the shape of me, the stomach that jiggles with every movement, the hips that mold outward in pronounced curves.
I love how I feel. Plush and strong, sturdy and soft. Hot and wet.
Really, really wet.
My fingers are between my thighs, and I gasp at moisture that’s gathered there.
Slick in a way that’s different from the bath water.
It feels decadent, and I run my fingers over my folds, through them, learning what I feel like with total abandon.
First one finger, then two. Parting my flesh and testing what feels good. What I can do to make myself feel good.
On the next stroke, I hover at the top, just below the bush of hair. Gio touched me here. My clit. That’s what he called it. It was a revelation, a switch that he flipped that made me feel like I was going to turn inside out.
I fumble a few times before I find the spot, my hips jerking and my breath catching. My fingers spasm around my nipple, making everything even more intense.
I dig my teeth into my lower lip. Push my body up into my own hands and moan as I touch more, harder.
And stop abruptly when a masculine groan permeates the haze.
I crack one eye to find my husband towering over one end of the tub. He stares like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Holy fuck. Do you have any fucking idea how sexy you are?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
The longer Gio stands there, the larger the bulge in his pants gets. I know he can’t see my hand under the bubbles, but he knows what I’m doing.
He’s turned on by it. Turned on by me.
And, suddenly, instead of feeling embarrassed, I feel wonderful. Powerful. Giddy that I, inconsequential, sheltered Vivi, can evoke a reaction like that from a man like him.
Something inside me slips. Escapes. I don’t feel the need to hide or apologize or be anything less than who and what I am. Right now, I’m a woman who wants to see just how much her husband likes what he’s seeing.
Tauntingly, I touch my breast again. Squeeze it, plump it, pushing the generous mound out of the water so Gio can watch the water trail down my skin. See how hard and needy my nipple is.
He does see. His jaw twitches, eyes flare. His fingers curl into fists at his side.
Unaccountably pleased, I do it again. I tease my nipple. Pull it between my fingers. Tug in a tiny rhythm until my breaths are coming short and fast and my hips are mimicking the pattern between the water.
“What are you doing, bella?” His voice is pure gravel.
I press the tip of one finger against my clit. Can’t stifle the gasp that escapes. “I-I’m relaxing. Like you said.”
The sound that comes out of his chest is half-moan, half-groan, and I want to lick it off his lips. Instead, I lick my thumb and drag it across my other nipple where it bobs at the waterline.
His next breath is more of a curse. “And are you enjoying yourself, bella?”
“Yes. Very.” I pluck my nipple harder, can’t stop the pulse of sensation that arrows between my thighs.
Gio is watching every move I make, his pupils stretching till his irises have gone nearly black. The tendons on his neck stand out, as do the veins in his exposed forearms, the muscles shifting as his fingers move restlessly against his thighs.
A wicked idea darts through my head. “Do you want to enjoy yourself too?”
Gio stills. His chest caught mid-inhale. The buttons on his shirt strain. “That depends, bella. What exactly are you asking?”
I slip my fingers deeper between my thighs. My mouth falls open on a gasp, my spine arching. The air around Gio seems to crack. The bulge behind his pants visibly throbs.
“Do you want to touch yourself while you watch me?” My face is burning, but I don’t care. Gio’s expression makes every bit of embarrassment worth it. “That’s what I’m asking.”
“Vaffanculo. Fuck.” Gio’s hands are on his pants before he can take another breath, thick fingers flicking across the fly and zipper.
His shaft is still trapped behind his boxer briefs.
Despite the layer of black fabric, I can see where it strains, begging to be released.
He rubs himself once, twice, eyes locked on my face.
“You’re sure? Once I stop, I won’t be able to stop. Not with you, not like this.”
Am I sure?
I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. I just want to see and feel and experience this with him. I bite my bottom lip, nod. Let my fingers relax beneath the water so I can focus on what’s about to happen. “Yes. Do it. Show me.”
Gio’s jaw flexes beneath freshly shaved skin. “Tell me where you want me.”
“There. Where you are. Stay right there but let me see you.”
He nods, rapidly releasing the buttons of his shirt until the fabric hangs loose over his heavily muscled chest. He tugs it free of his waistband, abs rippling, tattoos dancing, before shoving his pants and boxer briefs over his ass and down his legs.
I can see his thighs. The exquisitely cut angle of his hips. The taut muscles of his lower abdomen. The erection straining outward, shaft swollen, head ruddy, begging to be touched.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Gio’s cock. The first time I’ve seen any cock. I felt it that night on his terrace, stroked it through his clothes, but I’ve never seen it like this.
I’m fascinated. Obsessed. His balls hang below a dark nest of hair, and his shaft juts forward, thick veins straining against skin that looks incredibly soft.
“Now what, bella?” Gio’s voice coaxes my attention up, and I’d be tempted to smack the self-satisfied smirk off his face except he’s breathing a little too hard, his eyes burning a little too bright as he watches me idly plump and squeeze my breasts.
I didn’t realize I was doing it, didn’t realize I’d brought both hands to the surface. But now he’s watching me so intently, every graze of my fingers is amplified.
I lick my lips. Watch in fascination as a bead of liquid pearls at the slit at the tip of his cock.
Slowly, carefully, I shape a sentence using words Gio taught me the other night, my vocabulary expanded in a new and delicious way. “Now…I’m going to make myself come. And I want you to come while you watch.”