When I know she is close, I give her one last kiss, before pulling away.
I drop to my knees on the cold stone floor, her scent hitting me. Musky, sweet, overwhelmingly feminine. I grip her thighs, my fingers digging in to keep her open, and bring my face close to show her exactly how much I love her taste.
Cecily
If anyone asked me to write a blog post or a proper article about the last few days, I think I’d fail, drastically.
Iknowwe were out there, walking the ancient walls of Lucca beneath a lazy afternoon sun. We shared the best gelato at Alexander’s favorite place in Florence, stood in San Gimignano, watching its towers cutting into a flawless blue sky.
The blurred snapshots of everything we did are all in my mind—but if I’m honest?
All I remember with perfect clarity... ishim. I’m grateful I have photos and videos to prove that I existed somewhere other than this bubble we created in the last few days. It’s almost shameful, I suppose. We are in one of the most romantic places on earth, surrounded by history and beauty and centuries of stories... while my attention rarely strays from the man walking beside me.
It’s like a hunger that refuses to be satiated.
In every village, every postcard-perfect street and golden hill we visited, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other for long. His hand would find my waist and pull me into a kiss that always left me breathless. I found myself rising on my tiptoes to pull him down for stolen kisses more times than I could count.
Since that first time we slept together, six nights ago now, the concept ofmineandhishas ceased to exist. The guest room that was meant to be mine remains untouched, reduced to nothing more than a wardrobe and an unzipped suitcase I never bother to close.
I’ve slept in Alexander’s bed every night, waking up to his arm wrapped around my waist every morning. I’ve never wanted anyone like this. Not with this constant urgency and this desperate need to hold on to him, every single hour of the day. And maybe that’s the most frightening part of all… how easily he’s become my favorite place to be.
And today was no different.
We spent the afternoon wandering through vineyards tucked into the nearby hills, sampling wines I had never heard of, and that tasted even better on his tongue. By the time we got back, we were sun-tired and happy in a boneless kind of way.
When we arrived two hours ago, we made a necessary, if reluctant, decision. No showering together, because every time we step into his bathroom together, it stops being just a shower within minutes. And the dinner he promised wouldn’t happen, once again.
So now I’m leaning on the kitchen island—freshly showered and wearing denim shorts and a loose sweater—watching Alexander move around the stove, cooking for us.
The smell of stewed tomatoes and fresh basil filling the kitchen makes my stomach rumble.
“You did an excellent job chopping the herbs,” he murmurs, with a smile on his mouth as he stirs the crimson sauce in the cast-iron pot.
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me help with anything else,” I counter, sliding my hand across his back, savoring the way his muscles shift beneath the light linen shirt he pulled on after his shower.
To be fair, my task lasted exactly four minutes. I spent the rest of the timesupervising, which is just a polite way of saying I got in his way. I stole kisses at the base of his throat and ran my fingers along the veins in his arm every time he reached for the seasonings. I made zero effort to be subtle.
He even let me help with the gnocchi, but we both know that was just an excuse to stand behind me. He pressed his body into mine, guiding my hands as I cut the dough, murmuring instructions in my ear and eventually abandoning them to nuzzle my neck.
I can’t stop watching the way he moves. A man being so good at something as simple as cooking shouldn’t be this attractive.
He turns off the heat and faces me, boxing me in between him and the counter to give me a quick kiss. I fist his shirt as he tries to pull back, and Alexander chuckles.
“If I don’t get the plates right now, the gnocchi will be very angry with us,” he teases, kissing my forehead and then my nose.
“Just one more,” I murmur, lifting onto my toes and threading my fingers into his hair.
He doesn’t refuse. His mouth takes mine again in a kiss that makes me crave so much more.
As he finishes plating, ladling the steaming gnocchi into shallow bowls, I carry the wine we opened earlier and our glasses to the table.
We sit down to eat, and my eyes go to the door. “Sam hasn’t come back yet.”
I know Alexander said he’s safe wandering the property, but I’ve grown used to him padding in just as we settle down for the night, tail wagging like he’s been away on some grand adventure.
Alexander smiles. “Valentina texted earlier. He’s sleeping over with the twins tonight.”
Valentina, Pietro’s twin sister, is one of those people who naturally put you at ease. She does exquisite embroidery and owns an artisan shop right in the town center. And her five-year-old boys—Luigi and Giovanni, identical twins—are two cute little troublemakers.
