The first kiss is unhurried, a build-up, longing. The second turns greedy. Her fingers climb the back of my neck, into my hair. I brace one hand at her waist, the other at the small of her back, and pull her in until the wood presses against her thighs and her body finds mine like a puzzle piece fitting just right.
“Gio,” she moans into my mouth.
“Bibi,” I answer, and feel her smile before I see it.
We break just enough to breathe. The kitchen smells like lamb and lemon and wine and her. She looks up at me through her lashes, cheeks warm, lips flushed, and I’m finished pretending this is anything but what it is.
“Upstairs,” I say.
She simply nods. I lace my fingers with hers and start for the hall. We leave the plates stacked, the bottle half-drunk, the lamp over the island still throwing a soft circle on the wood. At the doorway, she tugs me back for one more quick kiss, and then we go.
The house is quiet, old stone holding the day’s heat. Our steps on the stairs find an easy rhythm. Halfway up, she stops on a tread above me so we’re eye to eye. She frames my jaw with both hands and kisses me slowly, taking her time, taking me apart.
I lift her, hands firm at the backs of her thighs. She laughs, surprised and low, wraps her arms around my neck, and I carry her the rest of the way.
At the top, the hall is dark except for a wash of moonlight. I shoulder the door to my bedroom open. She looks at me like I’m the only thing she wants to think about for the rest of the night.
We step inside together, and I shut the world out.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Bianca
The door closes behind us with a soft click, but Gio doesn’t steer me toward the bed.
He keeps my hand and heads for the double glass doors covered in sheer curtains. He turns the handles, pushes them wide, and cool night air moves through the room, lifting the hem of his shirt on my thighs.
Beyond the threshold, the balcony stretches under the moon. Vines roll away in neat rows, silvered at the edges. To the right,tucked into the stone corner for privacy, a round hot tub churns, steam lifting in thin ribbons.
He looks at me over his shoulder. “Come on,” he says, voice rough in that way that goes straight through me.
I step out with him. The stone is cool under my bare feet. The night smells like rosemary, damp earth, and clean water. Somewhere down in the rows, an owl calls once.
Gio turns the tub’s controls down a notch, and the surface calms to a steady shimmer. He reaches for me, palms warm at my hips, and kisses me slowly, like we have all the time in the world.
His mouth is warm and certain. When he licks into me, it’s lazy and deep, and I forget about the moon and the vineyard and every obligation waiting in the morning.
And all the reasons I shouldn’t be doing this.
His hands slide under the hem of his shirt where it hangs on me. The fabric lifts; his thumbs explore bare skin at my waist. He opens the next button without looking down, then the one below, mouth finding my throat. I tilt my head, giving him room. The night air moves over the skin he uncovers; his mouth follows and turns the air to heat again.
“Gio,” I say, because I like what it does to him.
He answers against my collarbone. “Mia.”
Mine. It sends a thrill through me.
I should be scared, right?
Of what it means, of who he is, of how fast we’ve moved. The sensible part of me raises a hand. The rest of me lowers it.
“Say it again,” I murmur, because apparently I like playing with matches.
His mouth brushes my jaw. “Mia,” he says, low and possessive, and the floor inside me shifts, sending me off balance.
The word is a breath and a claim. Sexy and dangerous.
I work at the zipper on his pants while he kisses down the line where my pulse runs. His heart beats faster; his palms are steady on my skin. They slide, firm, mapping the curve of me like he’s learning my body by touch.
