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She arched her back in exultant relief, crying out in pleasure as he filled her and his strength became a part of her, his movement exactly what she needed so she felt the release of herself, the explosion of pleasure, starting in the balls of her feet and the pit of her stomach, and the very tips of her fingers, and spreading all through her, bit by bit, until she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, she was simply trembling in the warm water, blood hot, face made cold by the snow that was kissing it, flake by delicate flake, body held together only by the man whose arms were wrapped around her like he daren’t let go.
When he came, his guttural cries filled the air, mingling with her own, neither trying to be quiet, to mute the audible proof of their passion, both succumbing completely to this ancient, primal, organic pleasure, neither wondering why a physical act could feel so perfect on every level.
“It’s just perfect,”she said, blinking out at the early morning view of the valley beyond his bedroom window—a bedroom that was more like an apartment, she thought, taking in the massive space with his super king bed in the centre, a sofa suite near the window, and shelves and shelves of books.
But beyond the castle, there were those ancient trees and they glistened with snow now, beautiful and white, like something out of a story book.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“This is really where you live?”
He pushed up onto one elbow, his face the study of relaxed ease, but she saw beneath that, to the darkening of his eyes, and held her breath, waiting for him to speak, as if some sixth sense alerted her to the fact he was about to say something important.
“It’s where I grew up,” he corrected after a moment. A slight differentiation. “It’s where my father died.”
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, matching his posture, pushing up onto her side, propping her head on her palm. “What happened?”
“He was old, and in the end, had cancer. We didn’t know until a few weeks before he passed. That’s the way he would have wanted it.”
“Could he have had any treatment?”
“He didn’t want that. Not at his age. He was tired, I think.”
“It’s hard to lose someone you love.”
“Yes. I was…surprised. My father was the kind of man who seemed as though he could live forever.”
She looked around the room, sighing softly. “Did you live here with him?”
“No. I have a place in Rome.” He paused, scanning her face with his intelligent, dark eyes. “Would you like to see it?”
She blinked at him. “I…yes. I would. But we should get back.”
“What time do you need to be home by?”
She did some quick calculations. “Dash has a rehearsal after school for his Christmas concert, so five at the latest.”
“We have the day then.” He squeezed her hand. “Come with me.”
It was all too easy to be pulled into his vortex, to operate at his speed. She knew it was crazy, but hadn’t she already crossed that bridge when she agreed to this whole thing? Not just joining him in Italy, but embarking on a no-strings fling with someone like Alessio Cavalcante?
“Okay,” she smiled, a smile that was happy and relaxed and that changed her face completely so that, unbeknownst to Charlotte, something strange twisted inside Alessio and he leaned forward to kiss Charlotte out of a need for reassurance, and a reminder that they were simply sleeping together, that his desire to please her stemmed from their mind-blowing physical chemistry, and nothing more puzzling whatsoever.
Chapter9
It was mid-morning when they landed, and a perfect, crisp day. They travelled into the city centre for lunch at one of Alessio’s favourite restaurants—not some fancy, famous place, but a small family run trattoria in a small laneway, where he was greeted as an old friend and offered a special menu, dishes recited by the waiter.
Alessio made a point of introducing Charlotte and explaining that she was an excellent chef, and the owner of the restaurant offered for her to come into the kitchen and watch their meals being prepared but before Charlotte could respond, Alessio demurred on her behalf.
“I don’t feel like sharing you,” he said simply. “I’m sorry.”
This time, when he apologised, it sounded far less than sincere, and she burst out laughing.
His expression grew wary. “What is it?”
“You’re just—bossy sometimes.”
He opened his mouth and then compressed his lips. “Would you like me to call Giuseppe back? If you would rather spend your time in the kitchen, I can live with it.”
