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“Are you moved in?” she asked, tugging at the neckline of the dress, her boobs sensitive without a bra.
Dante’s neck turned to see the movement, before he turned back, nodding at the guards to open the gates. The huge metal gates swung open and he drove into the compound. “I was more focused on finding you than moving. Although I did get the process started during my father’s funeral, it’ll take a few days more for it to be entirely complete.”
Pulling up in front of the mansion, Dante got out, walked around to her side, and opened her door, giving her a hand. She took it, alighting from the vehicle, and looked up at him.
He cupped her face, brushing his thumb over her exposed neck scar. “Go see your mother,” he said softly. “She’s waiting for you at my old place. I’ll get some stuff done here.”
“Okay,” she agreed, a zap of excitement going through her at the thought of meeting her mother.
His lips tilted up before he swooped in, crushing their mouths together, the kiss deep and wet and over in seconds.
Amara panted, blinking up at him. “What was that for?”
“Because I can kiss you whenever, wherever, however I want now,” he stepped back. “And nobody can do shit about it.” He gave her a light slap on the ass. “Now go.”
“Bossy bastard,” she muttered under her breath, a smile on her lips as she turned and started to walk quickly to his building in the distance. She saw a few patrolling guards stop and give her a look but she ignored them, barely containing the urge to run.
Standing on his porch, Amara lifted her hand and knocked on the door twice, bouncing on her toes in contained excitement.
The door opened and her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in years, stood there, staring up at her.
“Mumu,” her eyes filled and Amara went into her arms, snuggling in the crook of her neck in a habit that she never got over, her nose filling with the same familiar scent of citrus and sugar and warmth that she knew in her bones.
Her mother’s arms tightened around her, holding her close for long minutes as they both just cried, the reunion sweet after years of torment. Amara pulled back, noting the wrinkles on her face, the greys in her hair, the softness of her skin.
They went in to Dante’s living room and for hours, talked – about the babies, about what had happened, about everything. Her mother was overjoyed that Dante knew about the pregnancy and that she’d be a grandmother; she was heartbroken that one of them had passed away. Amara asked her about everything she had missed on the compound and her mother told her everything – about Mr. Maroni’s funeral, about Dante’s brother not wanting to return, about the change in management. And looking at her talk, Amara felt herself fall deeper in love with the man who had not just saved her time and again but protected the one person who was important to her with respect.
Dante Maroni was a remarkable man, and she was lucky he was hers.
Her mother left the house after a few hours, telling her she had some moving stuff to oversee at the main house, and Amara stayed behind, needing a few moments alone before she went out. Walking around his house again, she saw the boxes and stuff lined up beside the stairs. Curious, she climbed up, peeking into his almost empty bedroom, before dodging a box and going up higher into his studio.
As she ascended the last steps, the memories in this room hit her. That first kiss on her neck, right against the door, those stolen kisses after they got together, early morning moments of her listening to his audiobook and watching him sculpt. So many memories in this place and the fact that he was leaving it made her a little sad.
She walked into the large room, taking in the big windows and the plethora of sculptures around it, the workbench lit by a beam of sunlight. She knew many of those sculptures, the ones he had made initially, but a lot of them were new. His art had refined over the years, chiseled itself, and his creations had become something else.
She went to the one of a man’s hand reaching out over the space to something, the tendons and veins, and ridges in the limb beautifully defined, the longing in the way it stretched palpable. Amara lifted her hand, touching her fingers to his smooth ones, feeling the cold of the clay against her fingertips, awed by the art with her tactile senses.
“I was drunk when I made that,” the voice from the door had her turning around to see the creator himself, leaning against the wall, exactly as he’d been that night so many years ago. Amara felt her heartbeat race at the memory.
“It’s beautiful,” she told him softly, pulling her hand back, looking around the room. “What will you do with these?”
“They’ll move to the mansion tomorrow,” he told her, striding in with languid steps. “There’s a room I’ve emptied for it.”
“I’ll miss this one,” Amara confessed, stroking the hand again. “My adolescent self had a few fantasies in this place.”
She felt him step beside her, his finger moving over the length of her exposed arms, his lips at her ear. “Do tell.”
Amara felt wetness pool between her legs, her already-sensitive breasts tingling as her heart thundered. “Sometimes when… sometimes when I used to watch your hands on the clay…” she trailed off.
His finger trailed up her arm slowly, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Yes?” he tugged her lobe between his teeth.
Amara felt herself arch, her hands fisting her dress. “I used to imagine you laying me on the bench, and using your hands on me.”
His finger reached the strap of her dress, going under it, tugging it down.
“Dante-” It was the middle of the day. Anyone could walk in the door.
“And?” he asked, pulling the strap down enough to expose one swollen breast, his fingers going around the areola in maddening circles, her chest heaving as she gripped his forearm.
