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‘Yes, but it doesn’t define who he is. He’s a perfectly normal teenage boy.’
‘And you’ve taken care of him your whole life?’
‘Since he was two. I used to throw a hissy fit whenever the social workers tried to separate us. It nearly didn’t work on one occasion, but basically no one wanted a deaf toddler, and he would only be soothed when I was around.’
Sebastiano stared down at her, some of the steely rage that had come into his eyes easing. ‘You’re amazing, you know that?’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘Strong. Sexy. Beautiful. Inside and out.’
‘Don’t,’ she said, uncomfortable hearing his praise. She was nothing special and it was only a matter of time before he figured that out.
‘You are,’ he asserted softly. ‘But I agree.’ He sat down in the corner chair and tugged on the belt of her robe. ‘We have done enough talking.’ He kissed a trail down her midline and turned her to face the railing.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I’m going to show you how you make me feel. Bend forward, bella,’ he crooned in her ear, placing her hands on the balustrading. ‘And don’t let go.’
* * *
Hours later Sebastiano jolted awake; the only sound in the room was Poppy’s soft breathing as she lay beside him. Carefully, he turned his head to confirm that she was sleeping. She was, her soft curves pressed into his side, her kiss-swollen lips parted, her silky hair spread out on the pillow.
Their love-making this time had been different from the other times. Less intense, but somehow more powerful. If that was even possible.
He adjusted the bedcovers over her shoulder and she nestled deeper against him. He smiled and slid his hand over her thigh. Her skin felt like silk beneath his rougher fingertips. She sighed, a whisper of a sound that feathered across his chest. He contemplated waking her up, kissing her brow, her cheeks, the little dimple beside her mouth. She was so responsive to his touch he could already imagine her turning towards him, arching against him, giving him one of those tiny whimpers he loved so much.
Dio, this was supposed to have been just one more night. Not that either of them had stipulated as much—but, regardless, he had thought that was all it would be and now, if he was honest, he wanted more. The irony of which was not lost on him.
And somewhere in his psyche he must have known this would happen because on the flight to Venice he had decided to put as much distance between them as possible.
Si, Castiglione, you tried really hard.
Annoyed with himself, he gently extracted his arm from beneath Poppy’s neck and headed for the shower.
Damn it, he had tried. Only she had worn him down.
By breathing?
He hit the shower mixer and hot water jetted out over his tense body.
The thing was that opening up about his parents the previous night had made him feel vulnerable. Somehow she milked information out of him like a zookeeper getting venom from a snake. If he wasn’t careful he’d be depleted before he knew it.
And what about her story on the terrace? Por Dio, he was still reeling from that, and he wanted to hunt down the animal who had jumped her and beat him to a pulp. Her experiences in life were far worse than anything he had been forced to face yet she didn’t seem to feel sorry for herself the way he sometimes did.
He shoved his head under a water jet.
What had started out one-hundred-percent fake had at some point during the weekend shifted to being only fifty-percent fake. And that fifty percent was all on her side. Because once he’d taken her into his bed it had become real for him, and now he didn’t want it to end.
Not yet anyway.
And why should it? They weren’t hurting anyone. They weren’t breaking any laws. What they were doing was working this attraction out of their systems until it was no longer there.
A slow, satisfied smile broke across his face and he felt lighter as he towelled himself off. More in control. He padded out into the bedroom. Working this attraction out of their systems made complete sense.
‘Rise and shine, sleepy head. The Guggenheim awaits.’
Poppy groaned and covered her head with a pillow. ‘If you’ve seen one painting, you’ve seen them all.’
Sebastiano grinned. ‘Sacrilegious, intern! Picasso is rolling over in his grave about now.’
‘Picasso could be skywriting outside our window and I wouldn’t care,’ she grumbled.
