I wrapped my arms around him, squeezing so tightly, he made a breathless noise. Not that I’d had stolen his breath, literally, but someplace deeper.
“I love you, Rocco,” I whispered. “More than any wife has ever loved a husband before.” I set my head against his heart, closing my eyes, squeezing even tighter, breathing him in.
My heart filled up, and I prayed to God it would overflow into his, like my tears sometimes overflowed with how happy he made me—just by breathing, by being mine.
He said nothing, but he returned the gesture, almost lifting me off my feet. I made a breathless noise, and even if mine came from the physical pressure he had on me, it also came from someplace deeper. A place only he could draw from.
When he knew I was having trouble catching my breath, he released the pressure but not me. He swept me off my feet and carried me to the villa. He opened the door and carried me through it, then stopped in the central hallway.
The entire place was quiet, except for the echo of the wind howling outside of the door. If I made a noise, I knew the place was so vast, it would echo.
“I love my husband,” I shouted into what seemed like the abyss, but not loud enough to pierce his eardrums. My voice did just as expected. It echoed. I smiled, even though it was forced. Behind it was a woman who was a lioness, who would kill even the slightest thing that could threaten her lion, her king. I wanted this place, all places, the entire world to know the truth. “Aria Amora Bella Fausti is home now with her husband, Rocco Piero Fausti.”
It felt as if the villa reacted. The feel of loneliness crept up my arms and touched my neck, like ivy does when it’s suffocating a structure. Maybe some people saw it as a lover clinging on, and in controlled circumstances, wonderful, but I’d always seen ivy as something that hid, that stole breath. The skin on my arms felt as if it turned into steel, ready to battle for control.
I wrapped my arms around my husband even tighter, reminding him that I was with him, next to him, always wouldbe, and he would be lonely no more—not even the ivy, the bone-freezing cold, or the scorching heat could touch him again.
By the time Rocco gave me a tour of the sprawling grounds, and we made it back to the estate, I felt almost drunk—all the traveling, time differences, and emotional tolls had caught up with me.
Rocco showed me to the kitchen, which was more than impressive with all its professional-grade appliances, and we ate meals that were left for him in the refrigerator.
Apparently he had cooks, even though he told me he could make a mean pear dish with pecorino cheese and warm, oozing honey and pepper. I told him that was amazing, and I couldn’t wait to try it, but from then on, I’d love to cook for him and I. He was pleased by this, even lifted his hand for a high-five, which shocked me into laughter, and after we finished our plates, he showed me to the bedroom.
The first step was when it fully hit me—I was delirious. But it was a sweet delirium brought on by the proximity of my husband, his delicious scent, his heat, and lack of sleep.
We turned into each other, and I fell into his arms. Our lips came together in a dance, and our tongues followed the steps. I was so tired, I was speaking gibberish as he made quick work of my clothes, and I tore his off, a pile of them collecting on the floor.
Even during moments of wild passion, he always made sure I was respected in the smallest of ways. His clothes were on the floor, mine on top of his.
We were both wild with want, as if we hadn’t touched in centuries.
We hadn’t even made it to the bedroom yet.
Our breaths were coming out in pants, and when his mouth slid down my chin, my neck, his tongue caressing my collarbone, slipping down between my breasts, to take each nipple in his warm mouth, his tongue caressing the sensitive peaks, I cried out. The familiar pressure of an orgasm was beginning to take hold of me.
“So sensitive to me,” he whispered against my skin. And then his mouth traveled further south, and when his tongue licked my thighs, and then his face came between my legs…I went off like a firework.
He drank down the cry from my mouth as he entered me on a thrust that shook us both to our core. He stilled, his head tilting back, absorbing the feeling, as much as I was—he felt so right inside of me, I had no clue how I’d lived without him for so long. My life was pathetic without him in it.
He began to move inside of me, and my hands, my soul, kept pulling him closer, wishing for him to go so deep inside of me, I’d never be able to find myself again, unless it was through him.
I couldn’t explain the feeling in mere words. It overtook me. It overtook him. And the only sense to be made was that we were connected.
He slid out of me, and coming back achingly slow, touched me somewhere deep inside that made me whimper. His mouth came over mine, as if he was almost starving for the pleasurable noises escaping my mouth.
Once was not enough. With his seed wetting my thighs, he carried me into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He set me down on the bed, and my arms reached out to him, and then we were tangling in the sheets, lost to the world.
Until the sound of a door slamming snapped Rocco back into the real world. A woman was screaming for him. It sounded like she was rushing up the stairs by the cadence of her footsteps.She was wearing heels. I could tell by the punctuatedtap, tap, tapas she made her way closer to our room.
Rocco grabbed for my robe, going to dress me.
“I can dress myself,” I said, a tremble underneath my skin from the unexpected visitor who was still shouting my husband’s name, taking my robe from him and securing it in record time. I nodded toward him. “You should get dressed.”
He did, in record time, beginning with his pants. A second after his shirt was on, a whirlwind of a woman came through the bedroom door. It was probably my imagination, but it seemed like her sheer black dress and long, raven hair blew behind her as she made her dramatic entrance into our bedroom.
She looked at Rocco, then at me, and it was then that I noticed black mascara tracks down her perfect cheeks. Her lips were painted a siren red, but it seemed like maybe she had been drinking, and the color was somewhat smeared off. It stained from her lips to her chin. I was pretty sure I wore that exact same shade from time to time.
She lifted her thin hand, her elegant finger pointing at me, her nails the same color as her lips, and said in a sharp voice, “Get out of my husband’s bed and out of his house right now, you little bitch.Out!” She clapped at me, speaking in Italian so fast, my head almost spun trying to keep up with her.
