She shivered and buried her hands in my flannel. She breathed out as soft as the autumn wind breezing past our bodies, whispering secrets.
Our eyes connected, and that same glowing heat moved between us, born by our two bodies.
“I do not know how much longer I can stand this dating,” she whispered, “if it means we do not have sex.”
It took a moment for her words to catch up to my thoughts. I had been so fucking lost in her eyes, words were the last thing onmy mind. When they did, I roared with laughter, pulling her in, kissing her all over her face.
I helped her inside the tent, laughing my fucking ass off, until we settled inside. She took a deep breath, gazing up.
“I can see out of it!” She pulled her hands to her chest, breathing out at the view of the stars through the plastic skylight. I had never seen her do that before with her hands.
The reaction was mine.
All fucking mine.
I was addicted. Possessed. Obsessed.
She kept the sitting position. I was already lying on my side, gazing at her. She turned to me, and our lips were a breath apart.
“Ah,” she breathed out.
I breathed her in, holding the breath in my lungs for as long as possible.
The tent was full of fresh air, fresh air and her scent. Sweet apple with a twist of bitter from the oncoming cold. It was consuming my head. My body.
She fixed a strand of my hair that had gone rogue. Her hands were chilled, but when she touched me, there was no tremble. Nothing but confidence when it came to who I was to her.
“Tell me, Sistine,” I said in Italian. “Who do I belong to.”
Not a second of hesitation. “Me,” she breathed out. “Mine.”
“Tell me,” I said, “who do you belong to.”
Her eyes were serious on mine. “You. Only you.”
“No nickname yet?”
She shook her head. “Not officially, but I do have something in mind.”
“Bene,” I whispered.
I heard it when she swallowed down my breath. “You feel good in my lungs, Mariano Fausti,” she whispered. “You feel good in my life. In my heart.” Her eyes searched mine. “Put me out of my misery. Say what I need to say. What I am feeling. Saythe words I have never said before to anyone and will never say to anyone else.”
“I’ll feel good inside of you,” I said.
“Sì.” Her eyes were steady on mine. “When I think of you. What you can do to me. I…ache. It does not stop. It is possessing me.” She laughed quietly, but it was shy. She looked away from me. “The view. The view is breathtaking. However, all I can think of is the way you watch me, as though I am the stars. The way you smell. I cannot breathe in fast enough. As though my heart is racing, which it is.”
She took my hand and set it over her heart. “You have become my air, as you say I am yours. Your body alone keeps me warm, though being this far from you, I am cold. I am cold unless you are touching me. Then I am a fire. I burn from within, but it does not hurt. It makes me glow.”
Her eyes came to mine. “This is what I was always afraid of. When I first met you. I knew. I knew you had the power to destroy my glass heart. A heart that could never be put back together again if you shattered it to pieces. You could destroy me by walking away. I have never…” She looked down at her hands, then she finally looked at me again. “I have never felt so helpless in my life when I am with you. I am helpless, but…so strong. So strong because you are next to me.”
I stared at this creature who was baring her soul to me. She was strong, but as vulnerable as I was. “I do not have the words…” I said in Italian, taking her hand in mine, bringing it to my mouth, breathing her in. “There are no words. No words true enough to express how I am feeling. All lies. I cannot speak them to you. None of them are good enough. True enough.”
She ran her hand through my hair. “You do not have to respond,” she whispered. “I can say the soft words. You can say the ones that do not need a filter to say. This can be our thing. I am your woman, and you are my man.”
I grinned against her chilled hands, already feeling them warm up at my touch. My eyes rose to meet hers, and she smiled at me, her eyes glistening with tears. She turned some and grabbed my guitar. She handed it to me.
“Sing your truth to me, Mariano Fausti.”
