“Don’t tease me,” he said with enough fire to make me hot. “Kiss me.”
I licked my lips, running a hand through his hair, our eyes gazing. “You’re both,” I whispered. “You’re everything.”
He squeezed my knee, making me squirm by reflex, trying to get away from him. Laughter started to bubble up from the surface. I was ticklish there. But he wouldn’t let me move.
“Brando!” I hissed out, attempting to slap his hand away.
“Kiss me.”
“Hmph!” I turned my face.
He downed the last of his drink and then flung the glass toward the fireplace. It crashed against the stone in a hundred pieces of glistening crystal, swallowed up immediately by the hungry heat, the leftover spirits making the flames roar and then sizzle and pop.
His hand ventured up my neck, fingers entwining in my hair, and he pulled my head down so that my lips could meet his. Instead of them meeting, he hesitated. “When your husband tells you to kiss him, you kiss him,” he said in Italian, his voice quiet, rough, but commanding.
I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling his breath, feeling it deep in my lungs. “My husband asked me a question and I was—”
He shut me up by closing the distance between our lips, kissing me with such heat that I melted into his forceful embrace, a snowflake against an ember. His tongue was laden with whiskey and searched my mouth as though he was looking for the route to my soul.
The scent of him clung to the air—his cologne, with something feral underneath, without a doubt male—and the way his mouth moved against mine, so skilled, my world shrunk to a pinpoint.
“So I’m both.” He pulled back, leaving me breathless and wanting. “Hero and villain.”
I stared at his full, wide lips, not able to look away. “Yes, and I—I love them both.”
“Quanto?”
“Only God knows how much,” I said in Italian, and ran my hands through his hair once more, taking handfuls and pulling his mouth back to mine.
Enough wasn’t even enough of him.
Earlier, Luca had had a get together at his and Maggie Beautiful’s chalet. He felt it was a good idea to have a bunch of people in the room at once so I could feel them out—nothing,still.
We were all required to dress for the occasion in our finest.
I’d worn a black and gold number with black-stitched illusion sleeves. The gold came in the form of the intricate embroidery that cascaded from bodice down to calf, where the dress ended in a feminine lace-edged trim.
Brando had worn an all-black custom-made Italian suit—it fit his wide shoulders, slim waist, and long legs as though it were second skin.
My hands ventured underneath the jacket, along the shirt, feeling every hard muscle through the fabric until I found the knot of his tie and loosened it, throwing it to the floor.
“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” I whispered in his ear, using my tongue to trace the shape of it, biting his earlobe, while my hand ventured lower, rubbing his thigh.
His hips pulsed up, answering my question without words. The look in his eyes made my lower stomach clench like a fist, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
His hands caressed the length of my legs, coming to end at the high black heels I’d worn.
“Don’t wear these again,” he said.
“You don’t like them?”
He used his thumb to smooth out the wrinkles creasing my forehead. “I do, but they’re too high right now. If you were to fall—”
“Oh, because of the baby.” I nodded. “All right.”
He watched me for a second or two, the reflection of the raging fire glowing in his dark eyes. His gaze moved to my stomach.
“People noticed tonight,” he whispered.
