The storm took his words and almost distorted them, as if we were underwater, or perhaps it was me—I was drowning in his love.
His hand slid between my thighs, slick with rain and want, and his finger slid inside, causing me to gasp and then moan. Each time he pumped into me he elicited a stronger reaction. I arched toward him, needing to be even closer, and things about love slipped out into the spaces that he made ours.
“Cosa vuoi, Scarlett,” he said on a ragged breath.
“You. I want you.”
He rarely asked me what I wanted in bed. His body was so in tune to mine that he read all of the signals before there was a chance to voice them—though sometimes he made me wait in that delicious space where nothing but ache exists.
He knew how to please me and how to fulfill me. He wasn’t asking for directions—he asked because he wanted to hear me say the words. He had control, but he also liked to hear me give in from time to time, instead of letting my body do the talking.
Yes, I want you. Yes, you can have all of me. Yes means surrender, me at your mercy, and that I love you beyond the limitations of this world.
It had always meant that. I had never slept with another man besides Brando. My heart knew who it belonged to, and my body refused to settle for anything less. Anyone other than him would’ve been settling. My soul had waited for love, and that was something no one could ever take away from me, not even myself.
The rain came down in a deluge, and we were coated in water, our bodies slipping and sliding in a sensual rhythm. He looked down at me, into my eyes, for what felt like a lifetime, but had only been moments.
Another streak of lightning, and our eyes met in the momentary relief from pure darkness. He made a noise deep in his throat and said, “You are a woman I don’t deserve, but I’ll be damned if I ever let you go,” in Italian.
She is yours to love forever, I thought before he picked me up, my arms going around his neck, my legs around his waist, our lips together, before I welcomed him inside, the size of him stretching me almost beyond my limits. Nothing existed except the consuming ache.
“That’s it,” he continued in Italian, “move with me, the other half to my whole.”
Our breath mingled in pants, our bodies slapped, water jutted out from between us, caught up in the momentum. Then he moved us further out, into the direct path of the swaying rain, still dancing to the orchestrating hand of the wind.
“Brando…” His intensity had become too much, and I pleaded for him to come to me at the same time I let go. Every part of me trembled as though the weather was frigid, and I was naked and vulnerable to the elements. He was the element. Stronger than anything I’d ever known.
He made another guttural noise that almost sent me over the edge before he commanded me to let go, to take that insane free-fall.
We held on to each other, refusing to let go, demanding to be one for as long as possible. Instead of rushing back into the room, we stood out in the pouring rain, letting it wash us clean.
Rain ran down my face, into my mouth, so sweet that my tongue darted out, licking around my lips. A tang of sweat was there, too, and it tasted almost savory. Every strand of hair seemed to be stuck to my skin, soaked and clinging.
Though the storm raged, we had created peace between us, and I felt safe in his arms, as sheltered as his own heart.
* * *
After a strike of lightning came so close that every hair on my body and his stood straight with the electrical force, Brando carried me back into the room.
The rain made the air muggy, but at the same time, the wind seemed to circulate it around the room. The wetness seemed to keep me cool enough to be comfortable.
He wasn’t finished with me, but for the time being, we were content enough to just touch and explore. He placed me gently on the bed, settling next to me, on his elbow, so he could look down at me.
Our hands slid, palm against palm, until our fingers weaved together.
“Heaven,” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on my lips, under my chin, over my heart, and then on each nipple.
I slid my hands through his hair, loving the soft, thick texture of it. “What does that mean?” I croaked. It wasn’t the soft tone I was going for, trying to match Brando’s.
“I have no idea who I’m getting when you get drunk. Usually you’re wilder. I only feel a few scratches on my back.”
“Give it time,” I said. But he was right. The storm had set a certain mood. It was hard and fast, and we seemed to be reacting just the opposite. Nature had flipped the switch on us.
He put his face between my breasts and laughed, raspy and low. “I love not knowing.”
“Ooh, Brando Faustidoesenjoy surprises then.”
“Just one. That’s it.”
