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His heart hiccupped painfully in his chest.
He couldn’t let himself be weak. He couldn’t let emotion in. On the boat, it had been simple. Keep her close—keep her safe. But in the eastern hills of Scarlata, in the house on the hill, he would need all his senses. A rational mind.
Raffaele squared his shoulders. It couldn’t be helped. She’d refused to talk about what would happen next. When they got to Sicily. To the house that had never been a home. A house they would turn into a home now. To wipe away the past.
Why? For redemption?
Stepping further into the room, Raffaele shook the question off. The decision to go back had nothing to do with redemption and everything about giving his child roots, didn’t it?
He sat down on the edge of the bed and feathered his fingers down her bare spine. He’d kissed each dip. Memorised it with his tongue. Tasted it with his mouth. She tasted of rain and sunshine. And the taste made his guts twist like a never-ending storm inside him.
That morning in the Sky Lounge he’d allowed the instant rush of desire flowing through his veins to gather in his loins. He’d lost his head. Given in to the temptation of finding oblivion in her body again. And he’d done it every day since. Three days...
And still he burned.
His lust undiminished.
She stirred beneath his fingers. Her eyes obscured by her hair, she smiled into the pillow. ‘Did you have a nice shower?’ she asked.
He removed his hand from her skin. ‘I did.’
Pushing the hair from her eyes, she peeped up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
‘You’ve shaved,’ she declared.
Reaching out, she placed her fingertips to his cheek, swiped them down to meet his jaw. He caught her wrist gently, so as not to expose how her touch affected him. Hardened him. Mocked him for his lack of control. He pulled her fingers away and brought her knuckles to his mouth, brushed them against his lips.
Briefly, he closed his eyes.
Regained control of himself.
But the loss of his sight increased the scent of their shared arousal, coating the sheets, her skin...
His eyes opened and there were hers. Bright. Trusting. He placed her hand on the bed and handed her his neatly prepared list.
She had been so sure that their passion wouldn’t burn itself out—and she’d been right. He’d known she would be. But he’d also known that it had to end once they reach Sicily. Once they reached their new home.
His chest was heavy, tight, and he kept his eyes on the piece of paper between them.
The storm outside was over, and now he’d contain the one inside him—whatever it took.
‘It’s time to leave,piccolina.’
‘We’re leaving?’ Flora asked as she reached for the paper he was holding out to her.
‘As soon as you are ready,’ he confirmed.
Gripping the sheet between her fingers, she sat up, pulling it to cover her breasts, and took the paper from him.
‘Lovely penmanship!’ She flashed her teeth. ‘I write like a toddler,’ she confessed. ‘Is it a letter? Numbered to count the ways you—?’
‘No,’ he interrupted, before the wordloveteased through her lips and presented itself, and he pushed the paper closer towards her.
‘Okay. Someone needs some coffee...’
‘I’ve had several.’
‘Over-caffeinated?’ she murmured under her breath, and focused on the flicks and twirls of his handwritten note.
