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“A real temple?”
He shrugs. “According to Nick, it was built a couple of hundred years ago over the ruins of a real ancient sacred site.”
“That works.” I chuckle. “Maybe it’ll awaken my slumbering inner goddess.”
“Trust me, your inner goddess is not slumbering.” His lips curve. “I think she put a spell on me.”
He starts down a stone path before I can process his remark. Under a spell indeed. He’s the one who has me under a spell.
Not that I’m complaining.
The temple is at the far end of the garden, a round stone structure with columns placed around a stone slab in the center that looks like an altar. The roof has since given in to the wear and tear of centuries, so when we climb the worn steps to the altar, we can still look up at the starry sky.
“This was a temple for worshippers of Bacchus,” Tristan informs me. “Dionysus to the Greeks.”
“The god of wine?” I run my fingers over the rough stone of the altar, wondering if I’ll feel a spark of some dormant godly energy. “That’s kind of apt, considering we’re in a vineyard.”
“True.” Tristan chuckles. “He was also the god of ecstasy.”
“Drunken ecstasy.”
Tristan’s eyes meet mine. “I was thinking of another kind.”
A pulse of desire courses through my body and I’m glad he can’t see my face flush in the moonlight. The sweet tension, awareness, and anticipation is nice, but it’s becoming almost unbearable. I’m aching for more than gentle teasing and brief kisses.
I want to fall headlong into the depths of my attraction to him, to explore every desire and celebrate the lust coursing through me.
A bacchanalia, but for two.
He’s still looking at me, like he can guess what I’m thinking.
“I’m glad you brought me here,” I murmur.
He grins. “I didn’t plan today for selfless reasons. I wanted to spend the day with you, and I wanted to impress you.”
I expel a soft breath at the frank admission. Knowing he’s attracted to me is like fuel to the flame of desire already burning inside me. He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me again, and when I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue, his eyes darken and focus on my mouth with an intensity that starts a pulse between my legs.
“Cora.” He says my name slowly, as if tasting the sound on his lips.
“Hmmm.”
He takes both my hands and gently pulls me close till I’m flush against him.
His body is so hard. My breasts brush against the firm slabs of muscle on his chest and my nipples tighten. He places one hand on the small of my back and eases me forward, until our thighs press together, then he cups my nape with his other hand.
“Cora.” He whispers my name again as I look up at him, drinking my fill of his perfection.
He touches his lips to mine, and something sparks inside me. The kiss is firm, yet gentle. His lips brush mine softly, then his tongue is at the seam of my lips, teasing them open to taste everything I’m eager to surrender.
It’s shockingly perfect, the way a kiss is supposed to feel. His tongue strokes mine leisurely, but with an underlying urgency that matches my need for him. Arousal floods my lower belly and between my thighs.
When he stops and pulls away, I let out a small sound of complaint. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, placing a soft kiss on my forehead before taking a deep breath.
“I should take you home,” he mutters, his voice rough.
Everything inside me is protesting. I want to tear my clothes off and offer myself to him on the pagan altar beside us, but I swallow my eagerness and nod. “Yes, it’s getting late.”
We thank the Roverellas and then start the long drive back to Florence. The countryside is even more beautiful at night. Tristan switches the stereo to a local station and Andrea Bocelli’s voice serenades us as the car eats up the distance.
