The sentence came out before I could think. It came out with a little of what I'd been holding in since the pink house.
Luca looked at me, and then he held out his hand.
Not to hold me, to offer it. The palm open, between the two of us, at the height of his chest.
I looked at his hand, then at his face, and put my hand in his.
He pulled me. Not to the bed, not to the desk—to him. He put his other hand on my waist and brought me inside his space.
My chest touched his. My forehead, his chin. I felt his heart beat through the white shirt, slow—slower than mine—and that was worse than any kiss.
"Bella mia."
"Don't call me that right now."
I lifted my face, and he kissed me.
Today it was possession.
His mouth came with more force, more decision, one hand at the nape of my neck and the other rising from my waist to stop in the middle of my back, opening the palm like someone checking the size of what he has in his hand.
I answered. I ran both hands up his back, over the shirt, feeling his ribs, feeling his broad shoulders through the fabric, and I grabbed. I fisted his shirt in my hands, pulling him.
He laughed against my mouth and pressed me against the edge of the desk.
The desk hit the backs of my thighs. I felt his hands come down from my nape to my waist, and from my waist to my hips. They stopped there, gripping me.
"Bella. Stop now, or you won't stop at all."
I swallowed.
His mouth came down along my chin, along my neck, stopping at the spot where the neck meets the collarbone.
He kissed me very slowly. And I, who'd had control of my fingers my whole life, discovered in that second that the control of my fingers was no control at all—because they'd gone up on their own to the nape of his neck and were pulling his hair back without my having decided it.
"Stop, Luca. Please..."
He stopped. Without complaint. Then he lifted his head and put his forehead to mine, breathing fast.
"Capisco, bella."
"It's not that I don't want to."
"I know."
"It's because my brother is in a cellar in this house."
"Capisco."
He stepped back half a step and let go of my waist. Then he took my hand and kissed my fingers—one by one, slowly, without theatrics—and let go.
"Bella. Next time, you won't be able to stop."
CHAPTER 19
"Deferred desire doesn't die. It grows fat."
VALENTINA ROSSI
