by Joanne Walsh
Chapter Seven
‡
He gathered her up in his arms and carried her into his bedroom, and placed her on his king-sized bed. He stood over her as he removed his clothing—whipping off his tie, then his shirt. He thrust his hips forward to unbutton his pants and as they fell, Ashlynne breathed faster at the sight of his erection jutting through his boxers, then springing strong and free as he pushed those down too.
He knelt down on the bed and began undressing her in purposeful silence, except for the sound of his own quickened breathing. As he took away her dress and her bra, he ran an admiring, possessive hand over her breasts, causing her to gasp as he grazed her nipple, then down her torso to her knickers. He eased them along her legs and flung them carelessly away. His fingers reached for the tops of her hold-up stockings, but instead of discarding them, he just traced the lace, then knelt down to kiss bare skin at the tops of her thighs. She bucked in anticipation and she heard him laugh. “Easy, gattina bella, let’s take it slowly.”
He raised himself up and turned his attention again to her straining nipples, coaxing them, tugging them, suckling them until they ached. He raised his head and moved over her. “I’m going to make you ready for me,” he whispered as he captured her mouth and she moaned into his kiss, “so ready.”
His hands roamed back down to between her legs, his fingers stroking and easing their way to part her and glide backwards and forwards over her bud, until she writhed and became slick and welcoming to him. He moved to slide a finger inside her. She gasped and closed her eyes once more, arching her back towards his hand as waves of sensation washed over her.
“Do you like that, amore?” he whispered, his finger becoming more insistent as it moved in and out, and she whimpered her approval. He withdrew and took her nub between his finger and thumb and squeezed, causing her to spasm and cry out and throw her arms above her head. His free hand snaked up to catch hers and hold her fast, while he continued his delicious torture of her, reinserting one finger and then two inside her, stroking her wetness until she thought she couldn’t bear it any more. She threw her eyes open and looked up at him, pleading with her eyes. “Oh, Lorenzo, please . . . please. I need you inside me,” she begged. “Do it to me.”
He smiled down at her. His fingers stilled, then withdrew once more. He said nothing but a half-smile still lingered around his mouth as he regarded her with a hypnotic stare. Then, he moved his body over hers and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. Cupping her bottom towards him, he entered her with one swift, skilful movement and rode her with powerful, rhythmic thrusts. She tensed for a moment, then melted as she felt his hot, hard flesh moving against her warm wetness, as he seemed to push deeper and deeper inside her.
She exploded into spirals of pleasure. His climax came swiftly after hers and he stiffened and groaned above her.
He lay still pulsating inside her, their bodies damp with perspiration. Then pulled away from her and caught her mouth in a long, soft kiss. She returned it, her hands framing his face. When he finally broke it, she looked up at him, still panting slightly and brushing his hair away from his forehead.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “God, how I’ve missed you.”
Chapter Eight
‡
Lorenzo woke with a start, roused by the sound of bells ringing all over the city. Ash lay in his arms, her glorious autumn mane spread out across his chest. He planted a soft kiss on her smooth brow—she came close to perfection when she was asleep—and ran a hand down the curved creamy length of her back. Snatches of last night’s loving played through his mind and he felt himself becoming aroused again. It had been so incredible, being with her again. No other woman would ever compare to Ash; to wanting her and driving himself to the core of her, being held by her. It was almost supernatural, making love to her; being propelled by that incredible need and desire for her, and not just lust for a face and body. He leaned his head against his free arm on his downy pillow as he re-ran their intimacy in his head again and again.
She stirred and he looked down at her as she surfaced from her slumber. “Buon Natale, cuore mio.”
“Mmmm.” She gave a little stretched and snuggled into him. “Happy Christmas to you too.” She turned her head. “What’s that sound?”
“It’s all the churches in Venice ringing their bells, calling the devoted to their Christmas prayers and celebrating the holiday.”
“Is it wrong of me to want to stay here in bed with you all Christmas Day, snug and warm?” She burrowed into him and began caressing the fine, dark hair on his chest.
“Yes!” he responded, with laughter in his voice. “Because we have things to do today. Christmas things. I was thinking brunch, followed by a stroll into the city, and then we make our festive dinner. I’ll build the fire too and tonight we can relax in front of it.”
“Sounds brilliant,” she replied, “though I have an idea for an activity before brunch.”
“What’s that, cara?” he asked languidly, stroking her curls.
“Oh, just a little Christmas present from me.” With that, she ducked beneath the duvet and wiggled her way down the bed.
He picked up the edge of the duvet to see what she was up to, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw her taking him in her mouth. His head fell back and he gasped as his erection swelled and she got to work with her lips and tongue . . .
*
Brunch was smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with paprika and fresh parsley, and delicious warm rolls with conserves, washed down by fresh orange juice and lots of coffee. Ashlynne arrived shyly at the table with her gift of the wallet concealed behind her back.
“What are you hiding?” Lorenzo queried, bringing a large covered bowl of cooked eggs over to the table that were ready to eat and trying to peer around her to see what she had in her hands.
“A little something to say, Merry Christmas, and thank you so much for having me.” She handed over the package containing the wallet.
He undid the ribbon, unwrapped the handmade paper around the wallet and drew it out. His mouth widened in a genuinely delighted smile. “Tesoro, it’s wonderful—just what I need.”
“I did notice that the one you’ve got has seen better days.”
He grimaced, “That was left to me by my mother. One of the few things I have to remember her by.”
Her hand flew to her mouth as she realized she might have done the wrong thing. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I just thought it was looking shabby and needed replacing.”
“It is and it does,” he agreed, “and it really should be put away now, along with everything else about my past.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, noticing the pensive expression that now shadowed his face.
He shook his head, as if ridding himself of something unpleasant and looked at her again, his features relaxing. “It is okay, and it reminds me that I thought about showing you where I was raised. Maybe we can do that when we go out for our stroll in a while?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I’d like to know more about your childhood. About you,” she added softly.
He nodded. “Yes. I think it’s time I shared. I grew up not far from here. We can walk there. And the weather’s improved today. I went out onto the balcony while you were showering and the sun is shining.”
“Terrific!” she responded enthusiastically. She’d always wondered about Lorenzo’s background, and if his keeping it to himself had contributed to them growing apart during their marriage.
“But before we do, let me give you this.” He reached down to the seat of one of the chairs that was tucked under the kitchen table, withdrawing three beautifully-wrapped boxes. “Babbo Natale called in the night and left these for you.”
She squeaked with surprise. “Father Christmas? Oh, my goodness, what can they be?” She set about tearing open the packages. The smallest box contained delicate gold drop earrings, set with golden-yellow Murano glass beads and a turquoise swirling glass heart-d
rop; the medium one held a matching glass heart charm bracelet: the largest revealed a gold, swirling glass and bead heart-drop necklace, also in turquoise and yellow. “Oh!” she breathed. “They’re absolutely lovely!”
“I thought they would complement your coloring, bring out the turquoise in your eyes,” he said. “Buon Natale.”
“Thank you so, so much!” She stepped forward and flung her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. “When and how did you manage to get them? Yesterday?”
“Ah, we have ways and means,” he replied cryptically, holding her by the waist and resting his eyes on her face. “I’m glad you like them.”
“I do!” she exclaimed. “I so do!”
“And I like my wallet too.”
He inclined his head and kissed her passionately. “Nothing tastes quite as good as you, tesoro, but I think my brunch might not fall far short. Let’s eat before it goes cold.”
Later, as she was getting ready to go out for their walk, she decided to fix the bracelet on her wrist. She held it up to admire it and then checked herself. She was elated after last night’s lovemaking. Having his touch on her body again had been a huge, beautiful release. Something inside her had shifted and there were truths she could admit to herself now: she’d never stopped wanting him or loving him. She felt a little breathless when she thought about that.
But hard on the heels of her happiness came a question which niggled away at her: where did they go from here? She might never have stopped loving him but, she reminded herself, she’d certainly stopped trusting him. Her mood darkened as the old insecurities started snapping and biting at her: the jury would always be out over whether he’d cheated on her. She could only forget that for so long, and she might never completely forgive him for it.
Oh . . . ! She groaned to herself in frustration.
“Ash, are you ready to go?” Lorenzo called to her from the hallway.
She swallowed hard. Today was Christmas Day, when you were supposed to put your cares aside, practice goodwill. She’d think about the sticky stuff tomorrow. “Coming!” she called back making her voice sound enthusiastic as possible. As she moved, the turquoise glass heart glittered on her wrist in the sunlight that was flooding in through the window. Delicate, fragile, beautiful, but easily broken . . . Just like her love for him.
*
It was a glorious day. The glowering snow clouds of yesterday had cleared, to be replaced by a crystal-clear blue sky and radiant sunshine that sparkled on the canals like a thousand gems. But the temperature was still below freezing, and the air was so crisp and sharp that after a while it hurt to breathe. Ashlynne walked arm in arm with Lorenzo, chatting as breezily as she could, and pointing out sights like the bright-red-painted vaporetto bearing a waving Santa Claus and loads of gifts. “He’ll be on his way to the children’s hospital,” Lorenzo commented.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they wandered along.
“To Cannaregio. It’s next to the Santo Lucia train station. Be prepared, cara: I’m not sure if you remember the district, but it’s not quite so smart or picturesque as the siestere di San Marco.”
She sensed his mood changing as he said this. He seemed to become quiet, withdrawn and his walking pace changed to more of a trudge. She decided not to press him. After all, he was taking her to see the place that would remind him of the deaths of his mother and grandmother.
As they pressed on, the sense of seasonal goodwill they’d been sharing evaporated as the buildings around them gradually changed, becoming smaller, more tumbledown, and the streets and lanes narrower, darker and more dingy. Lines of frozen washing hung strung up high between the shops and houses, and children ran noisily around, or watched them with big eyes in thin, pinched faces. Every now and then, they passed alleyways between buildings, down which Ashlynne could see dilapidated snowy courtyards hung with yet more washing, and dirty doorways where women stood, some smoking, clad in tight, revealing clothes and cheap-looking tarty shoes, their hair piled and teased above their heavily-made-up faces. She couldn’t help staring.
“They’re prostitutes, cara. This is Venice’s red-light district,” Lorenzo said dully. “This is where I was raised.” Ashlynne snatched a glimpse of his face. It wore the same pinched look as the kids did who milled around them. She’d known he grown up in poverty, but she realized she’d never really known or thought too hard about what that meant.
He led them further along the winding street, then turned them into a courtyard. It was quiet and shadowy, squared by very old balconied stone buildings with high, narrow windows, their walls inscribed here and there with splashes of graffiti. There was a broken fountain in the middle, filled with murky ice.
“We lived in three rooms up there.” He pointed to a corner. “My grandmother and I shared a bedroom, while my mother had the other where she plied her trade.”
A fist of shock punched Ashlynne in her chest as she grasped what his meaning was. “Your mother was a . . . prostitute?”
“Yes. A puttana. And my grandmother acted as her brothel keeper.”
“Oh, Lorenzo. I knew you had a tough childhood, but I had no idea . . . ” She trailed off, not sure of what to say.
“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice curiously emotionless. “There’s very little to be said, except that it was rough, very rough, for a small boy whose mother was more interested in turning tricks than in him. I was the result of one such liaison. I never knew who my father was.”
She stayed silent, just reaching for his gloved hand and tangling her fingers in his. She noticed his grip squeezed her own hand hard as he continued talking.
“Mamma had alcohol and drug issues. I guess she needed them to keep on doing what she did. The men could be violent, and one of them beat her to death.”
Ashlynne gasped, tears of shock springing to her eyes.
“I was eight when she died. Her pimp made sure he came before the police arrived and took the money she’d earned, then just stepped over her body and left.” He turned to her and she saw there were tears in his eyes too. “That old wallet I was using. It was where she kept her earnings. I crept into her room and took it the day she died. It was the only thing I had to remind me of her.”
Instinctively, she pulled him to her and he didn’t resist. “Oh, darling, I am so, so sorry,” she choked as they clung to one another. “So, then it was just you and your grandmother?”
“Yes. But Nonna was an alcoholic too and not a nice person. Very mean and unloving. Rumor had it that she’d been on the game before she got too old for it, and that she’d forced my mother into doing it.”
“And you had no other relatives?”
“Not that I knew of. After Mamma died, I virtually lived on the streets, which was just fine by Nonna. But I was lucky. I went to a school where the teachers understood and cared, and did their best to help us. And then, when I was a teenager I got a job as a bellboy in a big hotel in the center of town. I was a fast learner and the manager took me under his wing, and I never looked back; I was determined to get out of these mean streets, make something of myself.”
Ashlynne tenderly stroked his hair. “Why did you never tell me any of this when we were married?”
“Because I’d got by and succeeded through not feeling sorry for myself, not letting my past define me or hold me back. I’d also learned to hold in my emotions in, fight for myself. It doesn’t do to be weak or vulnerable round here if you want to survive.” He exhaled heavily. “I was tough on myself in order to get on, and I guess I’ve been tough on other people too. I didn’t have much experience in loving relationships, or of things lasting.” He leaned his head against hers and she moved her hands to cup his face.
“So, now do you understand why things turned out like they did?” he asked sadly.
“Yes. Yes, I do.” The tears were streaming down her face now.
“I’m so sorry, cara. I just didn’t know how to stick around or be there for you. I just had to keep on running
.”
They stood there holding one another. All Ashlynne knew was that she longed to be able to mop up all his pain, make his bad memories go away, but she was helpless to do anything but comfort him. After a while, he stepped back from her, wiped his face with his hand, then took both of her hands in his.
“I’ve got something else to show you.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Something much more in keeping with the spirit of Christmas.”
He led her out of the courtyard and back onto the main street. They walked along silently hand in hand until they arrived at a building that was smarter than the ones that surrounded it, next to a church. A sign hung over the door: Bambini.
“Kids,” Ashlynne translated out loud with her rudimentary grasp of Italian.
“Welcome to my project. A place where the kids in the area can come at any time, for fun, food, study, medical care, advice or just to hang out.”
He opened the door and stepped aside to let her go in. They proceeded down a brightly-painted corridor with Christmas decorations and drawings pinned to its walls, past large rooms where Ashlynne could see a variety of things happening: in one, a bunch of children sat on comfortable armchairs watching a DVD; in another, some teenage boys were playing pool; and in yet another, there was what looked like a crèche for very young mothers with their toddlers. There was a simple, happy atmosphere. At the end of the corridor, they reached a big hall hosting long trestle tables and a very big Christmas tree. The delicious smell of food cooking wafted over them as they entered.
“This is the dining room,” Lorenzo explained. “They’re having a Christmas feast at 3 p.m.”
Two smiling ladies approached them, one young, one older. Both were dressed casually in jeans and sweaters, but also wore large crucifixes, so Ashlynne wondered if they were nuns.