“I don’t understand…” Then I thought I did. “It’s because of Eva—”
“Donato mentioned her. He doesn’t feel comfortable having Ettore on the loose and her not aware of the circumstances. It is his duty to protect both my wife and Signora Roberts against such threats.” Brando’s tone was cold, sharp. He tapped on the window for a moment, before he turned to me. “I’m almost to my breaking point.”
When I truly looked at him, I could see how taxing the last two weeks had been. He wore stress well, but I knew him better than anyone. He was wound up, yet as hard as stone. The light in his eyes seemed dim, too tired.
I nodded, slow and easy. “I told Donato that it was life or death if I didn’t get to see you. I—I couldn’t wait for you to come to me. I had to come to you.”
He reached me in four strides, pressing me hard against his chest. “I don’t know whether to teach you a lesson,” he slapped a large hand to my behind, and I flinched before I shivered, my grip on his shirt tightening, pulling him closer, “or get down on my knees in front of you and be thankful.”
“Does that mean you missed me too?” I whispered.
He engulfed my mouth with his own until I teetered in his arms, delirious from lack of oxygen and stoned off the contact.
“How about a shower?” I barely got out when he broke the kiss. He stared down at me with eyes so intense that my knees felt like they were made of jelly. “To start?”
The bathroom shimmered like a pearl in the evening light. An arched ceiling made the space feel wide and deep, almost like walking inside an oyster shell. An antique looking clawfoot tub sat underneath a window, inviting as a summer swim in a cool lake. But it was the shower that I was after. It could fit ten people and not miss one with its five showerheads.
I turned the sprays on, gentle as the pitter-patter of rain, feeling the water underneath my hands until it was warm enough. Steam rose in petal-scented clouds, distorting the mirrors, and humidity clung to skin and tiles in a dewy sheen, thickening the air.
Brando undid the ribbons of my shoes, his fingertips lingering long enough to make my breath stutter. I quickly threw my cardigan and dress to the floor, along with everything underneath, eager for my bare flesh to reunite with his.
“No,” I said when he went to take his shirt off. “Please. Let me.”
I helped him undress, and I stood outside of the shower for a moment after he had stepped in, watching as he set two hands against the pane, closing his eyes, the water swimming over his smooth, Mediterranean skin in clear strokes. Instead of an olive coloring, bronze came to mind—gold tones underneath. He turned his head to the side and peeked one eye open. He raised a crescent shaped black brow in demand—get in.
I was waiting for combustion first,I wanted to say, but could hardly open my mouth. Brando was beyond beautiful when dry, but when wet…
I stepped in, and thirst and hunger—for him—hit me hard. I licked a line of water that ran from his lower back up to his neck, and we both shuddered. The contrast of the chilly air and the sudden hot water, and the taste of him on my tongue, caused my entire body to tremble.
“Turn around,” he said, voice low and hoarse.
Turning in the opposite direction, the spray fell gently onto my neck, my breasts, and instantly made the tenderness of my stomach ease.
Brando took my shampoo from the holder. The smell of yellow melon percolated through the air, sweet and aromatic.
“This stuff doesn’t make suds.” He rubbed it between his palms.
“It will, once you put it in my hair,” I said, almost half asleep. I made a contented noise in my throat when he began to use his fingertips to massage my scalp.
“Your hair is so beautiful and thick,” he commented, almost to himself.
“Mmhm,” was the best I could manage.
“This is another one of your parent’s rentals.”
“Yes,” I said. “When my parents were writing their will, and it was time to start dealing out properties, neither Charlotte nor Elliott wanted it. It’ll be ours one day.”
“You didn’t want it?”
I shrugged. “I told them I didn’t want anything. Charlotte was the one being petulant about it all. Elliott asked for the village in Fiji and she threw a fit.”
“I’ve been there.”
He urged me to turn around so the water could thoroughly rinse out the shampoo. After he set me with conditioner, he began to suds up the sponge, the scent of crushed rose competing with melon.
“Ooh, that feels so, so good,” I said, reaching out to the wall to steady myself. “I know. I saw the pictures.”
He stopped washing. I wiggled and he picked up.
