“With my body I thee worship,” he whispered in Italian to the pulse in my wrist.
A man of his word, he proved all those vows he made years ago were more alive today than yesterday.
* * *
“Brando,” I breathed out. My eyes had closed, but on a blink, I caught the tail end of a moth as it fluttered into the fire, sacrificing itself for the love of the flame. “Did you see that? Poor thing.”
He rested behind me, my back to his front, and I took comfort in the warmth of the fire thawing my cold nose, breasts, and feet, and his warmth thawing my neck, back, and behind. We had a blanket pulled up over us, but the front kept slipping down to accommodate his roving hands.
His nose was buried in my hair, but his fingers kept active. His hands brushed over my breasts, his palms against my nipples, and his breath was warm on my neck. I was in a state of postcoital bliss, with an afterglow that suffused every ounce of my being.
“Marizo was a poet,” I whispered. “You get that from him. He wrote the most beautiful sonnets and letters to Grazia.”
His hand roved over my shoulder, down my back, and I almost squeaked when he ran his fingers along the base of my spine, down the crack of my behind. I went to slap at him, but he just laughed low in my ear.
“Lasciami vedere il tuo volto, la mia creatura femminile,”he whispered, taking my earlobe in his mouth, sucking before he bit.
I turned over to face him, as he had told me to, and he smoothed the space between my eyes and then kissed me there.
“I’m your female creature now?”
“You live with the beast long enough…” He lifted one shoulder and then let it fall. “You’re my mysterious female creature—my mate.” He flicked the blanket to the side, baring my breast to the chilliness of the air and to him. “Yes,” he whispered.
I had to stop myself from laughing at the way he had saidyes. He nudged my neck with his nose, sucking there some. “What made you think of Marzio?” he said on a pause.
“Well.” My eyes closed, my hands squeezed the blanket, and my toes curled. “The moth. That’s what made me think of him. You. You made me think of him too. You have his gift.”Was I even speaking in coherent sentences anymore?
He stopped and my eyes sprang open. “Gift,” he repeated.
“Yes, with words.”
He almost laughed. “You’re not a good liar, baby.”
“I’mnotlying. There are moments—” My eyes stilled on his, hoping he’d see the truth. “There are moments you say the most heartbreaking things to me.” To prove the point, my eyes glazed over with tears at the thought of what he had said earlier, how romantic and true the feelings behind it were. “Other times, I feel you rooting around in my heart and soul through actions.”
“When I do this, ah?”
He used his fingers to lift my chin, and then so slowly it struck an ache, he put his lips to mine. When he pulled back, our lips lingered close, almost languorous, for the space of one heartbeat. The tingle left behind caused me to put my fingers there to hold the sensation.
“Yes.” I nodded. “When you do that.”
His dark eyes searched mine. “Amo il modo in cui mi guardi. Così innocente. Una cosa così bella.”I love the way you look at me. So innocent. Such a beautiful thing.His fingers barely touched my skin, but I felt them, warm in their wake, trailing over my neck, along my breasts, around my nipples, down my stomach, to my bare flesh. I sucked in a breath. “You become softer, after we make love. Impressionable—my handprints linger on your skin.”
“I melt,” I said, my back arching toward him. “Like the moth.”
“Your body surrenders to mine.”
“Always,” I said. Whatever I had to give, I gave to him—I never held back, not even the first time. There was no possible way to, not when the love I felt for him had no boundaries—what had he called it? Transcendent.Yes.
He rubbed his finger over his lip, then ran his tongue around the wide shape. I leaned up and kissed him again, and we came down together, arms and legs tangled.
As if my thought had summoned his next thought, he asked me if I remembered our first time—my first time.
“How could I forget?” I gazed up at him. “It was with you, in this room, on a night like this one.”
He leaned on an elbow, looking down at me. I traced an S shape around his heart with a fingertip. Goosebumps rose on his skin.
“I expected you to be afraid,” he said.
