“I don’t think I’ve ever been the one leading. Not when it comes to... this sort of thing.”
I brush my thumb over her lips and lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek, another closer to the corner of her mouth. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my fragile male ego,” I murmur. “If you’re the one taking control of whatever happens next... I welcome it.”
I repeat the kiss on the other side of her face, taking my time, my breath ghosting over her skin as I linger at the corner of hermouth. When I finally pull away, I notice the way her chest rises and falls. Her face mirrors my own want. Those blue eyes of hers, so often clear, are darker now, deeper. Pulling me in.
Without a single word, Cecilia tangles both hands in my hair and draws me back. When our lips finally touch, the kiss doesn’t build gradually. Her mouth finds mine with a hunger that knocks the breath right out of me. There is no hesitation, only need. Passionate and all-consuming.
I press her firmly back into the stone wall, my hand finding her waist and tightening there. The small sound she makes goes straight to my head and to my groin, leaving me painfully hard.
I know she feels exactly what she’s doing to me in the way her body tenses, then melts into mine. A rough curse escapes me as her hips shift, grinding against the proof of just how far past self-control she’s pushed me. I press her harder into the wall, my leg going between her thighs.
Her nails drag through my hair, tugging, guiding, taking exactly what she wants. And I let her. I let her because she feels like fire in my hands.
I break the kiss for the briefest second. Just long enough to breathe her in, to feel her chest rising frantically.
“Cecilia...” I whisper her name onto her lips, not even a word. More like a plea from a desperate man.
Her eyes dart downward for a split second, then rise to meet mine again.
She draws me back into her, urgent, and I answer in kind. My thumb traces the line of her jaw, then rests at her throat, where her pulse races beneath my touch. I tilt her head deepening the kiss, and her breath stutters on my mouth as she leans into me.
I don’t care who walks past the alley, who sees us. There is only her.
I don’t even realize I’ve made a sound until she tightens her hold on me, as if afraid I might disappear. “Cecilia... if you keep doing that—”
I stop myself, resting my forehead on hers. Every inhale tastes like her. Her lips are swollen, her breath as uneven as mine, and when I pull back to look at her—Dio.
Her eyes are blown wide with desire, fixed on me like I’m the only thing she sees.
I cradle her face in my hands.“Mi fai perdere il controllo come non mi é mai capitato prima.”The words come out ragged, and then I repeat it in English, hushed, closer this time. “You make me lose control in a way I never have before.”
She holds my gaze, mouth slightly open, as if trying to get her breathing under control, but failing, just like I am.
A whistle rings out at the end of the alley, followed by a long,“Mamma mia”in an exaggerated accent.
We glance at each other and break into laughter.
I brush my nose along her jaw, my lips near her ear as I murmur, “You really need to stop making me lose my mind in tourist attractions. At this rate, I’ll end up arrested for indecent behavior.”
She laughs and, with her hand cupping my cheek, pulls my face toward hers and kisses me again. Deeply.
When she pulls back, her eyes don’t leave mine. “Now take me to try that dish you swore is one of your favorites.”
Grinning like a fool, I lace my fingers through hers and lead her out of the narrow street as the first hints of night fall over Lucca.
“So,” I ask, watching as Cecilia takes her first bite of tordelli Lucchesi and closes her eyes, “did it live up to your expectations?”
Being around her these past few days has felt like a particular brand of torture, but the sweetest one. Even as the evenings grow colder, cold showers have become necessary. It’s like being thrown back into my teenage years... only worse. Or better. I’m not even sure anymore.
I lean across the table and steal a quick kiss before she can lift her fork again.
She laughs into it, then glances around us.
“Relax,” I murmur, running my thumb lightly over her knuckles. “In Italy, we don’t raise eyebrows at public displays of affection.”
Her smile widens as she takes another bite, a small, helpless sound escaping her that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
“This is incredible,” she says, eyes lighting up. “I think it might be the best thing I’ve eaten this entire trip. Well... except for the pasta your grandmother made last night. What was it called again?”
