Page 107 of Promised to the Don of Naples
He set me down on the floor inside the room.
The window was wide open, the white curtain billowing. Down below, the sound of the Tyrrhenian came up like a continuous whisper. The bed had been made by Donna Luciathat morning with fresh white linen sheets that smelled of Marseille soap.
"Swimsuit," Luca said.
"Pants," I said.
He drew the straps of the swimsuit down off my shoulders, slowly, kissing every inch as he uncovered it. The collarbone, the top of the chest.
The black swimsuit fell to the old ceramic floor.
His white linen pants I had to help with. Soaked, heavy, they stuck. He laughed at my effort, and I cursed under my breath.
When they finally came off, he was already bare, his black eyes shining.
Then he laid me down on the bed.
"Slow," I murmured.
"Va bene."
He went.
Slow the way he knew how to be slow. Mouth on my neck, then on my breasts, and then he moved down. His hand was open on my thigh, and it moved up.
Madonna, I thought. I don't have to think about anything today.
And that was it. That was the first new thing in this bed: I wasn't thinking about anything.
Not about Mamma. Not about Matteo in the cellar. Not about my father.
About nothing, only him.
I felt his warm sweat over the cold of the pool water still on my skin. I felt his hair soft between my fingers when I pulled it. I felt his mouth trace a silent sentence on the curve of my waist.
When he came back up, he kissed me deep again.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"I'm going to."
"Go."
He came into me. Slowly again, the way a man does when he has time. I wrapped my legs around him, his hands found mine at the level of my shoulders, and our fingers laced together.
"Luca. I want to be on top."
"Always."
I sat up on top of him, hands open on his chest, over the Latin tattoo.
I started slow at first, then sat down hard and fast. His black eyes fixed on mine the whole time, never looking away.
That was when he said it:
"Ti amo, bella mia."
