He smiled, and my heart picked up. He had a hunter’s smile. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Annie. Not right now.”
“Not right now,” I repeated, my voice so lame compared to his.
“Not right now.” He stared into my eyes so long, I started to squirm, and with a step away, he one-handedly removed his sweatshirt, going for the bathroom.
I gulped in air, not having been aware that for more than a few seconds, I had been holding my breath. I was Italian, passionate as well, but I had nothing, absolutely nothing, on the blood that ran through that man’s veins.
The scent of him snuck out of the door in clouds of steam, overwhelming my small cottage. I stopped right outside of the bathroom, then sighed as I made it to the bed. I plopped down, relieved not to have to carry my bones for a while.
He came out, a towel around his waist, drying his hair with another. It was wild, and somehow, I knew his hair connected to his moods.
My breath caught for a second, because I knew in that moment, looking at Mariano Fausti, I was looking at my future. Perhaps the look on my face had changed. One of his eyebrows quirked up in question. All I could do was shrug and curl up in the bed.
After a few minutes, I turned to look. He was waiting. Just as he was waiting for me to invite him inside. I pulled the covers down on the opposite side, and he slipped in next to me. Although there was tension lingering between us, the storm had passed, and all I could feel was peace—his body was next to mine as he pulled me close, keeping me wrapped in his warm arms.
Chapter 12
Sistine
Time was a mystery to me, but it felt early. Perhaps the sun was not up yet. However, that did not make sense. It felt as if something was moving across the sun, storm clouds perhaps, and it seemed as if the room was shaded in certain spots. The side of the bed that Mariano had been sleeping on felt cold, although the temperature in the cottage was almost stuffy.
My eyes were stuck together. I rubbed them, making them unstick. It was still a slow process to open them fully. I was tired to the bone. I could not remember the last time I had slept so sound.
Also, I usually woke up with a million thoughts circulating inside of my mind.
I had only one.
Mariano.
When I found the source of the blocked light, I rubbed my eyes again.
“Mariano?” My voice was full of gravel. “What are you doing?”
He was pacing the floor in front of the window, and it was his body that blocked the light and then released it. His hair wasa mess. He was taking his right fist and smacking his left palm with it. He was so concentrated on whatever he was thinking of, he did not stop or even respond to me.
Something was wrong.
I jumped out of bed, standing in front of him, putting my hands on his chest. “What is it?” I asked quietly, but there was a definite undercurrent of panic in my voice.
His hands came over my shoulders. Was that a slight tremble I felt? My heart started racing. My breathing picked up. I opened my mouth to speak again when he whispered, “You are so beautiful, Sistine Evita. My Annie. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
My breaths and heart raced for another reason.
In the morning sun, when clarity had a chance to take hold, I knew I would never forget the look on his face when his passion ran high, and it overflowed on me. The way his eyes would lower but be focused. The way his breath left him in whispers, but no less strained than mine. How with one touch, I felt his heat, his brand, down to my bones. How I needed him inside of me, making us one, like I had never needed anything before.
“I need you more than life,” he whispered in Italian. “You are my life now.”
“Mariano,” I whispered, not sure where he was going with this.
In a sudden rush that popped our intimate bubble, he tore away from me, then took me by the shoulders and back-walked me to the bed. He sat me down on it and paced again, running a hand through his hair. He covered his right hand with his left, then started doing it constantly, almost slapping his curved palm against his tightened knuckles.
This was not like him.
Before I could speak, he said in a rough tone, “Give me a minute.”
It was a natural reaction to find out what was wrong with him and fix it, but I sat patiently, watching him. Exactly a minute later, he took a knee in front of me, taking my hands in his, and looked into my eyes as if he was looking into stars that held all of life’s mysteries.
“Date me.”
