He exhaled on a rush when my mouth savored him. My name came from his mouth before he cursed, andthenhe groaned, a wild noise that encouraged me.
He pulled me up to find my mouth again, his hands searching for a space to rip the slip from my body.
I moved away from the kiss but went back twice more before I could find the words.Brando…Oh God. That is…mmm yeah… Don’t rip it. I really like this one.
I love it on youhe said in Italian, somewhere between the counter and our descent to the floor.
He deftly removed the silk over my arms, throwing it wildly. My hands found his hair, smeared with sticky sweetness and fluffy Italian whipped cream, and my back arched against him as his lips and fingers loved on my sensitive skin. His mouth did to me what mine had just done to him.
Brando… Oh… so… Ah!… I need to…now…now…now…
Stars danced behind my closed lids, my heart thundered in my ears, and every muscle shuddered. The floor seemed to shake with the power of my release. He moved up, like a graceful animal on the prowl, stopping when he was directly above me, arms on each side of my head, hips between my open thighs.
“You are my calm,” he said in Italian, eyes intense on mine, as he slipped in slow, his exhaled breath absorbed by the soft gasp from mine.
Sighing, long and deep, I ran fingertips along either side of him, along the slopes of his waist, along the grooves of his ribs. I was still a live wire below, the quivers from my orgasm still fierce, and his pace increased their power—eliciting more of them—their new counterparts building, preparing for the moment of explosion. He stretched me almost beyond my means, butoh,I was so completely full.
Each stroke felt like a beautiful ache to be kept, to be shared.
“Everything I need is right here,” he said, moving over me with a steady pulse, as sensual as a wave rocking to shore, eyes closed, back lashes fanning over his cheeks, looking every bit the misguided angel I knew him to be. His arms trembled but didn’t lose strength. Sweat started to blossom from our bodies, commingling with the numerous other items we had smeared over each other. “When I’m inside of you, like this, it’s like coming home.”
Reaching down, my hands found hisculo, urging him even deeper. A satisfied noise rose up in his chest, rattling muscle and bone, sending my blood racing.
“Don’t,” I said, the word just a rasp. He heard me, though, because his eyes found mine, soft and tender. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. They ran and then slid to the floor. “Please. I am your home. Don’t…don’t belong to them, my angel. Belong only to me.”
Don’t say yes to them…let’s stay Scarlett and Brando, the same people we were before life moved us so far away from home. I can feel it. The temptation is a real thing. The revenge you are seeking has a pulse.
His eyes burned through the layers, reading the hidden words, meeting the feelings that gave birth to them.
“My wife,” he said in Italian, taking his heat away completely, just to bring it back harder, faster, hotter. He hissed through his teeth. “I’ll do—” he groaned, deep and satisfied “—whatever brings me home to you.”
We came to each other, no doubt leaving imprints of our sacred parts behind in the echoes of each other’s bone and blood.
Brando wrapped me in his embrace, keeping my head cradled in his arms, still connected through flesh, intoxicated eyes on mine. He met my lips, kissing me softly. My fingertips found the concavities of his ribs again, dancing over the smooth, taught skin that shielded them.
“Such a sin,” he said, a whisper in the darkened house, “it would’ve been to waste this.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Scarlett
I sat at the vanity in our bedroom, numerous beautifying products spread out before me, two reflections staring back at me.
Brando stood behind, the dress he chose in his hand. It was only fair that if I had the honor to select the car he would drive for my freedom, he would pick the dress I wore to secure his.
I did my hair in soft waves, makeup in even softer shades. The dress he chose for me was the sister to the crimson floral number with the low V back that I had taken a picture in, what seemed like years ago but had only been weeks ago. It was a tender blue color, the heels beige.
Brando wore a white button-down shirt with a tie the color of blue ice, almost silver. The jacket thrown across the bed was gray. The color seemed to make his bronze skin deeper and his hair darker.
My God, he is beautiful.
I frowned when I came to the shoulder holster he wore, a gun under each of his arms.
Applying nude lipstick, I found that my movements fascinated him, and so did the ritual. “Why?” I said.
He blinked, almost surprised by the sound of my voice.
“Why is Ettore so threatened by you?” I smoothed my lips, making sure to spread the lipstick evenly.
