by A. J. Molloy
Abruptly, I realize.
“All the signs are in German.”
“We have passed the linguistic watershed,” he says. And I try not to look at the way his muscled arms turn the steering wheel, or the way his stubble underlines the certain firmness of his jawline, or the way his cheekbones slant quite dangerously, predatorily, and aggressively. I can imagine that handsome face wrought with anger, killing someone. I can. Yet I still want to kiss him. This is surely wrong.
“Ten miles back they speak mostly Italian, here it is German, yet they are still Italian by nationality. Italians who park sensibly.”
Another sudden turn takes us onto a long graveled drive. I gawp. It ends at a very large and handsome old house, covered with vines and bougainvillea, and boasting a large and battlemented tower in the corner.
“Schloss Roscarrick. My mother and sister are away; they will be here tomorrow.”
He spins the car, flamboyantly, on the gravel, and parks in front of the big main door. A middle-aged man comes hurrying out. He is in shorts and sandals and a T-shirt, yet I gather from his demeanor that he is a servant.
“Guten tag, Klaus,” Marc says, climbing out. The servant smiles, takes the key and nods, very politely, my way. Then the servant says something, apologetically, about working in the garden. At least, this is what I surmise, from “garten,” as my German is pretty poor. Marc nods and happily accepts the apology. He gestures at the luggage in the back. “Ein uhr? Im Zweiten Schalfzimmer. Danke, Klaus.”
Marc takes my hand. He leads me to the big door. I cannot bear this anymore. As soon as the door shuts behind us, I reach for his face and kiss him.
He does not require encouragement. He actually lifts me off my feet, and we kiss. And kiss again.
“Marc,” I say, half crying, half smiling, “I think you have to fuck me. Or I am going to run away.”
He drops me to the floor, and starts ripping at my clothes. But I am also ripping at his. His shirt, I tear at it. I want to bite his bare and toned chest. Make him bleed. I want to see him aroused by me. I want that power over him.
“This way,” he says, pulling me roughly and gorgeously by the hand. “The bedroom is up here.”
The stairs are huge and wide and grand. And he is trying to strip me even as we ascend. Pushing him away, I kick off one shoe, then another. Now I am barefoot. And running. He is running after me. Tearing off his own shirt, throwing it over the balustrade. It flutters in the warm, soft air, a pennant of his lust.
“Where is the bedroom?”
“In here,” he says. I turn to him. The bedroom door opens to his hand. We step inside and the door slams shut behind. His shirt is off. My dress is pulled away. I am in my underwear, panties and bra. I want to be naked for him, naked with him. But I am hot—sweaty and hot after that long drive, and the flight. I want to be clean.
“I need a shower.”
“Then let me wash you.”
He picks me up, and carries me, draped facedown over his shoulder, into a big and bright and fabulously modern bathroom. Steel glitters everywhere. I gaze around. Marc paid for this. He paid for all of this.
Now my Lord Roscarrick sets me down on the bathroom floor. He unclasps my bra and peels down my panties; I am naked, impatient and perspiring.
“So wash me.”
Once more he picks me up, like an ice skater hoisting his partner, and he takes me and he drops me in the shower. He turns a steel dial and warm water comes gushing out. Shirtless, Marc takes the showerhead, on its bending steel hose, and he begins to bathe me. His hands are soaped and warm. It is the same soap he uses in Naples. The soap from Firenze. The scent is divine, and Marc is cleaning me.
He gushes water over my feet, soaping my toes, carefully, sweetly, elegantly. He lifts my feet and washes them clean, toe by toe. When the washing is done he kisses them. And sucks one, then two. Now he drops my feet and he foams and waters my calves, my knees, my thighs. He is studious, dedicated. Diligently he massages my ass with soap suds and clean hot water, and the pleasure throbs somewhere within me; but I wait, and watch, as he turns me around and directs the hot and lovely water on my pubic hair, and my sex, his hands slip between my wet, soapy thighs. And this is too much.
“Get in the shower with me.”
“In a minute, cara mia, just a minute.”
He is soaping my breasts now. Frowning, massaging, covering me with this scented and angelic foam, his soft hands, his hard hands. Lifting the showerhead above my head he jets the water onto my hair and my face; I close my eyes as the water sluices the very last of the sweat from my face. My eyes are shut tightly. And then I can feel his soft mouth on my lips. Kissing me quite hard.
Marc is in the shower. He has kicked off his jeans. He is naked with me and his erection is there. I can feel it against me. I open my eyes. I reach down and hold his cock, his adorable thickness, in my hands. I take some of the foam and I wash his desire. Reverent and careful. I love his erection. I love him. I love his desire for me. How could I doubt him?
As soon as he has washed himself down, he flicks the water off, and we step onto towels, and we dry each other. Then we look at each other and we actually run into the bedroom, naked and clean and young and in love. And ready to fuck. Like normal lovers. But better. But worse. But wait.
We are on the bed. He wants to take me. I stop him, and shake my head. Then I reach out a hand, and I grasp him there in my hand. And now I look him in the eye. And I say, “You killed a man.”
He nods, his blue eyes glittering.
“I killed a man.”
“You had to do it?”
“I had to do it.”
“I can forgive you . . .”
“Can you?”
I grasp his cock tighter. His eyes narrow. Our faces are inches apart.
“Yes. I can. Because I love you. Roscarrick, I fucking love you. And I wish I didn’t. But I do.”
It is the first time I have said it. One or two tears are rolling down my face. I let go of Marc. I lie back on the bed.
“Now do it, do it, take me, please, before—before I change my mind—before it falls apart—before I give up and run away.”
He nods. Then he stoops down to lick me. But I don’t want this. Reaching out again, I take his face in my hands, and I lift him up; I kiss him on the lips, his red, fine lips, and then I kiss him again.
“Marc, I am ready.”
Wordless, he pushes me onto my back, he slaps my thighs open. And then he leans forward and looks me hard and commandingly in the eyes and he smiles very faintly—and enters me hard.
The sense of relief is intense. I am grinding my teeth together. This is painful. This is brilliant. He drives his cock into me again. And again. I am so very wet. And not from the shower. He thrusts, and I gasp. Out loud. Almost crying again. This is vivid, this is what I want: nothing gentle, not now, not after today. No languid foreplay. Just this. Just him. Hard. Possessing me. All of me.
We fuck each other. That is the only way to describe it. We are fucking each other. Taking what we want from each other. Devouring and appetitive. I kiss him on the shoulder, magnificent and hard. Then I bite him. Hard. And kiss him again.
He gasps.
“You.”
I scratch my nails down his back as he enters me again, deep and deeper. He gasps. I know this is painful. I want it to be painful. For him as well as me. I gaze into his eyes as he rises and closes, entering me, once and again. And I say, “I love you, you bastard.”
I scratch again. He thrusts again. I caress the cruel and tender beauty of his jawline.
“I hate you but I love you.”
“X, X . . .”
He lifts my legs so my feet are pressed on his chest, even as he fucks me. My small and bare white feet. Pressed on his hard, suntanned, and dark-h
aired chest. He fucks me. Then he separates my feet, his hands hard around my ankles, and he moves my legs higher, doubling them back, almost painfully, like he wants to go even farther into me. Deeper, so I am crushed underneath him.
I am submitting. He is dominant. He has my feet pushed so far back I can feel the wall with my toes. I like this, I like the subtle pain; I let him ride me, drive me, control me. Do what he wants with me. He is close to coming, I can tell by the angry beauty in his eyes. Abruptly, he lets my legs fall. And he relaxes for a second, pausing, waiting.
Now I come back at him.
I bite the skin on his shoulder as he enters me again. That heavy, masculine shoulder. These murderous arms. These lethal hands. This duelist. Marc Roscarrick.
“From behind.”
Who am I? Giving orders?
Marc obeys. He turns me over. In that balletic way, twirling me in his hands, spinning me round. Like I am a toy, or a favorite tool. Then he opens my thighs again. Oh, oh yes. Now we are nearly done. I sink my face into the pillow. Knowing what comes next. Delighted by what comes next.
But what comes next is different. He thrusts inside me eight or nine times, dominant and hard, and gorgeously deep—but then he withdraws. He reaches under my stomach and picks me up, bodily, and carries me across the room.
To the window. And the big window is wide open. I can see the mountains and the forests, and the darkening blue evening sky. The mountains are red, glowing gorgeous red, in the setting sun. Marc drapes me over the window ledge. It is cushioned with leather. I am facing out, at the mountains. He is behind me.
Then he enters me again. He is fucking me over the window ledge. From behind. I can feel the cooling sweet evening air on my breasts. I can smell the pine forests and the mountains. I can see the glaciers of the Dolomites. I can feel his fingers on my clitoris. I can feel his desire inside me. I can feel the tears on my face. I can feel the shudder of my orgasm approaching. Like horses in the distance. Thundering.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“SO SOUTH TYROL is nice?”
“Beautiful, really, really stunning. The Dolomites are just amazing. Le Corbusier said they look designed—and they do.”
“Le Creuset? The guy who makes saucepans? Who gives a toss what he thinks about the Dolomites?”
I suspect Jess is joking.
“Not Le Creuset, Le Corbusier. The Swiss architect.”
“Oh.”
“They are ravishing, Jess. There are these green, green meadows with wildflowers and sweet, warm lakes, at four thousand feet, and then these enormous rose-gray peaks, like cathedrals—a parade of Gothic cathedrals.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, really.”
“Meh. Mountains. Who needs ’em? Overrated.”
I smile. Jess laughs on my phone screen. We are Skyping. She is in her room in Naples, with the ironic calendar of Mussolini on the wall. I am in a large room on the second floor of a rented palazzo on the Grand Canal. And I am in Venice. We drove down here from Marc’s Tyrolean family home this morning. We parked the car in Mestre and got the boat across the lagoon.
Venice!
“So you went to his famous schloss and stayed there and ate kartoffelsalat and everything?”
“Ja. Es schmeckt gut.”
“And you are fully, you know, recovered from your wounds?”
“I am perfectly fine, thanks for asking.”
“Well, hey. I just worry about your ass, X. I’m guessing it’s taking a lot of punishment?”
Jess is mildly irritated that I am not telling her more about the Mysteries. She wants details, the more salacious the better. But, naturally, I can’t tell her very much.
“Trust me, I am fine. We’re all fine.”
She rolls her eyes and chuckles. Then she says, “So what was the schloss like?”
“Big and . . . imposing. And I met his mother and sister.”
“Really? Lady Perfect. And?”
Her eyes are wide with anticipation.
“They’re not quite what I expected, actually. The sister is very sweet, very English, slightly reserved, rather funny. The mother is more, sort of, Teutonic.”
“Yeah?”
“Blond and Nordic. Like a Norman queen. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Is Aquitaine in Normandy?”
“Yeah, probably. But I thought the mama was from Naples, X? Blue-blooded Neapolitans and all that?”
“Well, yes. That’s what I mean. She is not what I expected. And there is something a little sad about her.” I look over my own shoulder. I can actually hear a Venetian vaporetto hooting its way up the canal. I reckon I can hear tourists heading for the Rialto. Or St. Mark’s Square.
I am desperate to get out there, to see it all, because I have, of course, never been here before; we have arrived just in time for the Fourth Mystery, which is happening tonight.
Venice!
I turn back to my laptop, and Jess’s happy, smiling, pretty, funny, snub-nosed British face. My friend. I miss her. It’s been three weeks since I was in Naples. Three weeks since Marc flew me to Calabria, then the Tyrol.
The emotions of those moments still make me shiver. Marc Roscarrick has truly entered my soul. There will be no getting rid of him now.
I rouse again from the memory, and gaze at Jess, who is checking some text on her phone. And smiling. I say, “How’s everything in Santa Lucia?”
She looks up and shrugs.
“Pretty cool.”
“Teaching?”
She grimaces—but in a contented way. A half-smiling way. Hmm. I sense there is some secret there, she has got something to tell me. But Jess has questions of her own.
“So, X . . . I’ve been meaning to ask. How about . . . it?”
“Sorry?”
Her voice drops an octave, and quite a few decibels.
“I mean, you know, it, the thing, the thing thing, what happened in Plati. Are you, like, over that?” She squints, close to the camera. “Can you cope with all that?”
I have told her this story in an e-mail: I sent it two weeks ago. I told her everything: all I had learned about Marc killing a man, in cold blood. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her; but she is my best friend, and I had to share it with someone: it was too much to own by myself. I had to dilute the knowledge, and spread the burden.
Her e-mailed reaction was total shock and surprise. With not a trace of her usual sarcasm, or cynical amusement. Which only served to underline the seriousness of the facts I was relating.
But she also expressed her worries for me, as she is expressing them now.
“I think I am okay,” I try to reassure her. “Because when you hear the context, what he did was . . .” What’s the word? Acceptable? No. Understandable? Not quite. Justifiable. Yes. It was justifiable—rough and personal justice, meted out in a land effectively without the law.
Marc, as I see it, had little choice. Otherwise Norcino, the psychotic killer, would have carried on killing, slaughtering men and women, literally mincing them up. That is how I have rationalized it anyway; that is how I cope with the knowledge.
I tell this, once again, to Jess. She nods, gravely.
“You could argue that what he did was heroic,” she muses. “You could also say that Marc is still a killer.”
“Jess.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I object.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“I’m actually agreeing with you, X. Because it is a different world. Down here in the south, the Mezzogiorno. This isn’t the peaceful towns of New Hampshire, is it? This is their world, their laws.” She frowns. “Fact, I was thinking about this the other day. And I decided: who are we to judge Marc? I could have married an RAF pilot who drops bombs on kids in the Middle East in some pointless war. Would th
at be any different? Would that be any better? Yet no one would think ill of me then, would they? No one would ask me: Oh, how can you bear it, knowing what he did?”
I nod, and say nothing. It’s an interesting point—possibly a good point, a point that makes me feel better. But it’s not a point I want to discuss now, because I can hear Marc downstairs, talking to the maid who comes with our hired apartment. We have to get ready soon. Apparently there are handmaidens coming to dress me, here, in preparation for the Fourth Mystery. I am guessing these costumes must, therefore, be quite elaborate.
But before I go, I want to know Jess’s news. I know there is something.
“Okay, Jessica, I have to say bye.”
She nods and looks at her phone, checking the time. “Yep, six P.M. Better get cracking. I’m going to Vomero this evening—”
“Vomero?”
“Uh-huh.”
There it is again. That flash of a secretive smile. And now I think I have guessed. There is a man. I have seen that fleeting smile before, and it normally indicates there is a new body in Jessica’s bed.
“Who are you going to Vomero with?”
She shrugs.
“Just someone.”
“A new boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. Then she smirks. Then she nods.
“Yes. A new boyfriend.”
I squeal.
“Oh my God. So go on then—tell me! You have to tell me!”
“Well . . . It’s . . .” She looks away from the camera. “It’s tricky. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .”
This is odd. It isn’t like Jessica Rushton to be bashful or reticent about her love life. Usually she tells me every last detail. Every last inch of detail. With relish. Then she demands the same of me. She loves gossiping about men and sex. I’m not averse myself. This shared fascination with the intricacies of love is one reason she and I get on so well.