I always felt this reminder belonged to Paolo, the famous violinist who’d been serenading us during dinner. He’d taken a bullet to the heart.
The sound of the violin brought me to our bathroom.
Scarlett stood in front of the mirror, the music playing softly in the background. Paolo’s music. Her mind must have taken the same route as mine.
It was rare that I could surprise her. Unless she was deep in thought, she’d make a move that told me she knew I was close, or I’d just know that she knew I was near. I could read her as well as she could read me. But there were times when her mind was so preoccupied that the connection that bound us together became background noise.
Her hair and face were done—that was something—but she was in nothing but a top that reminded me of a black bathing suit. Scarlett called it a bodysuit. Her breasts were swollen, about to spill over the top, and a decorative split in the center showed the cross dangling. Gold bangles I’d given her over the years glittered on her arms.
Beside the top and jewelry, she wore nothing else but heels that gave her at least four inches. Her entire shape was on display.
My hands balled into fists. The need to touch her was stronger than anything I’d ever fought against. She was so fucking beautiful, it made me ache. The scent of her perfume reached me—it was more seductive than flowery.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The music had changed. Something fast and Spanish. Each time the beat would gobum bum, she’d lift her ass to the onomatopoeia, using her hips to direct her movements.
Her hair was in a wild mass of fat curls around her head, and studying herself in the looking glass, she fixed one before she reached for the lipstick on the counter, applying the crimson color in a slow, mesmerizing show.
As soon as she was done, she began dancing in earnest to the song again. When my reflection made it to her through the mirror, she stilled, then whirled around so fast it caught me off guard—the lipstick flew and hit me in the center of my forehead. The black tube crashed to the floor in a clatter; the cased cracked and the color smushed into the marble.
“Jesus!” Her hand slapped her chest, bracelets jingling and glinting. Violet had gotten to her nails. They were deep red. “What the hell? Brando!”
My laughter echoed in the bathroom while she narrowed her eyes, finding nothing funny about the situation.
“Bum bum,” I sang, moving my hips like she’d been.
She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it on a snap, her eyes narrowing even further. Her skin was so flawless, so delicate, likefarfallawings, and if I looked hard enough, I imagined I could see the beating of her heart.
The flush rising in her cheeks was no feat to see.
Looking me up and down in slow appraisal, her face overcame a transformation—there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. She made an appreciative noise, something that sounded like, “Mmhm.”
She nodded to my clothes, a black pair of slacks and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to my elbows.
“You look...good.”
I grinned. “Take that off and let me see what you’re going to wear.”
“Oh!” A smile came to her face. “You’ve seen half of it. Here.” She reached out and grabbed a hanger from the door. Removing the long skirt that was on it, she slipped it on, nice and slow, and then turned her back to me. “Zip me up?”
I took my time, watching her through the mirror. Her eyes were hot on mine. Placing a kiss on her shoulder before finishing, I yanked her toward me, hard enough that she gasped. Placing my mouth close to her ear, I whispered, “I’ve seen it on. Now find something else to wear.”
“What’s wrong with this one, Signore?” She batted her thick black lashes at me—innocent, until you gazed into those eyes.
Taking her earlobe in my mouth, I sucked, hard, until she started to squirm. “What did you call me?” My hand slid up the cool fabric of the top, over the soft supple flesh, and my fingertips barely grazed the overflowing abundance, back and forth. Compared to the rest of her, her breasts were warm, almost hot.
“My—aaahh—husband,” she finally got out.
“That’s better. As far as this outfit—it’s not one. It’s a skirt over a bathing suit. Take it off.”
“And wear what?” She gazed up at me, her eyes close to drunk, her mouth parted. The flush grew deeper.
Our eyes connected and held, and she breathed out at the same time I breathed in.
We hadn’t made love since Matteo was born. Even though the doctor released her, it didn’t sit right with me. She’d needed stitches, and the thought of—I didn’t even want to fucking think about it. We became creative in other ways, but tonight she wasn’t taking no for an answer. It was clear from the look in her eyes.
“I only wear these things so you can take them off,” she whispered.
“Is that so?” I murmured in Italian.
