Page 73 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Sit, Luca."
He sat down on the edge of the tub.
I put my foot on his knee. He took off the right boot, took off the left, and took out the dagger without comment. Then he set the dagger on the marble counter.
"Next time you leave that dagger in the room."
"Maybe."
He laughed.
Then he stood up, took me by the waist and lifted me, carrying me into the shower. And then, with the hot water falling over us both, with his blood running down the drain in a red trickle that grew smaller and smaller, with the silk slip clinging to my body—he kissed me again.
Slowly.
And he began to take the silk off my body, strap by strap, with the patience of a man who'd waited a long time and wanted to make it last.
I'll be honest: I don't remember everything in order.
I remembered his mouth moving down my neck under the hot water. I remembered his hand lifting me again, my wet body against the cold tile of the shower, my legs wrapping around his waist again. I remembered his mouth moving lower—to the collarbone, to the breast—and the first time I made a sound I didn't know.
Short. Involuntary. Honest.
He stopped, looking up at me.
"Brava," he said, a small smile against my skin.
He carried me to his bed, still wet.
The black towel wrapped my shoulders for about thirty seconds before he threw it aside.
I lay down, and he lay down beside me, propped on one elbow, looking at me.
"Valentina, look at me."
I looked.
"If you want to stop, at any minute, at any second, you say so. Chiaro?"
"Chiaro."
"I won't hurt you."
"I know."
"I don't want to hurt you. Not in any way. Not at any moment. Are you listening to me?"
I looked at him, at the scar through his eyebrow, at the black eyes too close, at the jaw clenched the way a man's is when he's holding back a force he's afraid to unleash.
I put my hand on his cheek very slowly.
"I know, Luca."
"Bene."
And then he kissed me. Unhurried.
His hand moved down my neck, over the collarbone, over the breast. Slowly, discovering.
