“W-when?”
“Later.”
That was the last words spoken between us as we both watched her come to pieces from my touch.
All clean. All mine.
* * *
“Better,mio marito?”
Her soft voice met me from the staircase. It was like a melody. I set my glass on the kitchen counter, watching as the rest of her floated down. The candlelight and the light from the chandelier touched her silver dress as soon as her foot touched the last step. Her hair was done in big waves.
I cleared my throat. “Only because you smell like me now.”
“Not yet.” She winked.
I took her meaning clear enough.
“Scarlett,” I said, feigning disbelief. “Where’d you get a mouth like that?”
“I live with a filthy-mouthed Coast Guard man. Bad habits catch.”
“And you my proper ballerina girl.” I pulled her close, kissing her neck.
“What about in the bedroom?” She lifted one brow.
“Time and place for everything,” I said. “You look—words are never fucking enough for you.”
“Do I look beautiful?” She fanned her long lashes at me, smiling a little.
She was messing around. I wasn’t. The dress was gorgeous, and my wife slayed it with her beauty. Between her skin and the dress covering it, the thousand-dollar dress deserved to be on the floor.
“If the definition of beautiful means you steal my breath, then yeah.”
She grinned up at me, and after I traced her bottom lip with my thumb, she bit me.
“Later,” I said, leading her to the table.
“Oh, and you even thought about music!” A huge smile came to her face. She took the seat I pulled out for her. “This is…perfect,mio marito.Grazie.”
I kissed her nose. “Thank you for being my wife.”
Our eyes held, and after a little time, she nodded, looking away. She didn’t want to cry again. I didn’t want her to cry either. Our night was just getting started.
After I told her one positive thing about being married to me was that she was close to sainthood, she laughed. “Not the only positive.” She looked me up and down, an appreciative glint in her eyes.
“You are such a fiend.” I laughed.
“We make the perfect pair then,” she said.
I couldn’t argue with that.
We laughed throughout dinner, though I noticed her eyes get a bit clouded when she asked me what I thought of Eunice’s potpie.
“Not as good as yours,” I assured her.
She nodded, but something still lingered on her mind. She hid it well, but there was no hiding from me.
