“My light,” I breathed out.
“My vow,” he said, placing a soft kiss on my mouth. It tickled, like the faintest of wings had barely skimmed my skin in passing.
I smiled. “You’re very romantic when you’re drunk.”
He returned the smile. “What about sober?”
Using only my fingertips, I stroked his sides, up and down his ribs, and he shivered. “You have your moments.”
“That’s a nice way of saying that I’m a bastard most of the time.”
“No.” I shook my head, pieces of my hair catching on the blanket’s fibers. I forced him to look at me. “That’s a simple way of saying that you have a lot on your mind most of the time. I’m thankful for this time with you, Brando. It’s rare that we’re alone like this. I always know you, but sometimes, I want to find the new in you. It’s times like these that I can.”
He nodded once, slowly. “You speak the words from my heart,” he said in Italian.
“You are such a good man, Brando,” I said in Italian. “Mine. All mine.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. For all that he was, he was only drawn to his faults when I pointed out how good he was. He knew his demons, but he had yet to get to know his angels. I knew them. He was my angel. Perhaps misguided at times, but an angel still for all that.
My hands stilled on his sides. I winced and almost used my heels to dig into the ground, to push up, to shy away from him. I knew what he wanted but wasn’t sure if I could do it again. Not so soon. He was…all-consuming, and after the last time, I felt very, very sore. I’d have a hard time sitting tomorrow. I’d feel him in my marrow.
“Shh.” He set his mouth next to mine and the vibration made me tremble. “I’ll go slow.Lento.”
He moved and I sucked in a breath, then released it in a slow, steady stream that seemed to match the wind. He stopped, staring down at me, the pleading in his eyes almost unbearable.
This wasn’t like him. He read the silent question in my eyes before I had a chance to speak it aloud.
“I am your beast,” he spoke in slow-moving Italian, “but tonight, I am just your man.” He took my hand and placed it against his heart. “I suffer only for you. I remember our time apart.”
My eyes searched his, looking for that time.
“I am remembering the time my heart almost stopped beating,” he continued in Italian. “You almost killed me.”
The time we lost our son; the time I almost died. When recognition showed on my face, he bowed his head to mine, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, closing his eyes.
“Sì,” was all he said.
“Brando…” I continued to stroke his sides, barely grazing his skin with my fingertips.
He lifted his head, meeting my eyes, and I nodded, urging him with my body.
“Lento.” I moved my hands from his sides to his neck, entwining his hair in my hands. “Per favore.”
He started to move again, so slow that the pain and pleasure seemed to create an ache only he could cause in my body. The earth was cool under my back, but his heat set me on fire, and the two seemed to be the perfect representation of what he could do to me.
The ache was maddening, and the whimpers coming from my mouth reflected that.
“Shh,” he said drunkenly, his mouth on mine. His breath felt like air to my lungs. “You’ve never been afraid of me. Moving with me like you do. No fear. Not even the first time.” He reared over me, head back, arms trembling from restraint, a guttural noise coming from his throat. “You know. You’ve always known. I’d never hurt you.”
Not on purpose. The thought crossed my mind, but I let it go.
“It would be such a sin to waste this blessing,”I whispered in Italian to the stars blazing high above, incandescent in their darkness.
7
Scarlett
It was a never-ending night. Or one of those that fooled you into thinking so. Come dawn, when the sun clawed its way from the trenches of the darkness, the joke was on you.
