“A mess.” He squeezed my hand. “A king would be proud to have you on his arm. And I'm far from royalty.”
As we came closer to the door, José eyed us in suspicion. My cheeks burned, thinking that he assumed we were having an affair.
Brando’s hold tightened as he stopped and faced thetorero.He used his free hand to touch his chest.“Marido.”He lifted our entwined hands.“Esposa. Mía. Scarlett Fausti.” He took the side of our hands and hit his chest with them.Husband. Wife. Mine.
Brando had some Spanish, but not the entire language. Not like Italian.
José narrowed his eyes, unsure if he believed this. Brando didn’t stop long enough to convince him further. He only stopped to let the man know that I was his. “I’m the onlyGanadería Miurain this fucking ring,”my husband said as we breezed out of the doors and into the searing night.“And I’m seeingrosso.”
* * *
Brando kept a tight grip on my hand as we navigated the streets of Barcelona. My hips swayed into him as my heels made a delicate crunch against the cobblestone pavement. We weren’t venturing far, just to the alley that ran parallel to the restaurant.
There was so much to say, but neither of us wanted to start unweaving the tangled web. Not in that moment.
In a smooth move, he pulled me to him, his tongue searching my mouth as we moved deeper and deeper into the alleyway, seeking the darkest area.
Most of the narrow path was lit with the fiery glow of gas lamps, which reminded me of New Orleans, and their lights reflected off the cobblestones as if they shimmered with water. The night was swollen with heat, a Mediterranean spell that enchanted the bougainvillea and citrus to grow free. The bougainvillea seemed hotter than the night, a luminance of magenta.
Impregnated with a mélange of scents, the air was plump and seemed to float around us like the warmth from a distant fire; it carried with it tapas from the restaurant, red wine and honeyed fruit, cinnamon and whiskey, the vestiges of a summer day, along with the dust from the stones beneath our feet and at our backs.
“Perdonami,” I begged against his mouth. “Perdonami.”Forgive me.
Though my husband was home, and I hardly felt anything but euphoria at his presence, I also felt a deep surge of guilt that his trip had been cut short, that all of the men had to come back because of me. Not that I had asked him to. Still, the weight of it fell on my back. I also felt bad for playing the unhappy card when he didn’t want to go.
He shook his head, hands cradling my face, fingers tucked into the thick waves of my hair. “Forgiveness is mine to ask for and receive,” he said in Italian.His eyes were intent on mine. His thumbs caressed the tender skin under my lips. “I should have never let you go. I should have set my pride aside and talked it out. We could have figured something else out.Perdonami.”
Rarely did this man apologize, and when he did, he cut himself open.
Refusing to move my stare from his, I wrapped my hands around his wrists. I whispered in Italian, “My mercy is yours.”
He nodded once and I smiled at him. “I crave it,” he said, so much emotion behind his voice that it made me hold on to him even tighter. “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”
He dove right back into the kiss, silently coaxing me to follow his lead. I rubbed my foot up and down his leg, mind lost to the galaxy behind closed eyes, my fate and his connecting through gravitational attraction.
“Say that again,” he breathed, pushing me further and further rearward, closer to the wall.
“Say what?” I moaned out. “Oh, God, you feel so good.”
His hand slid to the slit in my dress, eager and greedy for more. His touch, hands or mouth, was the compass to every need that I ever had. Without verbal direction, he instinctually knew where to go, when to go, and how much to go. The noises I made in response were a testimony to the truths of the flesh.Hisflesh and blood. I could feel him in my soul.
“That,” he breathed. “Say it again.”
I did, and the noise that tore out of his chest and erupted from his mouth spurred me on. I was soaking wet, my thighs slippery with want.
“You sound like a wild animal,” I said in Italian, the tip of his ear in my mouth. “Ah!” I sucked in a breath of hot air.“Don’t stop!”
He did, just to watch me squirm and take him by the shirt, almost forcing his mouth on mine. He came in closer, at his own speed, putting his mouth to my ear. “You are my mate,” he whispered, then nipped at my earlobe, his hands caressing up my bare arms, causing goosebumps to pucker my skin. He came to the décolletage of the low-cut dress, using his fingertips to follow the line, until he hooked them in and pulled the bodice down. “So let’s fucking mate.”
My body was on fire, aching for him, and the dress was fuel—any minute I was going to combust inside the restraints of it. The expanse of the night, the fathomless of it, made me feel more exposed. Risky, but somehow I was secure.
I put a finger to each of his shoulders and pushed him back a little. “Show me.” I made my words roll off my tongue, slow and soft, almost demure. “Show me how much of an animal you can be.”
He said something that made me clutch and snap my legs shut. I came forward again—push and pull—and ripped open his shirt, the buttons exploding in a spray, landing with a light tinkling sound against the pavement.
He lifted a brow. “Sono l'animale?”I’m the animal?
“I need your skin on mine.”
