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tand. It took her a moment to realise he was speaking in his native tongue, but he was breathing the words over her body, his lips claiming her flesh once more as he pulled his hand away. A second later, she knew why – the tell tale crinkling of foil, and gratitude and impatience zipped through her. She reached for him as he came over her, his body weight a blissful memory. His mouth returned to her breasts as his erection moved between her legs.
He flicked her nipple with his tongue and then, at the same time he nipped her flesh with his teeth, he thrust into her so the sensations that stirred inside of her were utterly overwhelming.
It was too much, and not enough. She arched her back and he thrust deeper and now she was full of him and satisfaction was humming on the periphery of her mind, so she cried his name and dragged her nails down his back, curving her hands over his butt, holding him buried deep inside of her, wondering why she’d ever tried to fight this, why she’d ever thought this wasn’t essential?
I can make you only one promise: it is, and always will be, just sex.
His words came to her from nowhere; she pushed them away. They weren’t welcome, not when euphoria and closeness was forcibly contradicting that assertion. He said one thing but in his arms, she felt another. She felt the complete opposite.
His fingers laced through hers, pinning her hands above her head – she was his in every way, his possession absolute, and she was drowning in the heady feelings of delight, the wave cresting higher, sparking a tsunami that wouldn’t end.
There was such rightness to this. The first night they’d slept together, she’d felt it then, too. She’d known nothing about him, really, but she’d felt perfection deep in her soul. Completely alone on this earth, an orphan, friendless and jobless, she’d met Fiero and it hadn’t mattered that she didn’t know his surname or his occupation.
Nothing had mattered except the promises his heart made to hers, promises he was making now. Promises she was hearing and returning. She moved her head, needing his kiss, and he gave it to her, his tongue duelling with hers in time with each thrust of his body so she was marching to his beat, his tempo, her pulse firing, her needs exploding until she was shouting his name into his mouth, pulling at her hands until they were free to roam his body once more.
The wave gave way to the heavens and she was flying amongst them, shooting in between stars and galaxies, his breathing, his Italian words, his body the only constants she cared for.
She was silk beneath his fingertips, soft and smooth and his body craved hers despite the way they’d spent the whole night, wrapped together, limbs entwined, mouths seeking, he was hungry in a way that wouldn’t abate.
It wasn’t the first time he’d felt like this. Those exact same words had pummelled his brain that night in London, the night they’d met. He’d wanted her in a way that had terrified him and made him alive all at once.
She dozed in the soft light of dawn, her lips parted, her flesh perfection. He stared at her, the marks on her body made by him, their passion demanding his roughness, his urgency. His stubbled jaw had grazed her sensitive flesh, leaving pale pink patches across her décolletage, and her breasts had been marked by his mouth, little red circles showing where he’d been carried away by the strength of his needs.
A surge of animalistic pride burst through him at this, proof of what they were to each other, proof of how completely she surrendered to this need, proof of how well they fitted together. His eyes dropped to his own arms which bore the same type of physical proof. Scratches driven over his skin as she’d exploded, her orgasms always so intense, and this one particularly so. Her legs had wrapped around him, her ankles hooking at his back, and her hands had shredded him desperately, perhaps as she tried to make sense of this.
She couldn’t.
Nor could he.
Despite what they both knew to be right and sensible, they were powerless to resist this, powerless to resist each other. Whatever passions had stirred them three years ago, they were as fervent now as ever.
It was the last thought Fiero had before sleep snatched him, right before dawn. He fell asleep with an arm curved possessively over Elodie’s hip and a smile lifting his lips. He fell asleep uncaring for the sense of what they’d just done, nor with a single worry about the future. There’d be time for that later. In that moment he felt good, and he wanted to cherish it. Life was too short, just as she’d said.
Chapter 12
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Elodie’s cheeks flushed bright pink. She’d slept in that morning and when she’d awoken – in Fiero’s bed! – he was nowhere to be seen. The house was almost completely silent.
A quick conversation with his housekeeper explained. Fiero had gone to work and Emilia had taken Master Montebello, as he was referred to by the staff, to the zoo.
Completely on her own, Elodie had kept herself busy. She’d cooked for pleasure for the first time in a long time. No longer the sole provider of meals for a fussy two year old, she let herself enjoy the experience of being in the kitchen, and powerful memories began to wash over her. Memories of cooking alongside her mother, all the recipes she’d learned as part of her traditions. Anzac biscuits, pavlova, the family’s traditional pudding recipe, profiteroles just like Elodie’s grand-mère had apparently made. She didn’t attempt anything fancy – just a big pasta sauce, but it was nice to stand and chop vegetables, to lose herself in the rhythm of the preparation, to do something physical and useful.
The only problem with a repetitive task was that it freed her mind up to think so her mind wandered to the night before, and thinking about last night was dangerous and distracting, and so incredibly confusing.
So when Fiero appeared in the doorjamb looking good enough to eat, heat flushed her body and she found she could barely hold his gaze. “I thought you were at work?” She prompted, turning back to the courgette.
“I was.”
She added the rounds to the saucepan, stirring it without looking at Fiero.
“It occurs to me that if you’re going to live here, you’ll need a car.”
That had Elodie jerking her face towards his, her expression showing confusion. “But why?”
“You can’t walk everywhere you want to go,” he said with a shrug, as though it were the most sensible thing in the world.
“Oh,” she nodded a little unevenly. “But there are busses. Trains.”
“Si, and I have a driver. But you should still have the option of driving, of stepping into your own car and heading out without needing to coordinate it with staff or consulting the public transportation timetable.”
