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Chuckling, he shifted to give me his profile. “It was wild. Once a woman followed me into a men’s room and practically accosted me at a urinal. It used to piss Paolo off.”
“Was he worried you’d take one of them up on the offer?”
“No, of course not. But I had to flirt with women. It had to look believable, that I was really attracted to them, so no one would suspect my secret. He hated it.”
I could imagine. I didn’t care for the idea of Giulio’s attention on anyone else, either. I shifted on my stool, uncomfortable that I might be jealous, too.
Three more weeks. Nothing more.
Though it was hard to remember we were temporary when we screwed all the time. Or when he wrapped around me in the middle of the night, holding me like he was worried I might disappear. The lines on where we stood were becoming blurred—for me at least.
I wanted to be near him every second. My skin buzzed with the need to touch him constantly. Even now I was counting down the minutes until after dinner when I could get him naked again.
And I wanted to talk to him. To hear his thoughts and his opinions. His laughter. I could happily listen to him tell stories for hours.
Basically, I was fucked.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Giulio
We settled into a routine. Wake up and fuck. A run, followed by breakfast and a shower.
Then Alessio would chop wood while I fed the sheep. After, we’d read or talk until lunch and riposo, during which we’d jack each other off or trade blow jobs. Usually we both fell asleep once we came.
Later in the afternoon, I would make dinner while Alessio disappeared with his rifle. He practiced shooting somewhere on the island, though I never asked where. Far enough away that I couldn’t hear the shots. More often than not, he came back with provisions from Mrs. Campbell. He liked spending time with that old lady.
We drank wine and ate, then went to bed. In the darkness, we spent hours exploring each other, discovering what drove us wild. Each night I thought it couldn’t possibly get better. But it always did.
A shame that our time was more than halfway over. Twelve days remained until he gave me my head start off the island. Then he would come after me.
I had my doubts on whether he would be able to kill me. The man who whispered endearments in my ear? Who clung to me every night as we fell asleep? He liked to touch me all the time, even just simple brushes of his hand across my back.
I was equally as eager for him. Restless when he wasn’t right next to me. Alessio had a steady calm presence that I found relaxing. I didn’t need to talk a lot or entertain him. He seemed perfectly content to sit in silence as long as we were together.
But this wasn’t real. We were hovering in the eye of the storm, just waiting to get drawn in again. Soon I would need money and another fake passport. A city far away. Somewhere in Central America, maybe? Was there any place Alessio couldn’t find me?
There hasn’t been any word from his assistant on the car bombers. Not that I’d expected Sasha to discover the answer so quickly—I was far too unlucky for that—but I had to find them before they found me.
Which was why I was looking through my notes on the bombing tonight. I’d been studying them this afternoon while Alessio was out. Nothing had changed, though. I still had no clue as to who those men in the parking lot were.
I was in the kitchen, rolling out pasta, when Alessio returned. I heard the door open and close, then the locks clicked back in place. His boots hit the ground and his heavy footsteps grew louder as he headed toward me.
Instantly, gray eyes found mine and his mouth lifted. It was the same every time, like he was relieved to see me again. He closed the distance between us and held my face. “Il bel principe,” he whispered before kissing me. The gentle sweep of his lips sent shivers through me.
I loved the way he kissed me. Reverently, with such tenderness. Worshiping me with his mouth. He was bigger than me, yet he made me feel fifty meters tall with his attention. As if I could do anything.
When he pulled back, I was clinging to his jacket, my dick suddenly interested. “Fuck, Alessio.” Reaching down, I adjusted myself in my jeans. “Did you have a nice visit with Mrs. Campbell?”
“A Juventus match was on,” he said, referring to an Italian football club. “They won.”
“That explains why you taste like beer.”
He sat on a stool at the island and snagged a piece of prosciutto off a plate. “I don’t know what you have against beer.”
“That it isn’t wine?”
“Not everyone was raised on a vineyard, principe.” He tilted his chin toward my notes. “What’s this?”
