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"Mia vita. My life. My soul."
I ride him with a frantic, desperate hunger, matching his rhythm, our bodies slick with sweat, our gasps mingling in the warm studio air. The cushions creak beneath us, and the easel trembles with the force of our shared passion.
"Romeo!" I scream, my voice raw, breaking as my orgasm tears through me like a wild current.
He pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair, his hips slamming into mine, spilling thick ropes of hot cum deep inside me, claiming me again and again until our bodies collapse in a heap, exhausted and completely sated.
Afterward, he holds me close, wrapping a soft linen sheet around our bodies. He carries me out onto the terrace, laying me on the sun-warmed daybed.
I lie there in his arms, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves against the cliffs below, feeling the sun kiss my skin.
"You are not just a masterpiece, Romeo," I murmur, running my fingers over the dark ink of his tattoos. "You are my monster. My sanctuary. My home."
He kisses the top of my head, holding me tight.
"Always, Kitten. Always."
By afternoon, the villa belongs to us alone. Romeo sent the staff across the bay, and the quiet feels like a held breath.
THIRTEEN
ROMEO
The silence in the villa kitchen is pure, uninterrupted luxury.
I gave strict orders at noon: every maid, footman, and groundskeeper was sent across the bay to Naples for forty-eight hours. The security detail, twenty heavily armed Messina soldiers led by Enzo, is stationed half a mile down the private cliff road behind the iron perimeter gates.
Tonight, there are no guns drawn in the hallways. No ledgers open on mahogany desks. No radio static whispering through earpieces.
Just me, my wife, and the smell of roasted garlic, sweet San Marzano tomatoes, and fresh basil bubbling in copper cookware.
I stand before the six-burner gas range wearing only dark gray sweatpants, bare-chested and barefoot against the warm terracotta tiles. A wooden spoon rests in my right hand, moving in lazy, rhythmic circles through a heavy pot of sugo that has been simmering on low heat for three hours. The steam rises into the air, carrying the rich scent of olive oil, crushed red pepper, and sweet red wine.
Across the kitchen, a vinyl record turns slowly on an antique brass turntable sitting on the sideboard. Dean Martin croons softly through the speakers, his smooth voice blending with the gentle splash of waves down against the rocks.
I don't need to turn around to know she is there. The scent of her arrives first: clean vanilla soap, sun-warmed skin, and the faint, sweet trace of lavender oil from her evening bath.
Iris walks slowly into the warm light of the kitchen.
She wears one of my crisp black button-up shirts, stolen right out of my closet after her shower. The sleeves are rolled past her wrists, the hem brushing the middle of her pale thighs, leaving her slender legs completely bare. The top three buttons are undone, teasing the soft curve of her collarbones and the delicate hollow of her throat where a faint purple mark from my teeth still lingers.
Her wild red curls are damp, curling around her shoulders in dark auburn ringlets. Her face is completely bare, her scarred eyelids soft, her cloudy green eyes tilted slightly upward toward the ceiling as she listens to the music.
She trails the fingers of her right hand along the smooth edge of the butcher-block island, navigating the room by memory and touch, completely confident in the layout of our home.
Watching her walk barefoot through my kitchen, wearing my clothes, carrying my scent on her skin, hits me so hard in the chest that my breath catches in my throat.
My fingers tighten on the wooden spoon.
She stops near the fruit bowl, her fingertips brushing over the waxy skin of a ripe lemon. She picks it up, brings it to her nose, and inhales deeply, a soft, content sigh parting her lush pink lips.
"You're burning the garlic, Romeo," she teases, her Irish accent lilting softly over Dean Martin's singing.
"A Messina never burns the garlic, Kitten," I reply, my voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrates across the quiet room. "It's bubbling in butter and olive oil. Perfect caramelization."
She sets the lemon down and turns toward the sound of my voice. Her bare feet make no noise as she crosses the kitchen floor, her arms extending slightly until her palms find the solid warmth of my ribs.
She steps into my personal space, her cheek resting lightly against my shoulder, her fingers sliding over the dark tattoos covering my chest.
