She made a strangled noise when my mouth found her nipple, my hand the other, and she shattered at my touch, having to take a moment to catch her breath before she started to move again.
She rode me deep and long, bringing us both to completion, full of contentment, putting paid to whatever it was between us that demanded a constant connection.
Her body came forward into mine, our bodies slippery with sweat.
Enclosed in my arms, she rested against my shoulder, her breath washing over me, her soft hair against my skin like silk.
“Brando?”
It took me a minute to answer. “Yeah, baby.”
“I want you to stop finding comfort in whiskey.”
“Jealous?”
She didn’t laugh. “Yes.” Blunt. Shattering. Her truth.
I kissed her all over her face, the sound of my lips against her skin making noises much too loud for the silence the night commanded.
“You have no reason to be.” My voice came out quiet, complying with its demands.
“Your word,” she whispered.
Her body startled when the bottle of whiskey came to blows with the solid presence of the wall. I’d shielded her with my arms, but the shards hadn’t made it that far. Only a few splatters of the liquid filled the room with the full-bodied perfume of the spirit.
“My word is as good as my blood,” I said. “You have it, running through your veins.”
The sound of paws padding against the floor came closer. Ruby appeared, sticking her regal nose up in the air, sniffing out the situation.
I spoke to her in Italian, waving a hand, giving her the command to stay put. She eyed me suspiciously for a moment, her intelligent eyes taking in the fact that her mamma was vulnerable, naked and trembling in my arms.
Scarlett spoke softly to her, telling her to get in bed,pointing towards it. Ruby hopped up on the mattress, taking a position at the bottom. Her ears pricked, staring at the silvery light of the moon, and I wondered if she’d howl. Not in the mood, she rested her face on her paws, licked her lips, and fell back asleep.
Scarlett sighed. “I—I desperately needed that,” she said, her fingers drifting back and forth along my skin in languid strokes.
The connection. She craved.
My word. She needed.
“I always need you, Ballerina Girl,” I said in Italian. “And I’ll crave you until the day my heart stops, my wife.”
“You’ve been calling me that quite a bit,” she almost hummed. “Ballerina Girl.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Not as much.”
Leaning my head against the chair, I stilled, listening to her breathing, a low, almost buzzing sound, like a bee.
When she fell, she fell hard, not even stirring when I stood, still inside of her. I kept us that way, not wanting to feel the separation, not until I absolutely had to.
Setting her down on the bed, the separation came quick, leaving me craving more of her secure warmth.
Later. When she had more sleep.
Bending down, I kissed her stomach and then tucked her in.
“I need a bath,” she mumbled, almost incoherent. “Don’t I?”
