The sun was warm on their bodies, the bustling square three stories below them, their neighbors if any, partially shielded by conveniently placed topiary. And the outside wall offered solid support for Flynn who was holding his bride impaled on his erection.
Although vaguely aware of the sun and the breeze and the warmth of the stone wall against her back, Jo’s inflamed senses were more conscious of the hot, pulsing core of her body, of the acute, riveting thrust and withdrawal of Flynn’s engorged penis, of the blissful silken friction of flesh on flesh, of the tremulous, aching, all-consuming need rippling up her vagina. Eyes shut, her cheek resting in the hollow between Flynn’s neck and shoulder, she clung to him, while he held her bottom and thighs cupped in his arms and kept her captive to the deep, slow unrelenting rhythm of his lower body.
She came under the hot sun and he did and they did in a series of furious, raging orgasms that only came to an end when they collapsed breathless and gasping on the chaise.
“Sorry,” he panted as she lay atop him. “My arms—gave out. . .”
She shook her head, wanting to demur, unable to speak. His chest heaving, Flynn reached out and plucked a bottle of water from a basket of fruit and wine and amenities set on a low table. Uncorking it with his teeth, he poured the water over his head and down Jo’s back.
“Ummm .. . more,” she whispered.
“Water or sex?” he panted, pouring a draft into his mouth. “Water.” Her head lifted fractionally from his chest. “And you’re going to get us thrown out of Florence.” But her voice was teasing.
“There’s no one around—at least three floors up,” he said with a grin, pouring another bottle of water over them. “And we’re moving to Fiesole tomorrow.”
Her brows rose faintly. “How reassuring.”
“None of this was an issue a few moments ago.” His gaze was amused.
“We can’t all be level-headed in the throes of passion.”
He laughed. “Hardly. Nor would I want you to be.”
Her smile was impish. “How fortunate.”
“I’m the fortunate one to have found you again.”
His voice had taken on a sudden seriousness and she touched his cheek as though in reassurance. “Thank you for coming to find me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Nor I,” he softly said. “I went up in the mountains after you left.” He glanced at the buildings surrounding them. “And discovered”—he paused and took a small breath—“that all I needed was you beside me.”
“I’m glad,” she simply said, the words insufficient for the overwhelming gratitude she felt. But his mood had visibly altered and he’d looked startled a moment ago when he’d looked around, as though suddenly realizing where he was. “You must miss the wilderness, here in the city.”
“At times.”
“This may not be enough for you then.” She lifted her hand. “With the congestion and throngs.”
“Fiesole will be different.”
“Or somewhere else.”
“Yes.” He stroked her back lightly. “Perhaps a place with trees and mountains someday.”
“So it’s not the ranch you want to leave.” Bracing her arms on his chest, she looked at him directly.
“Not exactly,” he said, not sure how much to say—what she could understand, if anyone could understand what his life had been.
“It’s the constant battles, no doubt.”
He nodded. “I’m not fighting for the survival of a clan like your father, or attempting to maintain an age-old culture or tribal lands. I’m only taking up arms to save myself and my land and I’m not sure it’s worth the personal cost. I couldn’t even guarantee your safety in the Sun River country.” Or mine, he thought, which was more likely at risk.
“Then there’s no reason to go back. Don’t even consider it. I’m content wherever you are.”
“Thank you. The sun feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, wonderful,” she answered, understanding he’d prefer not discussing the subject.
“Would you like some more water?” He held out the bottle.
“There’s something else I’d rather have,” she softly said.
His smile was pure seduction. “Let me guess . .
And perplexities and vexing quandaries were set aside for more pleasant endeavors.
They spent the day in the grand gilded bed and then the evening and very late that night, Jo fell asleep in Flynn’s arms, her ravenous desires at last, sated.
He wasn’t sure if his ever would be. Restless, his thoughts in ferment, he gently eased her from his embrace and rose from the bed. Walking to the opened balcony doors, he stood in the moonlight, looking out on the city, the solitude and quiet muting his disquietude. He breathed in the balmy night air, mindlessly counted the few lighted windows in the square, wondered if he was meant to live in a city like this. He didn’t know. There was so much he didn’t know, cut adrift from his home.
He’d become a ronin, a wanderer, like his father.
Would he find another home someday as his father had? Would he return to the Sun River Ranch if lasting peace was achieved? Would he ever take up the swords he’d put away? Would he ever fight again now that he had a wife?
The riddles of the universe were rarely so easily revealed as he well knew, and after a time, no nearer to understanding, he returned to the bed, leaned back against the ornate headboard and kept watch on the woman he loved.
What he did know was that he was lost without her.
And content when she was near.
It was enough.
Much later that night, Jo woke, and looking up, saw him gazing at her.
He smiled. “Go back to sleep.”
“You should too,” she murmured, drowsily, snuggling closer to his warmth.
“I’m taking pleasure in having you beside me,” he murmured, touching her cheek lightly. “I’ll sleep later.”
“I don’t know how you can stay awake,” she whispered, already dozing off again.
He smiled.
Practicing a thousand days is said to be discipline; practicing ten thousand days is said to be refining. This should be carefully studied, Musashi had said.
He was a samurai.
He could stay awake and guard the woman he loved.
Epilogue
The newlyweds spent a year in Fiesole and then moved to Paris where their first child was born. The Empire Cattle Company was no more, the investors having cut their losses and sold out. McFee and Flynn had purchased the land; peace had finally come to the Sun River country and McFee sent monthly reports to Flynn wherever he was.
Lucy was in Paris with her husband Ed Finnegan when Flynn and Jo’s daughter was born. She’d brought the baby a lavish layette, taken one look at her new granddaughter and decided she was much too young to be a grandmother. But she’d admired the baby from a distance, proclaiming her very beautiful and then spent the rest of her Parisian holiday shopping.
Hazard and Blaze came to visit their first grandchild shortly after Lucy left and stayed for a month. On one of their first evenings in the city, Hazard and Flynn had a moment of quiet after everyone had gone to sleep. Sitting over brandies in the library, Hazard brought up a subject that couldn’t be discussed in a letter or telegram. “I sent some of my men to England awhile back to take care of that Phellps fellow,” he remarked.
“My men came home and told me they were too late. Seems he’d been sliced up some before he died.”
Flynn nodded. “I got to him first.”
“Then the matter was settled,” Hazard said, softly.
“He deserved it.” Flynn met Hazard’s gaze. “You saw what they were like.”
“Yes. Despicable men—cowards who had others do their fighting.”
“I put my swords away after that.”
“For good?” Hazard watched his son-in-law closely.
Flynn shrugged. “For now, at least.” He smiled faintly. “I have this urge
to see the world and Jo indulges me.”
“McFee’s doing a good job as you know, and there’s still too many witless fools trying to make a name for themselves with a gun.” Hazard smiled. “Enjoy your travels.”
A son was born to Jo and Flynn in a small village north of Kyoto two years later and they stayed in Japan until the baby was old enough to travel. Flynn studied with his father’s Kendo school and in the refining of his samurai skills, he also found a greater degree of peace. For the next several years, the small family journeyed the world, meeting with the Braddock-Blacks or Lucy from time to time at various locales, coming back to the villa in Fiesole when they felt the need for a more permanent home, enjoying the sweetness of life together.
Jo and Flynn’s love only deepened with the years, their happiness and contentment a constant delight to two souls who had once questioned the reality of such tender sentiments as love.
“I’m really glad you rode into town for Stewart Warner’s dinner,” Jo would say on occasion, gratified or amazed, sometimes fearful of the unfathomable workings of fate.
“I would have found you wherever you were,” Flynn would always reply, with an unruffled certainty and strength of conviction that invariably calmed her. “We are like a force of nature, you and I—our spirits would have met somewhere in the world. Even sitting quietly and doing nothing,” he said, the words of the Zenrin poem echoing in his ears, “it would have happened.”
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