by Julia James
She felt weak. Incapable of doing anything except drink him in. She must have talked, she must have said things, but her mind was a daze. Inside her veins, the wine creamed in her blood, infusing her with a strange wonder.
I just want to look at him.
Gaze and gaze.
She had never allowed herself to do so before. Had always dragged her eyes away from him. Never indulged herself. But tonight—tonight was different. She didn’t know why, didn’t question. Merely let herself do what she had wanted to do since the very first time she had ever set eyes on him, and felt the shock of her reaction go through her.
Then, it had been forbidden to her. Then, she had been someone who would never have been allowed to do what she was doing now.
But she wasn’t that person any more. She had been transformed, enchanted, into someone quite, quite different.
Someone who could gaze at him to her heart’s desire.
Because he was doing the same to her.
The butterflies swooped and soared. His eyes were holding hers, and she was breathless, completely breathless.
He was getting to his feet, standing up. Holding out his hand to her.
‘Come.’
It was all he said.
All he had to say.
She stood up. She could feel the silk rustling around her. She gathered the skirts into her fingers, making her way around the table to him. The strapless bodice clung to her, her hair brushed over her bare shoulders, her naked back.
He led her out into the hallway to the interior of the house. Opened another door and ushered her inside.
It was a bedroom.
And it was not hers.
He caught her shoulders, and turned her to him.
For one long, endless moment Rico gazed down at her, into those wide eyes, gazing up at him as they had gazed all evening.
How he had waited this long he did not know.
She hadn’t realised, he knew, that her looking at him like that had been a torment to him. That it had taken all his self-control not to push back his chair, stride around the table to her, lift her up and crush her to him.
But he had not done so. Not just because the staff had still been about their business, not just because the chef had produced a tour de force that evening and to abandon it halfway through would have been unthinkably inconsiderate. Not just because he had known that with the night to come both of them would require sustenance.
But because he had known that she needed time.
Time to give herself to what was happening to them.
Did she know how much he desired her? He suspected not. The ways of men were an unknown country to her.
A realisation came to him, plunging through him.
Will I be her first?
Emotion scythed through him, flaring in his eyes..
‘Elisabetta.’ He spoke softly, so softly, letting his voice pour through the liquid syllables.
His hands curved around her bare shoulders. Her skin was warm to his touch. He rested his thumbs along the delicate bones that arched to her throat and let them smooth her minutely. He felt her tremble beneath his touch.
She was still gazing up at him, her eyes huge, and in them was a longing that was unconscious in its intensity. It jolted through him, tipping him over the edge.
He could resist her no longer.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.
She gave a soft, helpless sigh, her eyes fluttering shut.
He kissed her slowly, very slowly. It was a soft kiss, a caress of her lips with his, and he could feel them shape themselves to him uncertainly, exploringly.
His mouth glided over hers like silk on water.
He took his time, an infinity of time.
This must be perfect for her—perfect.
He mustn’t rush this, must take it at her pace, take her with him slowly, exquisitely, on the journey.
His mouth left hers, left her lips parted as his moved on, across the line of her jaw, to the hollow beneath her ear, gliding like silk, like gossamer, to where with the lightest of touches he caressed the outline of her earlobe.
One hand had slid around the nape of her neck, fingers teasing at the fine tendrils of her hair, while his other hand spanned the arch of her throat.
He felt the low, soft gasp vibrating through his fingers, and then his mouth was on hers again, teasing and caressing, until, with a sigh, she opened to him.
His body surged at the sheer sensuality of it as his tongue glided within. He felt her still, as if with shock, and then, as he intensified his kiss, he felt that moment come again as she yielded to his desire.
His hand swept down from the nape of her neck, along the naked length of her back. His fingers sought the fastening of her dress and, with a skill honed with practice over many years, he released the hook, and slowly, very slowly, slid down the zip.
He felt the bodice loosening against his torso and his hand at her throat moved downwards.
He wanted…He wanted…
Dio, but she was exquisite. Full, and soft—and yet as he cupped the silken mound he felt it ripen at his touch. Against his palm, her nipple flowered.
He felt his body surge again, insistent and demanding. Slowly, sensuously, he palmed her fullness.
She seemed to gasp in her throat, and arched her back, pressing herself against him.
It was all he needed. Desire drove through him, and he swept her up into his arms.
The world tilted on its axis, and her eyes flew open.
Rico’s eyes were blazing down at her, vivid even in the low light. Her heart was soaring like a bird in flight, which was strange, because she felt boneless, weak, helpless in his arms as he carried her the few strides to his bed.
He lowered her gently, tenderly, as if she were a delicate, precious flower.
‘Elisabetta—’
For one long, endless moment he gazed down at her as she lay in a ruffle of silk, one breast exposed, as she looked up at him, wonder and enchantment in her eyes.
Then, with a rapid urgency that was its own message, he’d disposed of his own clothes and was lowering his long, lithe frame upon her. She felt his body crush her down into the softness of the bedding. Felt the strength, the honed, masculine beauty of his planed torso, the narrow circle of his hips, the tautness of his thighs, and the long, full shaft pressing against her.
She gasped, awareness shooting through her.
He saw her recognition.
‘I have wanted you,’ he breathed, ‘from the first moment I saw you. Walking towards me—revealed to me—only to me—in all your beauty.’
Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her. Slowly, very slowly.
‘Be mine,’ he said to her. ‘Be mine, my own Elisabetta’.
His eyes were dilated; she was drowning in their dark depths.
There was only one answer to give him. Only one answer possible.
‘Rico…’ She breathed his name.
Her arms came around him, closed him to her, her fingers grazing with a fierce, sweet ardour along the contours of his back.
Heat flooded through her. Her hips arched to his. A gesture old as time. The instinctive pleading of her sex. She could not speak, could not talk. She could only know that now, now she wanted what was the sweetest glory.
His body answered her. Sliding the silken folds of her dress from her, his hand returned, gliding along the smooth column of her leg, and then, with a touch that drew from her a breathless gasp of pleasure, he parted her.
She was lost—lost in a vortex that was taking her into another world, a world that she had never known existed, to a pleasure, a physical sensation so incredible, that her entire being was reduced to one single exquisite point. She gave herself to it, helpless to do anything but let the ravishing sensation of his skilful touch take her to the place that called to her, nearer and yet nearer, so that when the moment came it was a consummation of discovery, of such wondrous ecstas
y that she cried out with it. It swept through her, overwhelming her, flooding through her to her very fingertips, wave after wave. His hand was smoothing her hair, his voice murmuring, and then, even as at last the flood began to ebb, even as she felt the pulsing of her core, he was there, seeking entrance, strong and insistent, and yet with absolute control, easing inside her.
She took him in. The pulsing of her body drew him into her, and she felt his fullness pressing against her aroused, sensitised tissues. She gasped again, eyes flying open to see him looking down at her, his expression one of absolute focus, one of intensity.
The intensity of desire. Absolute desire.
For her.
Now. Now.
He moved within her, and as he did the ebbing fire in her started to lick again. Her lips parted in wonder, and he saw that wonder, and with a brief, flickering smile he moved again. And then, once more, the intensity took him over.
‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes.’ And lifted her hips to him, instinctively tilting to let him move more deeply within her, parting her straining flesh around him, moulding herself around him. He moved again, and yet again, and with each stroke she felt the bliss not just of possession, but of renewed desire.
She heard him speak again, a staccato fragment, and then an urgency took him over. Stroke after stroke, his body surging within her, he took her with him, closer and closer still, to that place where she had been.
And then she was there. Like a white heat sensation flashed through her, sweeping through her limbs. She cried out, and heard his voice too, and she was clutching him, her hands working into the smooth, heated planes of his back, her breath crying through her, her throat arching as the fire took her, took him with her.
It went on and on, until, as the final echo began to ebb, she was left with the sweet, honeyed exhaustion of fulfilment in every fibre of her being. She felt the tautness go from him, felt the full heaviness of his body on hers, and emotion flooded through her. Her arms wrapped around him, her cheek pressing against his. She wanted to hold him close, so close.
Wonder filled her, and a sweetness that was beyond comprehension. She held his warm, strong body in her arms, feeling the hectic beat of his heart gradually slow. His head was sunk against her shoulder. She felt his cheek, his soft, silky hair, the warmth of his breath. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxing, letting go.
Languor stole through her—a peace so deep that it was like a balm, a blessing. At her hips, still conjoined, she felt his heaviness, felt the low throb within her as her body remembered the imprint of his possession, her own ecstasy. Her languor deepened as her own heart rate slowed, and sleep began to steal over her in her warm, sated drowsiness.
Her hands slackened around his back and she felt his skin begin to cool beneath her fingers. He had slipped over into sleep, she realised, and with the last of her conscious mind she pulled the dishevelled coverlet over him. Then, with a low, soft sigh, she let sleep take her.
‘Principessa—je suis enchanté.’
Her hand was being taken, and kissed with courtly gallantry. Lizzy smiled uncertainly. Jean-Paul straightened and bestowed a highly appreciative look at her. He said something in French to Rico, which Lizzy did not understand.
Rico grinned.
‘I am indeed,’ he replied. ‘Incredibly fortunate. And now, if you’ve finished making up to my bride, let’s get on with it. Better start with Ben—before he gets bored with the proceedings.’
But Ben was on his best behaviour, and clearly determined to look angelic, which he did effortlessly, in his smart new clothes.
As for his mother.
Rico’s breath caught for the hundredth time.
She sat there, on a sofa in the formal salon of the villa—a room as ornate as the dining room, but ideal for the purpose now—and looked simply—
Radiant.
It was the only word for her, and Rico could not tear his eyes from her.
As Jean-Paul took shot after shot, wonder suffused Rico. And when it was his turn to be included—first on his own with her, then with Ben, and then with all three of them—although his pose was formal, the look in his eyes was quite different.
At the end of the session, Jean-Paul set his camera aside.
‘Bon chance, mon vieux,’ he said. ‘And I wish you every happiness.’
He clasped Rico’s hand, then let it go.
There remained only the business of downloading the digital file from the camera, and offering Jean-Paul the hospitality a friend deserved before he took his leave. And then, while Lizzy took Ben off to change them both into less formal clothes, Rico was left to e-mail Luca.
There was no text. Just a carefully selected attachment.
That would be sufficient.
For a moment after he had hit send he just stared at the blank screen.
Then he logged out, and went to find his wife.
She was living in the middle of a dream. A dream so wonderful she knew it could only be a dream. An enchantment. A time out of time.
The whole world seemed suffused with a glow of bliss. Every moment, every instant of every day—and, oh, every night—was filled with a happiness she had never believed possible.
How can I be so happy?
But she did not need to ask. She knew.
Rico—
She had only to breathe his name, only to look at him, hear his voice, take his hand, feel his touch upon her, to know why happiness—deep, profound, immeasurable and infinite—was in every pulse of her blood, every beat of her heart.
She did not want to think, to ask, to question. She wanted only to be—to be this wonderful, enchanted person, caught in her blissful, beautiful dream.
It was so strange, she mused. Outwardly, the days passed in just the same way—easy, undemanding days, a perpetual holiday. Taking Ben down to the beach, swimming in the pool, lounging in the sun, doing everything and nothing, talking about everything and nothing.
And yet everything had changed—changed so utterly she could not believe it, could only float in her haze of wonder and bliss.
By day, the signs were subtle and unconscious—a passing caress, a physical closeness, the casual body language that was the daytime manifestation of intimacy. The hug for Ben that included a hug for her, the little touches of hands as they played with him, the warm, acknowledging glances as they talked and ate and did all the things they had already been doing since they had come to the villa.
But by night—ah, by night her heart lifted in still-incredulous wonder. By night the enchantment that suffused her with a subtle golden haze by day blazed into glory. Glory that burned like stars in its brilliance—glory that melted her body, caress by sweetest caress, touch by sensual touch, stroke by exquisite stroke, until her whole being caught flame and burned like a torch in the ecstasy of her consummation.
His consummation. Because she knew, with every cell of her being, that the strong, virile body she held in her arms, held deep within her own body, was burning too, in the same consummation. She felt his body burn with the same flame, setting him on fire as her arms wrapped him close, and closer still, their bodies fusing as one, until at last the incandescence burned away, leaving them twined about each other in sweet exhaustion.
‘How…how can it be so wonderful?’ she breathed at him one night, her eyes wide and bemused.
He did not answer, only smoothed her hair, lacing it with his fingers, and cradled her body against his as his hand smoothed along her back, drifting with slow, exhausted sensuousness until it slowed, and slackened, cupping the ripeness of her hip.
He murmured in Italian—words she did not understand but which flowed like honey through her. Like a balm, a blessing.
Then night folded over them and they slept, entwined, embracing. And she dreamt of heaven, because that was where she was already.
Lizzy was creaming his back. Rico lay face down on a lounger. Ben, having surfaced from his siesta, his energy levels renewed, was vigorously batting his w
ay along the length of the pool astride a huge inflatable dolphin.
‘Race me,’ he called to Rico. ‘You can ride the crocodile.’ He pointed to a huge, inflatable crocodile with grinning jaws that was floating disconsolately in the shallows.
‘Soon,’ said Rico, not lifting his head. ‘Very soon.’
But not that soon. It was far too good just lying here, with the sun beating down on him, the lightest of breezes playing over his skin, the drowsy sound of the cicadas, the silence of the world around him and Ben splashing happily in the pool, while warm hands glided caressingly, sensuously across his bared back, massaging sun cream deep into the muscled contours, sculpting the bones of his spine, his ribs and shoulders, with smooth, strong strokes.
Well-being, contentment—peace—filled him. He could lie here for ever.
He could be here for ever.
Life was good—so very good.
Everything—everything he wanted was here. Now. An endless now.
Time had stopped. Only day and night existed. Nothing more. There was no world beyond this.
He’d heard nothing yet from his father and Luca—and he didn’t care. They belonged in a world he was not interested in right now.
Right now, all he wanted he had. He wanted nothing more.
Footsteps sounded on the shallow flight that led to the upper terrace. A shadow fell over his body. The hands at his back stopped.
He lifted his head and looked up.
Captain Falieri stood there.
Slowly, Rico levered himself up, and stood. Behind him, he could hear Lizzy doing the same. Automatically he felt for her hand and closed his fingers around hers.
‘Captain Fally-eery!’ Ben’s piping voice called with enthusiasm. He splashed his way busily to the steps and clambered out, running up to them. ‘Have you come to tea?’ he asked convivially.
The Captain shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve come—’ his eyes flicked to Rico’s ‘—to see your uncle.’
As Falieri looked back at him, Rico could see his gaze moving past him automatically. Even so good a diplomat as he was, he could not, Rico could see, hide the flash of shock in his eyes. He knew why. The woman whose hand he was holding was all but unrecognisable. He felt her slip her hand from his and saw that she was reaching for a sarong to wind about her. Then she was holding out her hand to Ben.