Giovanni’s fingers trace slow, idle patterns at my hip, not demanding, not rushing, just…there. Possessive in his unabashed way as his mouth brushes my temple.
I inhale, catching the scent of him: clean soap now, wine, the faintest echo of gunpowder that won’t leave my memory. That makes my throat tighten.
I turn back to him, my gaze catching on his face, at the cuts and bruises peppered all over his skin, on the bandage around his shoulder. We stare at each other for a long moment, the air thick with everything we refuse to name.
Giovanni’s hand slides up my spine, slow and deliberate, until his palm cups the back of my neck, firm and certain. “You’re shaking again,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine.”
He smiles faintly. “Liar.”
The word should annoy me. Instead it warms something in me that has been cold for too long. Leaning up feels like the most natural thing in the world.
I sigh when his mouth finds mine.
This kiss isn’t like anything we shared at Red Hook.
It’s slower. Deeper. A claiming that feels almost reverent, as if he’s learning me again now that the world has tried to take me away.
I make a soft sound I don’t mean to and Giovanni’s breath catches.
“Lucia,” he murmurs, like my name is a prayer and a warning.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palms.
Alive. Mine, in the strangest way.
“Are we done talking? I want you in my bed. Finally.”
Need steals through, filling me up in places that scare me a little. “Yes. I want that too. Tomorrow can wait,” I whisper.
“Eccellente,” he says.
His lips trail along my jaw, to the pulse at my throat, and my eyes flutter shut. My skin feels too aware, every inch of me seeming to remember him. To crave him with the same urgency I did mere hours before.
“Are you going to keep me waiting?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Maybe,” I tease.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “I know a way to help you decide.”
The way he says it makes my breath stutter. He stands then, lifting me with him as though I weigh nothing, carrying me off the terrace in unhurried strides where each step feels like a delicious, decadent countdown.
In the bedroom, he sets me down gently, hands framing my waist. And for a moment, he only looks at me. The silence is intimate. And heavy.
He spins me around so my back is to his front. “You have any idea how many times I’ve dreamt of fucking you in this bed?” he rasps in my ear.
Shivers race up and down my spine. “Some, but you survived.”
His mouth curves against the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. “Sì. But barely. And with a colossal case of blue balls I’ll need very many years to recover from.”
I swallow. “You said the wait was worth it.”
His teeth graze my earlobe. “It was.” A beat. “Very much. But that’s not to say I’m not reclaiming every moment I could’ve spent deep inside you.”
Heat rushes through me as he pulls at the tie holding my robe closed. It glides down my shoulders and pools on the floor, forgotten.
Giovanni leans in, his voice low, wicked, devoted. “Starting now, tonight,” he murmurs, “I want to take my time.”
