She found herself going up and down the stone stairs of the villa, rambling from room to room, exploring the whole beautiful house; the little terrace overlooking the formal gardens, the various sitting and dining rooms, sinking into a chair for a little while, then standing up again to wander further, picking up objects and putting them down, unable to settle to anything. Rory had the usual bookshelves of crime novels discarded by previous tenants and guests, and she tried a Swedish detective story but couldn’t get past the weird surnames and all-pervading gloom. When you were in a seventeenth-century Italian villa in early June, the warm early summer sun streaming in through the windows, casting rhomboids of warmth on the cool stone; when each window yielded a view breathtaking enough to make an entire collection of postcards; when you were waiting for your Italian lover to come by in his Lamborghini, take you to dinner and then, hopefully, ravish you till dawn – well, it was impossible to focus for more than a few seconds on whether a group of depressed alcoholic detectives called things like Smorgasbord and Fjordsdottir had found a body at the bottom of a frozen lake.
At least Devon could spend hours on her appearance. Painting her nails, letting the various coats dry, took plenty of time; she chose a deep rose, as anything darker would look Gothic against her white skin, and Cesare might tease her about being a vampire. Then she took a shower, loofahing herself within an inch of her life, and a long soak in a hot bath with essential oils, her hair coated in conditioner. By the time she was clean and dry she was already gleaming like a pearl. She moisturized with Ralph Lauren Glamorous lotion, which had a faint gold gleam that made her sheen opalescent.
Devon felt as if she were in a film; it was perfect and it was unreal. Villa Clara was like a film set, or maybe a backdrop for a play. Her bathroom and bedroom were decorated simply, in utterly neutral shades, stone floors, white walls, huge white bed, an equally huge white porcelain bath, marble sinks. She herself, wrapped in a huge white towel, was the only colour; she floated back and forth between the rooms, spraying on Glamorous perfume, finger-curling her heavy dark hair into loose ringlets, checking her appearance in silver-backed mirrors as she gradually made herself more beautiful than she had ever looked in her life. She spent ages on her make-up, blending in foundation, dotting a rosy glow onto her cheeks, dusting shades of purple and gold onto her eyelids, outlining her eyes with dark pencil, painting onto her lips a deep rose lip stain that exactly matched her nails. She was her own canvas.
Thank God I packed everything I could think of! Devon was vain enough to have brought clothes that showed her in her best light, and she had very luckily packed sheer black thigh-high stockings, lace underwear, high heels. She posed in them in front of the mirror, imagining Cesare’s face when he saw her in them; and then she had to throw herself onto the bed, literally so weak at the thought that her legs wouldn’t hold her up.
I wish I could wear Spanx, she thought wistfully; for a moment she contemplated pulling them on over her lace French knickers, taking them off in the toilet of the restaurant, so that she’d fit perfectly into her dress at the early stages of the evening; by the later part alcohol would smooth over the lumps and bumps, much like the Spanx themselves. But what if Cesare puts his hand round my waist and feels them – you can tell when someone’s wearing slimming pants – and what if I forget to take them off – Oh God, he’d laugh like a drain, he’d tease and tease me, I’d be totally embarrassed . . .
No, the Spanx were out. But when she pulled on her dress, a black cap-sleeved lace Nougat dress that was one of her favourites, she was hugely excited to find that it slid down smoothly, without getting caught on any rolls of fat along the way. She had definitely lost some weight. Devon would never be slim enough to wear the kind of bright, fashionable, body-hugging clothes than Deeley could pull off, let alone Maxie’s fitted suits; Devon had literally never been able to tuck a blouse into a waistband in her life, because it made her look like the Michelin Man. The best she could hope for was to be able to wear a size 12 dress. And here it was. Her bosom spilled up at the neckline, cut straight across, which always flattered a woman who was well-endowed; two perfect white swells, like the cover of a romance novel set in the 1700s. White skin, black dress with a wide white grosgrain ribbon threaded through lace eyelets at its empire-line bodice, black hair; the only colour was Devon’s dark rose mouth and her painted nails. She was hugely complacent as she went down to the formal sitting room on the first floor and arranged herself on one of the sofas as alluringly as possible.
An hour later, her nerves were completely shot. She had been ready by seven, not knowing when to expect Cesare; by eight, she was pacing back and forth, having gone down to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Prosecco to help with the nerves. She thought she might be sick at any moment. What if he hadn’t really meant it? From her single days, she remembered the men who had said they’d ring you, or see you tomorrow, and then had never turned up. What if he had meant it, but changed his mind? Decided to take another woman out instead? He must have a whole string of possibilities. What if he’d thought, in retrospect, that she was much too easy? An Italian woman would surely not have kissed him like that, made it so obvious that she’d let him do whatever he wanted. Especially not the aristocratic Italian women with whom a prince would usually spend his time.
I may be all dressed up, with an acquired posh accent, but really I’m just a working-class girl from a small Northern town, Devon thought, pouring more Prosecco into her glass, her heart hammering against her ribs. All dressed up and nowhere to go. I’m a peasant, basically. I even told him I was one, last night. And he must have decided that he doesn’t fancy a peasant after all . . .
By the time she heard car wheels clattering up the gravel of the drive, all the calm she had achieved when looking at herself in her bathroom mirror was lost; she was an utter bundle of nerves. Shoving the glass back on the kitchen counter, she dashed upstairs again to the living room, determined to let herself be found as she had planned, lounging elegantly on the formal sofa. She grabbed the Swedish crime novel as she went, thinking it would look better if she were absorbed in a book, not just sitting there counting the minutes till his arrival. She was barely back on the sofa, face flushed, trying to smooth down her hair, relief flooding through her like a tidal wave, when she heard the front door swing open.
‘Ciao, bella! Dove sei?’
The sound of his voice sent a spike up through her; she twisted on it, momentarily unable to speak. She wanted to punish him for being so late – she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost eight thirty. How dare he keep her waiting so long?
Cesare was coming up the stairs now; she heard the leather soles of his shoes on the stone treads. ‘Sei qui? Are you here?’
He entered the living room and stopped dead at the sight of Devon on the sofa, the book in her hands; with horror, she realized that it was upside down, and quickly she put it down on the coffee table.
‘Goodness,’ she said coldly, ‘what time is it? I wasn’t expecting you for hours!’
She looked at him, and her breath caught in her throat at the expression on his face. He was staring at her as if he wanted to eat her up, his eyes glinting almost savagely.
‘Sei bellissima,’ he said quietly, looking her up and down, from the toes of her black suede Kandees stilettos to the crown of her head. ‘Bellissima. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.’
Devon gripped onto the arm of the sofa for support; even sitting down, when Cesare stared at her like that she felt weak. Especially because he just kept staring, and she knew that he was taking in every detail of her appearance, the silver necklace glinting at her throat, the diamonds in her ears, the pretty painted fingernails. The silence grew, like a cloud, a bubble enclosing both of them, from which his intensity was sucking out all the air; she could barely breathe. She stared at him just as greedily, looking him up and down; dark blue silk shirt tucked into slim black trousers, showing off his narrow,
lean frame. Smart: he had dressed up for her too. And it even looked as if he had shaved before coming out. His jaw was remarkably free of stubble. She wondered if he had put on aftershave, and if so, what it smelled like, and the idea of being close enough to smell him made her shiver.
‘Shouldn’t we go?’ she said eventually in a tiny voice, staring back at him. Still holding the arm of the sofa, she stood up, adjusting her dress, tugging down the hem to hit just below her knees. It was hard to move, though. She was actually frightened to approach him, to walk towards the door; the idea of them going downstairs, of her collecting her wrap and her bag from where she had placed them in the front hall, seemed unimaginable.
‘Si,’ Cesare said, as if he had been hypnotized and was responding automatically. ‘We have a reservation for nine o’clock.’
‘Is it far?’
Why am I asking? Devon thought hopelessly. I don’t give a damn how far away the restaurant is . . .
‘Un po’ di strada,’ he answered, still staring at her.
And then she knew why she’d kept asking questions. Because when she stopped talking, when she simply stood there, looking back at him, the silence was overwhelming. The bubble pressed in around them, tighter and tighter, enclosing them in a space that wasn’t about speech at all, but something much more basic. Neither of them dared to move. It was, Devon realized, the calm before the storm. And she did, for one long, breathless, endless-seeming moment, feel strangely calm.
If Cesare had turned away, broken the spell for a little while, headed out of the living room and down the stairs, gesturing for her to follow him, they might have managed to maintain the civilities of proper behaviour for a little while longer. Might even have reached the restaurant. And as soon as Devon realized that, she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t wait a moment longer. I’ve been waiting since last night for this. No, since he kissed my hand in my bedroom and I fell hopelessly in lust with him.
No. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.
She took a step towards him. He stared at her wildly, almost like a nervous horse, eyes rolling. She took another step; she was very close to him now. And she could smell his aftershave; he hadn’t stinted on it. Dry and citrussy, like crushed lime leaves, with a tang of something stronger behind them; bay rum.
‘I thought,’ she said, still in a tiny voice, because it was all she could manage, ‘I thought in Italy you kissed people on the cheek to say hello and goodbye? I don’t want to be rude and have you shout at me again.’
And, propping one hand on his shoulder, she leaned in and kissed his right cheek. His body was as tense as a wire; his shoulder muscles felt like steel under her palm, but he didn’t react in any way. Disappointed, persevering, she turned to his left side, deliberately brushing her breasts against his chest, kissing his other cheek now. And when he still didn’t, as she had hoped, crack and kiss her, she summoned up her courage, and trailed her lips along his cheek, slowly till she reached his mouth. She planted a single light kiss on it, feeling how taut he was; his lips were actually clamped together, wouldn’t respond to hers at all.
Pulling back, taking her hand away, she looked at him; as she was wearing heels, he was probably no taller than her, if you didn’t take the shock of his hair into account.
‘Well then,’ she said, smiling at him as enchantingly, as seductively as she could manage. ‘Have we said hello properly now?’
Cesare’s lips unclamped. He muttered something Devon couldn’t hear, but which, from its tone, she assumed was a string of curses. And then he reached out for her, clamping her against him. She practically threw herself into his arms as their mouths met, gasped with happiness as he kissed her and she kissed him back. It was all she could do not to burst into tears with sheer relief. The kiss was just as powerful as she remembered from last night. It hadn’t been the drink, the hot springs, the intoxication of an Italian early summer evening with a half moon in the velvet night sky; it had been all Cesare, the chemistry between him and her, which was now eating them both up like flames licking over their bodies.
And, as if they had really been on fire, frantic to strip burning clothes off before the flames ate into their flesh, they grabbed at each other, tearing impatiently at buttons and zips, grabbing and pulling to reach bare skin. Cesare reached down and with one pull tugged the hem of Devon’s dress from where she had demurely smoothed it below her knees. He lifted it right up to her waist, making her gasp at the shock of the cooler air on her skin, and then, a split second later, at the heat of his hands on her lace-covered bottom, fingers sinking in, pulling her even closer to him. He gasped too, his hands roaming up and down, finding the tops of her stockings, exploring the bare skin between them and the edge of her French knickers.
‘Madonna mia,’ he groaned against her mouth. ‘Che cosa mi fai . . . sto impazzendo per te . . .’
‘Oh God, yes,’ Devon begged, ripping at his shirt, running her hands over his chest, sinking her fingers into the curly hairs, trying to pull the shirt off his shoulders as best she could. ‘Keep talking Italian, Cesare, please . . .’
‘Ti piace?’ he asked, sinking his tongue into her mouth, his fingers into the round curves of her bottom, kneading the soft skin. ‘Ti piace, signora?’
She thought that meant ‘Do you like it?’ and, as soon as she could speak again, as soon as her mouth was free, because he was kissing her neck, down to her breasts, pulling her dress off her shoulders so he could bare her lacy bra, she managed to moan out a ‘Yes, yes!’ that was all the answer he needed.
‘Allora, parlero Italiano per te, bella mia,’ he said, his hands behind her back, undoing her bra as she ran her own over his small, firm buttocks, cupping them as he had cupped hers. ‘Ti parlo Italiano quanto vuoi, basta che continui a toccarmi cosi . . .’
He dragged her bra up, baring her breasts, groaning in pleasure as he saw them for the first time, his hands closing round them, lifting them so he could kiss and lick one taut nipple and then the other. Devon’s legs gave way under her in slow motion at the sensation; there was absolutely no way she could keep standing up while Cesare was doing this to her. She grabbed at the coffee table on the way down, Cesare collapsing with her, bracing their fall; they landed on the carpet in a tangle of limbs, Cesare’s mouth still, miraculously, kissing and nipping at her breasts.
And suddenly, Devon realized something. They were in a villa, empty apart from them, in the middle of the countryside. However much noise she made, no one would hear. She could do what she’d always dreamed of doing during sex, what Cesare was making her want to do more than ever before; she could scream as loudly as she wanted. In a complete rapture of abandonment, she opened her mouth and shrieked in ecstasy and appreciation of what Cesare was doing.
He loved it, as she had assumed she would. He redoubled his efforts, which sent her into an even higher pitch.
‘Si, bella,’ he groaned into her breasts, ‘si, grida per me – dimmi che ti piaccio, grida per me . . .’
His hands were on her thighs now, pulling down her knickers. Devon raised her hips to help him, and, not to be outdone, managed to get her hands up to his waist, half-sitting up, kissing him madly as she undid his belt, and, with huge relief, felt not only the size and girth of his cock as she unzipped his trousers, but the unmistakeable outline of a condom wrapper in his pocket.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she muttered, pulling out the latter and biting it to tear it open frantically, in a desperate hurry to have Cesare inside her. Then she screamed again as her wish was immediately granted, his fingers deftly parting her and sliding into her, finding her wet and more than ready for him.
‘Jesu santo, sei cosi bagnata,’ he groaned, as she clung to his shoulders, momentarily paralyzed by the sensations rushing through her. Then she started to move, to ride his fingers, her face buried in his hair, her eyes closed, concentrating utterly selfishly on what she wanted, working herself against him and his clever fingers till in a moment she came in a spasm so intense it was li
ke a stab up through her, leaving her collapsed and panting with relief against his body. Only dimly did she register him snatching the unwrapped condom from her limp fingers, rolling it on and pressing her down onto the carpet, positioning his cock with his hand and then driving it into her with one long motion.
If Devon had screamed before, it had been nothing compared to the volume that she achieved now. With every thrust Cesare made inside her, she shrieked in ecstasy, her hands wrapped around his forearms, which were braced on either side of her. She dug her fingers in, feeling the hairs on his arms, the muscle, the throbbing veins, managing to keep her eyes open to watch his face above her, contorted now in his efforts not to come immediately, but to draw this out as much as he could; she delighted in every tortured line of his face, his eyes drawn into dark slits of concentration.
And then she realized why she was screaming so very loudly. Cesare’s cock had a curve to it; she had felt it just now, running her hands over him. And that bend in his cock was hitting what must be her G spot, or at least a particular place inside her that felt better than anything had ever felt before. It was as if he were a sex toy made specifically to fit her, ramming and ramming against that sensitive nub of flesh till she felt herself letting go utterly, her fingers slipping from his arms as her hips bucked against him in spasms of orgasm, her head beating against the carpet.
With a yell of ‘Ti vengo – cazzo, ti vengo!’ Cesare plunged into her in a last few pounding strokes, even more strong and overwhelming than before, sending Devon completely over the edge. She’d wanted to feel him coming inside her, but was so lost in her own orgasms that she missed it. He collapsed on top of her, their bodies still jerking and throbbing against each other’s, reluctant to finish. Devon came again in a final little extra of release that drew a squeak of surprise and pleasure from her and made Cesare grunt as his still-hard cock felt her briefly spasm around him again.
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