Page 48 of Italy and Forever

‘Wow, so casual sex is amazing. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this for years.’

Rhys groaned, the only sound he could make right now. It took all of his effort to dispose of the condom and then he collapsed back onto the bed, his hand over his racing heart.

As his breath finally evened out, he mumbled, ‘If you can still chatter, I’m not sure I did a great job.’

‘Is that what you were trying to do, shut me up with sex?’

‘No!’ he protested, but he couldn’t give her an explanation for why her words landed uncomfortably on him.

He could still feel her on his skin. The satisfaction from being with her was somewhere in his psyche, not only his nervous system. She’d held him dangerously close to her heart.

He didn’t want to examine why they were so good together in bed – and why he hoped it wasn’t simply because she didn’t usually have no-strings sex. ‘I just don’t understand how you’re not as wrecked as I am.’ He peered up at her to see a satisfied smile form on her lips.

She wasn’t wearing her ring or a stud. How hadn’t he noticed? There was a tiny mark on her skin below her bottom lip, the only indication of what was usually there.

‘It’s probably the little matter of eleven years, old man,’ she teased, scooting down to lie next to him, propped up on her elbow.

‘Don’t remind me,’ he replied, his voice gravelly. He eyed her. ‘Did you ask someone how old I am?’

‘Maybe,’ she responded with a pout.

He’d thought she might grow shy with him sprawled naked on her bed, her own body similarly unclothed, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. She didn’t seem bothered by anything right now, which he envied.

‘I suppose the lack of expectations is freeing,’ she mused. ‘It doesn’t matter if my chatter bothers you, because there’s nothing at stake. I really should have tried this earlier.’

He couldn’t answer that with anything other than an inarticulate grumble. ‘Your chatter doesn’t bother me,’ he contradicted the easy part. ‘Or, if it occasionally does, then my silence bothers you more.’ His eyes drifted closed.

‘Are we playing a game of “who dislikes whom the most”?’

He cracked one eye open. ‘Did you just say “whom”?’

‘Add it to the list of reasons you dislike me.’

She was smiling, although he suspected she wasn’t entirely at peace with the idea of being disliked by anyone. He hoped she knew he didn’t truly dislike her. After today, he was worried about drifting too far in the opposite direction. He didn’t want to miss her when he went to Canada.

‘But you’re right about the silences. They bring out all my insecurities, although I realise that’s my own fault and not at all yours.’

He couldn’t resist. He lifted a hand to her shoulder and trailed his fingertips along her skin: first her arm, then her waist – she was predictably ticklish – then settling on her upper thigh. He could photograph that one bend all day, trying to capture the texture of her skin, the movement of muscle and the soft curves. ‘I hope at least some of your insecurities have calmed down now?’

She laughed. ‘Some, yes. Plus, you’re talking to me right now. Is sex the way to open you up?’

He certainly felt flayed open. ‘I don’t know why you want to open me up.’

‘I’m just naturally curious,’ she answered flippantly, leaning her chin on his chest. He smoothed a strand of her hair between his fingers – something else he’d been desperate to do for weeks, or maybe even months. ‘You make it sound like you’re Pandora’s box. What will I release if I lift the lid?’

‘All the usual human weaknesses that shouldn’t touch you,’ he answered before he thought better of it. His fingers wandered to her ear now, brushing the three studs in the lobe. ‘Bitterness, disappointment, despair.’

She lifted her head, her eyes narrow. ‘I don’t think that’s what I’d find.’

‘That’s a big statement, even from the queen of all hopefulness.’

‘You shall now call me “Your Majesty”,’ she said with a plum smile. ‘You’ll tell me I don’t know you well, but I’ve seen your photos – from the wedding in winter and also… some other ones.’

She coloured and if it weren’t for her blush, he might have missed her meaning. But it blossomed inside him when he understood: she’d looked up his work, he suspected out of personal interest rather than professional. The thought clogged in his throat.

She was too young for him, too bright and she liked his work and maybe he shouldn’t have taken advantage of these things to end up in bed with her, but it was warm here, next to her.

‘Bitterness and despair are not what I see in your work, Rhys.’