“There,” I breathed, setting the piece of hair firmly in place. “As handsome as I have ever seen you,mio angelo.”
I went to turn, to set the comb on the counter, but he kept me firmly in place with his grip on my hips.“Posso baciare mia moglie?”he whispered.May I kiss my wife?He gazed at me, his eyes darkening.
“Why ask for what’s yours?” I whispered back, holding his strong stare. “It’s not your style.”
His gaze ventured from my eyes to my mouth. His hand came to my chin, his thumb stroking my bottom lip. I resisted the urge to bite his finger, to taste his skin. “E se volevo solo sentire mia moglie dire sì?”And if I just wanted to hear my wife say yes?
“Yes,” I whispered. “Sí.”
He came in even closer, his soft breath washing across my face. We were eye to eye until he placed an equally soft kiss on my lips.
It wasn’t until he set me on the counter that I realized my fists were curled into his shirt. I kissed him wildly, begging him to take me, all of me. His hard body parted my thighs, the thick folds of the dress a hindrance but not a wall, and he moved inside of me, my entire world shrinking with each thrust.
I offhandedly wondered if this was how the stars felt when their entire universe became the fathomless sky—so deep and wide, limitless, yet consumed by the point in which they burned.
“Come with me,” I whispered. “Now. I can’t hold…I want to…Please, Brando…”
He knew the signs of my body just as he knew his own. He gave in to me then, just as I gave in to him, and the shudder that ran though him trembled the marrow of my bones. He had once told me that when we were this way, he surrendered to me, unlike when we battled and I surrendered to him, and in doing so, I had never seen anyone more beautiful. His head was back, throat exposed, eyes closed tight and mouth parted—totally vulnerable to a woman who could cause no physical damage, yet still cost him his vital heart.
He looked down at me, the intense stare not even relieved by our lovemaking. He leaned his head against mine and we breathed each other in, tasting the air that we shared. Then he set his pants to rights, kissed my forehead, and handed me the lipstick I had left on the counter. I handed him the comb that had somehow fallen to the floor, and the cologne I knew he would ask for next.
* * *
We arrived late. Therefore, we stood at the end of the line, waiting our turn for a picture. Each couple stood together under the arch of the doors, posing as Marzio and Grazia had, while the photographer captured the shot.
When it was our turn, Brando and I stood under the arch, posing as his grandfather and grandmother had so many years ago. After the photographer had what he wanted, I tried to disentangle myself from Brando, to fix my dress, but he held me tighter.
“Another minute, my wife.” He looked at the photographer, held up a finger, and then told him in Italian to take one more when we were ready. “I want to make our own tradition,” Brando said. I turned to face him, and he slipped one hand around my waist, the other in my hair, and he came in closer, eyes steady on my face.
“Romantico!” The photographer shouted. “Perfezionare!”
Perfect. I couldn’t have agreed more. His actions spoke louder than his words ever did.
As we made our way from underneath the arch, I couldn’t stop kissing him. “I want to stay home,” I said, breaking off the kiss for a moment. “I want to stay home and stay in bed all night.”
“Just in the bed?” He grinned.
“Words don’t need to be perfect. You get my meaning clear enough.”
“I do,” he said slowly, watching my face with a smugness that bordered on conceit.
“Ah!” Bela said, clapping her hands. “There you are. We need to go. We do not have all night. This can wait.”
“Busted,” I murmured underneath my breath. “We better go.”
We broke from each other, but not without reluctance. Brando kept my hand in his as we followed Bela, her dress glowing in the sun like a lemon, to the street where a fleet of Vespas awaited.
“Um,” I said, judging the size of the two-wheeled motorbike against the girth of my gown. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Cha!” Bela waved a dismissive hand at me. “It will. You will see. Stuff it in like a sausage!”
“You can ride sidesaddle,” Brando said, doing some assessing of his own. “It’s not a far ride, from what Rocco told me.”
Rocco and Rosaria had taken a private car, making their escape, hand in hand, after their picture was taken.
Our bike was mint green. I had always wanted to drive one. It seemed like pure freedom to hop on one and explore Positano without the restraints of traffic, and without having to go over a hundred on the back of a Ducati.
Brando and I stood around, like all of the other couples, waiting for Lothario to speak. He stood ahead of the group, Bela at his side, waiting for everyone to quiet down.
