The sitting room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. The fire he had lit earlier had burned down to embers, casting long, dancing shadows.
Giana was asleep, curled on the deep couch. The oversized T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of her collarbone. One arm was tucked around his pillow, the other resting loosely near her face, showing that she was still wearing his ring.
Her face was relaxed in sleep, the fierce intelligence smoothed away. She looked young, vulnerable, and so perfect that the sight stole the breath from his lungs.
The tension that had coiled Rodrigo's muscles tight for hours began to ease, replaced by a different kind of ache, deeper and more profound.
His gaze drifted to the coffee table, where her laptop was still open on the security cameras. Quietly, he touched the trackpad and turned the feeds off so the light of the screen wouldn't wake her.
The camera view disappeared, revealing a digital canvas.
Rodrigo stared, transfixed as his own face stared back at him. Giana had captured the angles of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. She had drawn the watchful raven inked on his chest, the fortress-like designs coiling around his biceps. She even included the faint scar above his eyebrow.
Storms were in his eyes and the rare curve of a smile on his full lips. Beneath the harsh lines, the intricate ink, there was a rawness that he never let the world see. Except she had.
"Fuck," he whispered, unable to look away.
Rodrigo reached out, his fingers hovering over the trackpad, and carefully minimized the drawing, saving it, and shut down the laptop. The screens went dark.
Rodrigo moved silently to the cupboard near the fireplace and pulled out another soft blanket. He unfolded it with quiet care and draped it gently over Giana, tucking it around her shoulders. She murmured softly in her sleep, nestling deeper into the pillow, but didn't wake.
Rodrigo wanted to pick her up and take her to bed, but he knew better. He didn't want her to feel like he had touched her without permission.
He stood there for a long moment, watching her sleep, the fierce protectiveness warring with a tenderness that threatened to crack his ribs open.
Rodrigo thought of the gift he had been preparing for her, tucked away in a storeroom near the old stables. Maybe it was time to offer it to her so she wouldn't stay mad at him for kissing her.
Reluctantly, he forced himself to turn away and go into the bedroom. He needed distance before the urge to kneel beside the couch and bury his face in her hair became irresistible.
Giana's crimson silk dress lay on the floor, a vivid splash of color near the foot of the bed. He picked it up, lifted it to his face, and inhaled deeply.
Jasmine, and beneath it, the unique, intoxicating essence of Giana herself. Strength and defiance and a hidden softness. The scent flooded his senses, bringing back the heat of the kiss, the feel of her body pressed against his.
A low groan escaped him, muffled by the fabric. Now he was just torturing himself. He dropped the dress into the discreet hamper tucked into the walk-in wardrobe.
Get your shit together, Rodrigo.
Stripping off his suit jacket and waistcoat, he tossed them onto a chair. He got rid of the rest of his clothes, and the cool air of the room brushed his overheated skin as he pulled on some pajama pants.
He padded barefoot to the bed, pulled back the heavy duvet, and slid between the sheets.
Fucking hell, Giana's scent was everywhere. It was like lying in a cloud of her. His body tightened, blood rushing to his dick in an insistent throb.
Rodrigo closed his eyes, but it only made it worse. Images flashed behind his lids, vivid and relentless. Not just the kiss from earlier, but older images of the night in the apartment in Florence. That fucking night was seared into his memory like a brand.
Giana, defiant and furious, bathed in the light of the ensuite. He had been frozen, unable to look away, as she took the sleek, vibrating toy from its box.
The challenge in her eyes as she met his gaze, holding it while she pushed aside the lace of her panties.
The sharp hitch of her breath as she touched herself, the flush spreading across her chest, and the soft, desperate sounds she made as she brought herself to climax, her eyes locked on his the entire time, forcing him to witness her reclaiming her body, her choice.
The agonizing mix of lust, shame, and a terrifying awe had rooted Rodrigo to the spot. He wanted to push her hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his cock.
Rodrigo remembered the small smear of blood on the inside of her thigh and how he had finally been able to move to clean her with a tenderness that had shocked him.
He kept the small, stained square, folded it away like a sacred relic and an insurance policy he never wanted to use. It was atestament to her fire, and the proof of when she ruined him for all others.
Now, lying in sheets that smelled of Giana, that memory fused with the present. He imagined her here, in this bed. Touching herself now, not out of anger, but out of need. He imagined her arching into her fingers and gasping his name.
