I had planned to spoil my new wife with all that her heart desired.
Part of that plan had included me, but after our wedding day, I was hesitant to see myself at the center of her life. It was true, we had an arrangement, but I desired it to become more than that between us. Our families had come together to create the document that would seal our matrimonial fate, mostly when it came to money, but after our families had left, I broached the subject of other lovers.
Tell me, would we be faithful to each other, or would we take other lovers?
Rosaria had been quick to agree to other lovers. “After all, you are a Fausti,” she had said, laughing. “I do not think one woman is enough for any of you. Understandably.”
She had made it seem like the entirety of my male family members were animals who could not control themselves. But if we gave our word, we gave our word, and that was the end of it. We did not entertain other lovers. My grandfather was faithful to my grandmother to her last breath. Even after, he was never the same. He would never love again.
“If we take other lovers, I do not know who or when,” I had said to her. “If I find out, hearts will be mine.”
She nodded. “I would prefer it that way as well.”
A lawyer who had been hired by my family and Rosaria’s had looked between us. He was drawing up the paperwork for the arrangement; since I was a lawyer myself, neither family preferred me to handle it. It was best to have someone on the outside of the agreement do the work.
“How about we leave that particular point of the contract until after the wedding night, ah?” the lawyer had said. “About lovers.”
We both had agreed.
Perhaps if our connection in the bedroom was what gave our marriage a solid foundation, it would be enough for us to forget the rest of the world. But I was not sure if Rosaria would even attempt to allow the world to fade around us. She was convinced I could not be faithful to her, though she did not call out my truth or honor in saying so. I suspected that if she thought we were not enough in the bedroom, and I had agreed to being faithful, I would be unhappy for the rest of my life. I respected her for putting my feelings first, but I did not need her respect when it came to extramarital affairs. I needed her to claw her way out of her thoughts of steel and demand we be faithful to each other.
Testa dura.Her head was hard and stubborn.
Even her voice had haunting barbs that had struck deeper than my skin. Why not, then, her claim on me when it came to pleasures of the flesh? If she had hooked me that deep inside, the physical aspect of our relationship should have been locked in as well. She found me attractive, or her breath wouldn’t have caught whenever she stared into my eyes, or when she gazed at me as if I might disappear when she thought I was not looking.
And to me, Rosaria Caffi was red incarnate.
My color.
The color of blood.
Of passion.
Of love.
I sighed as I loosened my tie and took off my jacket, laying it across a chair, and went straight for the bar on the opposite side of the room, rolling up my sleeves. The room had been done romantically. Rose petals covered all surfaces. Candles provided swaying light, their waxy stems melting into a multitude of ornate candelabras. A sensual scent percolated through the air—something spicy that went straight to my cock.
I inhaled deeper.
Cinnamon. Frankincense. Patchouli. Orange. Ginger. Rose.
All notes I could decipher from each other, but together, they created a sensual melody in the air.
My bride ran a tender hand across my shoulders, and I closed my eyes, already locking out the world.
There would be no performance from her tonight. Only the truth in her voice when she spoke to me.
“Will you help me out of this monstrosity?” she whispered.
My eyes slowly opened, and I turned to face her. I took her in, in a slow perusal, and I was satisfied when her shoulders bowed a little toward me. She refused to move her eyes, but something inside of her had caved. Perhaps to the want in my eyes.
Perhaps to the anger in them.
She considered her wedding gown a monstrosity. A gown that had stolen my breath, as did her voice. As did my belovedItaliawhenever its beauty struck me unaware for the umpteenth time in my life.
Both the woman standing in front of me and the rolling hills of Tuscany, or the sea in Sicilia, were breath-stealing reminders that things existed in life that made me a mere man.
A woman.
