The movement made his stomach tense, and his hard abs rippled in response. My stomach tensed at the sight. I ran my fingertips from his armpit to his palm, dancing over the swollen veins that branched under his skin, until I came back up to his face. His features settled into deeper peace. His mouth parted at the light touch. Thick, dark eyebrows, sharp nose, high cheekbones, the refined path down, over the spikes of stubble that lined his jaw and chin.
I made my way back up to his wide mouth. Lips perfect and kissable, and when he smiled, he had a natural tilt to the left, especially when the smile was full and playful. His teeth were perfect and straight. It was a treat when he showed them off.
As I explored every inch of him, as if I had never done so before, the words must’ve left my mouth.
“And I only brush twice a day,” he said, sleepily.
“But I make you floss—”
“Like a fiend.” He grinned.
He opened his eyes, looking up at me. I had been caressing the shape of his eyes, long black lashes fanning out against his skin.
Lashes like that are a waste on a man, my Grandmother Evelyn used to say.
His eyes were a deep, dark brown, almost fathomless, but could also melt to a softer tone when he became passionate or compassionate. The black rings around his irises made him seem even more mysterious, even more wicked. The limbal ring, it’s called. His eyes popped because of it, especially with all of the black stubble and the softer bronze tint of his skin.
His eyes were my own galaxies to get lost in.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said, his eyes guileless, letting me journey wherever I wanted to go. I could touch his soul if I wanted to.
“Your eyes.” I ran soft fingertips over his eyebrows, shaping them, enjoying that he took pleasure from the attention.
“What about them?”
“Jambon.” I laughed quietly, moving my hands to his hair, scratching at his scalp. The long strip in the middle was full, that searing black, and feather soft. The sides were cut shorter and coarse.
I smiled even harder. His hair was athing. Whenever I did an interview with a magazine, and somehow my gorgeous Italian husband came up, which it always did, his hair was a topic to discuss.
“What does that mean?” His tone was almost cautious. His brows drew in and then relaxed, falling into thefingers-to-scalpspell.
“Ham, in French.”
Though Brando was one of the most beautiful men I had ever laid eyes on, he never took himself too seriously. Of course, he knew he was fine, how could he not? It would be like looking in the mirror every day and telling yourself that your eyes were blue when they were brown. But he was the furthest thing from conceited there was.
He was the opposite of Romeo, who knew and didn’t mind telling you, or discussing what was so gorgeous about him. Even with Romeo’s vanity, though, he was still good-natured and funny, which evened him out. His sense of humor made him attractive regardless of his stroke of conceitedness.
Every so often, when I would remark on Brando’s appearance, he would egg me on, curious to know why and then lap it up. It was his few minutes to soak up the sugar.
“You have the eyes of a lion,” I whispered. “Not the color, exactly, though if you were to take the brown flares from their eyes, it would create the color of yours. It’s the look behind them. Fierce.”
This made him smile. It came slow and lingered. Rare. “Occhio del leone.”Eye of the lion.He growled, the smile turning into a satisfied grin after.
As I stroked his head, our eyes connected—one of my favorite moments in time, when life around us ceased to be, only the two of us existing in the other’s reflection.
I leaned over, putting my lips to his, my hair falling around us in a chestnut veil, sparks of red lighting from the sun. “Sono così benedetto,” I said softly, slowly.I am so blessed.“You’re all mine—yesterday, today, tomorrow, beyond forever.”
Our eyes held, even through the kiss, and I was witness to the physical reaction he had, erect and beautiful in the bright glare of the sun. A shiver ran through me at the sight of him, at the feel of the lingering, soft kiss.
Gently, I released his head from my lap, and when I stood, a gust of wind swept up, billowing my skirt around me. His eyes lowered to almost slits and his warm hands came to my waist as I lowered myself on top of him, skirt fanning around us in the sudden breeze. The pleasure of hearing his breath leave him in a similar rush when I took him inside made goosebumps rise on my skin. I felt the tension seize him and then leave him. It seemed to move through me like a strike of lightning. Then something primal took over his motions.
“Take your shirt off,” he whispered. “I want to appreciate what’s mine.”
In a slow move, I lifted the shirt, then my bra, baring myself to him. He made a noise deep in his throat, one of appreciation and satisfaction—he said something about perfect teardrops (lacrime) in Italian. Those fierce eyes became hotter than the sun on my bare back, melting any barriers that might have stood between us, commanding mine to meet his.
Positioned this way, he filled me almost beyond capacity. It took a moment for my body to adjust to the intrusion, to meet the demands of his. As soon as he was inside of me, I lived for this moment, for him.
If I could touch his soul earlier by exploring the depths of his eyes, he could touch mine this way, exploring the depths that no one else ever had. This was his and his alone.
