The Italian Christmas Bride (Christmas Around the World Book 4)

by Joanne Walsh

  He enjoyed seeing her so happy and bubbly at last—like the younger Ash he fallen in love with. But there was something deeper and darker brewing within him . . . She was tempting him to endurance. He glanced at the kitchen clock to distract his tightening body. “I think this deserves a toast. We’ve got a couple of hours before we’re due at the restaurant.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “I could do with a drink after the cake production. What time are we expected there?” she asked.

  “Nine. We’ll be having a traditional Christmas Eve meat-free meal,” he told her, getting up in search of glasses and a bottle of champagne and chatting as casually as he could. “Most people go to midnight mass afterwards at St. Mark’s basilica. I don’t know if you want to do that? You’ll need to wrap up warmly by the way. We’ll be going to the trattoria by gondola.”

  “The gondola ride sounds fabulous. I haven’t travelled in one for years. Not sure about midnight mass. I reckon I’ll be tired. It’s been a busy day.”

  “It has,” he agreed, pouring fluted glasses of champagne, then handing one to her. “Let’s go and admire the ceppo.”

  He guided her across the hall into the living room, a firm hand caressing the small of her back, to where the newly-erected and decorated wooden frame tree stood in the window, its lights winking at passers-by on the canal below, and the star at its apex throwing a warm glow. Its shelves were adorned with the colourful ornaments they’d purchased earlier.

  “It looks so pretty,” Ashlynne said admiringly, “even if I say so myself.”

  Lorenzo looked at her shining eyes and raised his flute in tribute. “Here’s to you and your decorating skills.”

  She clinked her glass with his and added, “And here’s to the tree, and to Christmas and to us.” She smiled shyly. “You know, I think I’ve really got the Christmas spirit thing happening in large quantities now.”

  “So, am I hearing that it’s not so bad spending the holiday away from home and with me?”

  She put her head on one side and looked at him from under her lashes. “You might be.”

  He smiled broadly back at her and moved to give her a hug. She hesitated, then raised her glass out of harm’s way to let him wrap his arms around her. He held her tight, closing his eyes, nuzzling her neck and drinking in the sweet, sexy smell of her, and felt her glass-free hand land tentatively on his shoulder. They stayed like that for long seconds, then—reluctantly—he let her go, carefully planting an affectionate kiss of the side of her face as he did so.

  “That’s very good to hear. I’m enjoying spending Christmas with you, too.”

  They stood looking at one another, and a happy laugh curved her lips. He raised his glass again to her and said, “To us. And to our Christmas spirit.”

  Chapter Six

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  Lorenzo helped Ashlynne into the gondola that was moored just beneath the palazzo. Though it had stopped snowing, a sharp frost was descending, so she was layered up warmly against the below-freezing night. Under the light of the large, full platinum-silver moon, the blanket of snow that covered the ground and speckled the canal-side buildings had a glistening sheen that sparkled like a layer of powdered diamonds. She let out a breath of awe at the fairytale quality of the beautiful deep-frozen city and it hung like a pearly cloud in the icy air.

  He gallantly clutched her leather-gloved hand to help her balance as she walked gingerly to the cushioned seating area that was positioned at one end of the boat. The gondolier stood behind, his punt at the ready.

  “I’m wearing so many layers I can hardly move,” she laughed.

  “You look beautiful, tesoro,” he replied quietly, and she couldn’t help glowing at his compliment, and also registering how handsome he looked tonight, dressed for dinner beneath his heavy overcoat, oozing strength and self-assurance. However, she felt less certain when his gaze suddenly raked over her hungrily and her breasts tingled traitorously in acknowledgement.

  He helped her lower herself down into her seat and then placed himself beside her, arranging a woollen blanket over them and stretching an arm along the back of the seats, pulling her to him in a close grip around her shoulder.

  She studied him for a moment or two. He seemed preoccupied now. She bobbed her head down and snuggled up against him. “Gotta huddle together for warmth,” she joked.

  He rubbed her shoulder and laughed. “I should say so. It’s bloody freezing out here on the water!”

  They set off, gliding along the Grand Canal, past ancient snowy palaces, towards the Rialto Bridge, with only the sound of water lapping against the boat. Ashlynne leaned contentedly against Lorenzo, drinking in the view and marvelling at its film-set quality. After a while, she raised her head to say dreamily, “This is so romantic.”

  She sensed him withdraw him arm a little from around her shoulder. “Romantic? That’s not so good.”

  What had she said? She turned to him, a puzzled look furrowing her brow under the cuff of her beanie. “Why isn’t it good?”

  She watched as he grimaced and raised his hand. “You and I. We aren’t doing romance, are we?” he responded tautly. “No more kisses.”

  “N-no.” She laid her head back down on his shoulder and pondered for a minute. She felt herself tense. The atmosphere between them had become suddenly charged. She felt compelled to fill the silence. She raised her head again, her curls sticking to the wool of his overcoat. “But there’s romance and there’s romance,” she pointed out.

  “There is?”

  “Yes, there’s general romance—a romantic setting or atmosphere, for instance. And there’s romance between people, which is . . . more complicated. This is the former.”

  “I see.” He looked up around him. “So you’re comfortable with this . . . ” He swept his free hand around. “ . . . General romance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I take back what I said a moment ago. This is good.”

  “It is,” she agreed, hoping that the dreamy vibe of a few minutes earlier had returned.

  “But, tell me, what’s so complicated about romance between people?”

  She sighed, wondering if she should dodge his question. “It starts out all red roses, moonlight and champagne,” she began reluctantly, “then it becomes dark and murky because people are complicated . . . ” she paused. “Mostly, they ending up wanting different things.” Like us. She didn’t say it, but still it hung like hoar frost in the Artic night.

  He turned and speared her with his gaze. “But doesn’t romance help them through the difficult times; add a little lightness and relief that helps remind the people of what they fell in love with to begin with, help them compromise and keep going?”

  “I guess . . . ” she said slowly. “But so often the romance dies when the going gets tough.”

  “I see.” His voice sounded heavy and he turned away. She could see his stunning profile silhouetted by the moon and dim lighting along the canal. He seemed faraway and sad.

  “Hey,” she said gently and he turned back to look down at her. “You okay?” she asked, her gloved fingers somehow finding their way without her permission to lightly touch his cheek.

  “Yes,” he said, and her breath caught in her throat when he leaned over her and whispered in a voice raw with desire, “I know we agreed on no more kisses but . . . oh, Dio, Ash, I want you, amore. I want to kiss you, make love to you again. Come back to my bed.” He lowered mouth his mouth to hers, but before he could make contact the gondola jolted to a halt. “We’re here,” he said, looking round.

  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to breathe again her heart thumping like a piston at what he’d just revealed. What shocked her more was that she felt moist longing pulse between her legs, because he’d confessed he wanted to sleep with her. She could have told herself it was just the reflex at work, but she knew this reaction was more than just a habit.

  They alighted on the Cantinone Storico in Dorsodino, outside a charming little trattoria that face
d straight onto the waterfront, and that Ashlynne recalled visiting when she and Lorenzo were married. The owner rushed out to greet Lorenzo, kissing him three times on the cheeks, then clapping him on the back, before he caught sight of her standing patiently in the background. “Signora di Grechi!” he exclaimed. She thought about protesting, then realized that would be rude and instead acquiesced gracefully to having the back of her hand kissed. A perverse part of her liked being feted as Lorenzo’s wife.

  The maitre d’ showed them to their table in an alcove decorated with tiny, exquisitely-painted Venetian carnival masks, and soon they were seated with drinks. She toyed nervously with the stem of her glass.

  “There’s a set menu tonight,” Lorenzo told her. “Lots of courses, mostly fish, so I hope you’re hungry.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Ashlynne counted nine courses in all, which were brought on a continuing basis on large platters by the cheery waiting staff. She no longer felt hungry after what had just passed between them on the canal. But she forced herself to manage a few bites of everything, including potato and cheese pie, fried calamari and shrimp scampi, linguine with blue crab sauce, artichoke salad and her particular favorite, stuffed lobster. It was delicious, and all washed down with bottles of white wine and Lorenzo’s highly entertaining conversation. But she was only half-listening. She couldn’t get the image of their almost-kiss in the gondola, or the erotic promise of what he’d confessed out of her mind.

  A waiter came and set the final course—puddings of lemon sorbet and three-chocolate mousse with little almond cookies—in front of them.

  “Hope you’ve got room for some of this.” Lorenzo spooned up some of the chocolate mousse and offered to feed it to her. She hesitated briefly at the intimate gesture. His heavy-lidded eyes slid over her and, as if controlled by some paranormal force, she opened her mouth and let him ease the delicious confection in.

  “Oh God, that’s amazing!” she declared, closing her eyes, as the sensual, bittersweet thickness of the chocolate hit her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Still watching her intently, he offered her more spoonfuls, and she willingly let him supply them until raising a hand to let him know when she was done.

  “Ciccia, you’ve got chocolate around your mouth. Let me—” He leaned over and gently wiped the smear with his fingers. His touch tingled on her skin and his intense brown eyes caught hers with an inescapable sensual pull.

  “I’m in trouble,” she thought, as his fingers moved to begin tracing her lips, grazing their fullness until she parted them and his fingers slipped inside. For countless seconds, the noise and bustle of the crowded restaurant receded as she sucked on them, her tongue languidly sweeping their length, their gazes staying locked. It was just her and Lorenzo, caught up in their own sensual world. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers and ran his thumb down to stroke her jawline, and she shivered. She couldn’t help gasping, as something exploded inside her. Then, his hand fell away and the spell was broken.

  “I think I need some air,” she mumbled, hurriedly pushing her chair back from the table and grabbing her coat. “I’ve eaten too much, and it’s as hot as hell in here.”

  He inhaled sharply and nodded. “I’ll get the check.”

  Back outside, the cold wind shocked and stung her when it hit her heated cheeks, but it was what she needed. She felt Lorenzo come up behind her and pull her to him, as he hailed a gondola. “Piazza San Marco, grazie.” Her head buzzed and she was dizzy and febrile, knowing that some invisible boundary had been crossed, that there was no such thing as the reflex, and there was no going back to hide in her own space.

  They settled in the boat and she made no protest when he wrapped his arms tightly around her again. She rested her head against his chin, savoring the cologne-and-wine smell of him, feeling his stubble against her forehead.

  “I wasn’t a very romantic husband, was I?” he mused.

  She angled her head so she could look up at him and shook it. The frost-laden air between them was shimmering and heady. “You were to begin with. And you were always very passionate and sexy.”

  “I still am.” He took hold of her hand, and she was mesmerized as he raised it and, pushing the edge of her glove aside, kissed the inside of her wrist, his lips feathering across her rapidly beating pulse.

  Her heart leapt in her chest. “But there needs to be romance,” she whispered, as he moved his lips to her palm and made her quiver.

  He lifted his head and smiled lazily. “Well, we’ve already agreed that we’ve got the romantic setting . . . ” he followed his eyes as they went upwards to the clear night sky. “ . . . The moon and the stars . . . ” He moved so that he was leaning over her, his mouth close to hers. “ . . . And this . . . ” He moved to kiss her softly, sipping and brushing, making desire coil and writhe in her like a sensual snake. She arched into him, needing to fuse more fiercely with him, her hands coming up to hold his head and tangle in his silky hair. He continued delivering butterfly kisses to her mouth, her face, her jaw, tugging her scarf to clear a path on her neck, and she closed her eyes, revelling in the intimacy and gentleness of his touch, of touching and tasting him once more.

  “Piazza San Marco, signore,” the gondolier called out, and the boat juddered to a halt.

  Lorenzo groaned, raised his head, gave Ashlynne a peck on the mouth and a squeeze on the shoulder. She reciprocated by caressing his cheek.

  “Romantic interlude over. Time to get out,” he said gruffly.

  They scrambled off the gondola into St. Mark’s Square, just as the bells of the basilica began pealing, summoning worshippers to midnight mass and scattering the few pigeons that had braved the freezing night. Ashlynne gazed up at the magnificent floodlit church that was flanked by a huge Christmas tree.

  “I thought we could walk back from here,” Lorenzo said, making her start as he took her by the hand and pulled her, so that she slid a little along the crust of frost that covered the snow-cleared flagstones of the square.

  “Whoops!” she cried out, as she wobbled and slipped, clutching his hand with both of hers. Lorenzo was by her side in a second, catching her by the waist and pulling her in for a lingering kiss, his tongue hotly tangling with hers.

  When they pulled apart, panting slightly, the air misting between them, she banged his chest. “Were you trying to make me fall over again?”

  He gave her a big smile. “You’ve rumbled me. I was hoping I could brush your snowy bottom again.” His hands crept down and cupped her buttocks through her coat, and he kissed her, so that she tasted the ice crystals on his lips.

  “Come on,” he said offering her his arm. “Let’s go home.”

  The walk through darkened streets and squares, and shadowy twisting alleyways, cleared Ashlynne’s head. When they got back to the apartment, he reached for her, but she suddenly remembered her cake.

  “Ohmygod, I need to glaze it and put it in the fridge!” she said, pushing him away in her haste and not registering his surprise. “Sorry!” After rapidly shedding her outer garments, his sweater and her boots, she hurried off into the kitchen in her stocking feet.

  She did the necessary steps and after admiring her handiwork, covered it and placed it in the refrigerator. She turned around and saw Lorenzo leaning with one arm above his head against the doorframe, watching her, his tie loosened and his shirt partly undone. Where the rumpled material parted, she could see a smattering of the dark hair that covered his chest and stomach. Her insides did a flip and she swallowed and, without noticing what she was doing, licked her lips. He looked so damned sexy!

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he straightened and walked over to where she was standing, then pulled her to him. “So you’d rather play about with your cake than me?” he growled.

  He began swiftly undoing the small buttons that held the front of the bodice of her dress together and, without protest, she let him reach inside to stroke her bare skin. He caught her mouth with his as he searched for her breast and closed his warm fingers aro
und it, his thumb dragging across the flimsy material of her bra and her swelling nipple. She pulled away to allow him more access, then her own hand shimmed up to join his, grasping it and briefly caressing it, before taking it to push aside her bra cup and bare her breast to him. His fingers darted to the stiff peak so that he could tease and torment it, while his mouth claimed hers once more, demanding and insistent now.

  She welcomed his tongue as it thrust and roamed in her mouth, turning her legs to jelly and her mind to mush. She was aware of his hand leaving her breast to cleave to her bottom, and of him walking her backwards. She threw her arms around his neck to steady herself, their mouths still fused, and they made contact with a kitchen counter. He was bending her backwards, hauling her up onto the polished marble surface with one hand, while stabilizing them with the other. She tore her lips away from his, panting hard, her fingers twining into his hair. He paused and surveyed her for long seconds, his own breathing hard and his eyes burning. Then he dropped to his knees and pushed up the hem of her dress, found his way to her knickers and eased them down, pushing her thighs apart, exposing her hot, wet sex. She groaned and leaned back, opening herself some more as far as the constrictions of her clothing would allow, anticipating the sweet moment when he would penetrate her folds, lave her nub, probe her inner core.

  When it happened, she cried out and bucked, arching against his skilful tongue, feeling herself ache and throb and flood with moisture as he tasted and tortured her, holding her hips firm to angle her to him. As her pleasure built and became almost unbearable, she begged him wildly to stop, yet thrust herself against his mouth again and again wanting more. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, the waves of her climax came crashing in, strong and all-consuming, and she shuddered, flopping forward limply like a rag doll as he rose up to catch her and fold her up in his embrace.

  He held her as she came down from the dizzying heights of her orgasm, trembling and weak, and wiped the perspiration from her hairline. She clung to him as he whispered, “I think you need me. I think you need me very badly. As much as I need you. Come back, please. Come back to my bed.”