He couldn’t stop.
We were like wild animals that were fated to mate for life.
He pulled out some, back some. “Watch,” he ordered, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. “Watchus.”
My eyes disconnected from his and watched as he slid in and out of me, his cock slippery with my want, moving inside of me.
The scent of our sex overpowered his scent, my scent, and together, the air was heady withourscent, making me high. His nostrils flared as he scented it, and it drove him higher—I was bouncing on his cock, my breasts jiggling with the impact, the noises we made as wild as our bodies. He couldn’t control himself with me, and he growled, lifting me up, turning me over, like he needed to be inside of me ten times at once.
I needed it too.
So, so, so bad.
The want was wild, and neither of us could completely satisfy its…ravenous hunger. We would feed it, and it would come back even stronger with only a look. It seemed like we tossed, we turned, we stood, we rested, backs against the bed, against the wall, doing the only thing we could to relieve it—caress, bruise, bite, lick, kiss, squeeze, slip, pound, fuck and make love.
So, we gave in to it, unable to fight it.
Refusing to.
We offered more than our bodies to it.
Completely.
It consumed us.
The magic we could only create together.
It moved through us, absorbed in us, and locked us inside this room, just like we had been locked in that room at thecastelloon the island. And as the morning light burned throughthe fluttering lace curtains, we melted with it, making love so achingly slow, it almost seemed like this was the pain to the pleasure of making love.
This was when my heart tore itself open and he buried himself so deep inside of me, the pounding organ felt like it was made of elastic and expanding—and just when I thought it might pop, it ballooned, deepened, carrying his love as my womb was created to carry a child of his blood.
Gabriel’s music floated through the breeze as he serenaded his Evangeline with “True Companion.” Luca had sung the same song at our wedding. The song was meant for lovers, and, as if ardor had a voice, it was serenading all of us with it.
We faced the light, my husband’s strong body behind my soft one, his fingertips caressing my arms and back, his lips over my pulse.
Me? Languor had me in its embrace. This was adoration in its physical form, and I refused to move, to shy away from it. He craved toshowit to me, and I offered myself up to that hunger—willingly, and for the rest of my life.
Rocco sang to the settling pulse in my neck in soft Italian, and my eyes completely shut out the light, more than willing to brave the darkness for just a moment of this pure bliss in time.
This.
This was a moment to die for.
To live for.
He was giving me a lifetime’s worth of them to collect.
Mine.
Then, the morning faded completely into a scalding hot day, and my husband picked me up and carried me out to the balcony facing the bustling street. We ate breakfast, then showered and got dressed for the day together. Rocco had told me we were going to get my things from the storage place. He wore a t-shirt and sweatpants. I decided to slip on a black jumpsuit, an off theshoulder thin sweater with it, and a pair of tennis shoes. I pulled my hair back into a high ponytail, my bangs framing my face.
Rocco watched every move, every step, like he was transfixed by me getting dressed. It stole my breath, and when I went to take the comb to his impeccable hair, he grabbed my wrists.
Our eyes met.
I breathed out.
He breathed in.
