My head barely missed his.
“What is it?” I turned to him.
His back was to the bed, he was watching as the fan went around and around, one hand over his heart.
“I am not falling for?—”
“You wouldn’t fucking wake up,” he said, breathing a little heavy. “You wouldn’t open your eyes when I told you to.”
I stared at him, but he would not meet my eyes. I set my hand on his, over his chest, and squeezed. Underneath his hot skin, his bones trembled. I squeezed his hand harder, keeping it steady in mine. “I am sorry,Marito mio,” I whispered. “I was only tired. All the time apart…thefate day, thinking about the words my sister used as weapons against me all the time.” I sighed, and he looked at me.
“All the traveling. Even before all of that.” I waved my hand, and he caught it, putting it back where it had been. Over his chest. “The tiredness I am experiencing is extreme. When I sleep, it is like I am—” I stopped myself from saying it felt like I was floating in a cloud. He would not like that comparison, just as he did not like the angel wings I had worn to my father’s banquet. He was a bit superstitious when it came to those things. “Ah, how do you say…when I sleep, it is like I took a potion, and it is the best sleep of my life.”
“It does my heart good to know you sleep well,” he said in Italian. Then he switched to English. “But I don’t fucking like it when you’re too far away from me.”
“I am not,” I whispered, collapsing against his body, setting my head against his chest, my arms wherever they could land on him.
He covered me in his arms. “Fucking feels like it.”
I lifted my head and took his cheeks in my hand, squishing them and his mouth. Though he had no fat. It was all sharp muscles and bones. “I know you do not,” I said, and it sounded almost childish. I smiled at him. “However, I am baking our bambino. This is what it takes.”
“My wife.” He sighed. “The oven.”
“Sì!” I laughed. “You are the one who turned it on.” I took a handful of his cock and balls and squeezed.
He made anung!noise at the cheeky grab, but when I started to stroke him, another noise rumbled through his chest. Pleasure. He pushed into my touch, pulsing his hips up, and his eyes were already narrowed, but the passion in them would soon be unleashed—on me. I sucked in a breath, and he went to kiss me, but I turned my mouth.
“I need to brush my teeth!”
He turned my face back and kissed me.
“This is so good,” I mumbled out when I could catch my breath.
He grinned at me. “You still taste like mint.”
“You do too,” I whispered. He did not ever have morning breath. Again.Perfezionare.
His eyes were more peridot, almost neon in the glare of the bright sun. I heard the wind whistle outside, and a second later, the entirebure(as Mariano had told me it is called in Fiji) turned dark, except for a few spots of sun that seemed to linger. Shadows made by the palm trees waltzed across the blinds.
“Is that bad weather?” I whispered.
Mariano nodded. “A storm.”
As fast as I went to sit up before, I did so again.
“Bathroom!”
Before I could get out of the bed, Mariano was out of it, and he picked me up, carrying me there. He even sat me down on the toilet. He stood by the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me.
“I do not mind now,” I said. “But you know the rules.”
A slow grin came to his face at the mention of my rules. I did not mind him being in the bathroom with me if I had to pee, but anything else…out and in another room. He thought it was hilarious. A moment of silence came when thunder started to rumble.
He looked down at the toilet. “Damn.” He whistled long and low. “Annie’s bringing the boom.”
My cheeks flamed. “That wasnotme, Mariano Fausti!”
He started laughing so hard, he shook with it. “I have no fucking clue how I made it this long without you, Sistine Fausti.” He sighed. He kissed my temple as I washed my hands. Kissed my face over and over. “You’re a fucking trip.”
