Page 61 of A Dangerous Bargain

He smiles against my collarbone. “I wasn’t jesting, Virgil.”

I stammer out a disbelieving noise.

He presses his lips to the spot over the frantic thud in my throat. “Is that all you’re worried about, then?”

I gasp, the sound more like a groan. Us? Together? Has he swallowed all the workshop’s white lead? It’s a possibility. I’ve seen him drink rinsing water instead of drinking water by accident at least five times. I drop my arm, pushing myself up and away from him, damn the carriage rocking. “We’d get nothing done!”

Leonardo’s eyes crinkle into crescents. “Probably not,” he agrees cheerily.

I shake my head, trying to ignoring the firework feeling beneath my ribs. “You’d let a million cats live inside. You’d bounce your leg on the bench. You’d do that thing where you breathe all deep and distracting when you’re concentrating, which would be almost never, because you miss every deadline!”

“I know.” He’s grinning, a huge Lupa-like grin. “What do you say?”

I let out a frustrated huff and jerk away. I will not look at him. I don’t want him to know how much he’s rankled me. “I don’t think you have the slightest clue how much you get under my skin.”

He laughs and skims a hand across my forearm, dragging his fingernails across the black lines there. “Do I now?”

My skin erupts in traitorous, damning gooseflesh. I keep my eyes six inches to the left of his like my life depends on it. “You know damn well you do. You do it on purpose. Sometimes it’s all I can think about.”

He smirks when he feels the bumps. “It seems like you think about me a lot, then.”

“Yes.” I shiver as his hand moves under my wrist, traces the blue veins. “I do.”

“Look at me.” He cups my jaw. My mouth parts, a shocked, airless gasp. His thumb traces just beneath my bottom lip, eyes dark as pitch. “Perhaps I should give you something new to think about.”

Joke’s on him. I’ve haven’t gone a day without thinking about him since he set foot in Verrocchio’s workshop, so bright-eyed, I couldn’t look away. I thought it was because I hated him. I thought it was because he was an annoying fop whose art was better than mine.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I think you should.”

He grabs my hips and crushes his lips to mine.

I kiss him back, my hands raking through his hair, dragging him closer.

It’s the first gulp of air after bursting from the river. It’s the first drop of honey after Lent, a taste so longed for and missed, I’d forgotten how much I wanted it. He slots his body alongside mine, the too-small coach bench suddenly big enough for both of us.

It’s all tongue, and a little teeth. It’s him and me and it’s everything.

“Virgil,” he whispers helplessly, a hand below my doublet, tracing the curves of my ribs under my thin shirt. “Mi tesoro, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

My insides go molten.

My treasure.

Except I’m the one who’s struck gold.

I whimper into his mouth and fumble with his laces. I need more of him. Even if I had all of him, it wouldn’t be enough. How long have we been heading to this place? How long have I held back even thinking it, putting him on the list of things I wasn’t allowed to have? I want to kiss him until the only word he can gasp is my name. I want to burrow beneath his skin exactly the way he’s tunneled into me and show him the shape of my longing.

I’ve wanted him for so long, I don’t even know when it started.

He pulls back slightly, hot mouth dragging over my rough skin, as if he can’t bear to give up the contact. That’s when I hear it too.

The creaking of carriage wheels. The clop of hooves.

Mass is over. I imagine whoever owns this carriage doesn’t want a show afterward. I groan and let my head fall against his shoulder.

He laughs and nuzzles my temple. “Come on, now. We’ve got to go to Santa Croce. We can continue this later.”

Later. The word thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.