Page 93 of Promised to the Don of Naples
It didn't hurt. The first time it had hurt a little at the start.
Not tonight. Tonight my body remembered.
I moved over him slowly. He let me take the lead, his hands open on my waist, not pulling, not rushing. Only his blackeyes fixed on mine, and his breathing going shallower minute by minute.
"Brava," he whispered.
That man was going to destroy me.
That man had already destroyed me.
I leaned forward, pressed my forehead to his. My hair fell around my face, making a black curtain. The pearls knocked against his chest.
"Luca."
"Sì."
"I love you."
I hadn't planned it. It just came out.
He stopped for a second, just one. His hands tightened on my waist, his black eyes locked on mine.
"Bella mia."
"Don't answer now." I kissed his mouth lightly. "Answer later."
"I'll answer now."
"No."
He laughed. A real laugh, inside the kiss, and pulled my hip harder against his.
"Va bene. Later."
I moved again. He moved with me now, no longer letting me do it alone. His hands had come up—one at the nape of my neck, in my hair, holding; the other braced at my waist.
When I came, it was with his forehead against mine, his name leaving my mouth in a half whisper.
I felt my legs go weak even sitting, felt the air leave me all at once.
He held me, waited for me to catch my breath, then turned me over.
Him on top now. In a hurry, finally, his mouth buried in my neck, his hips hard against mine.
I wrapped my legs around his back. I felt the tattoo on his back under my hands.
Time went on, and a few minutes later he came against my neck, his mouth to my skin, without making a sound. Just his whole body locking once, and then letting go.
I stayed on top of him afterward.
My ear to his chest, right over the letter M of the Latin tattoo. His heart coming down from eighty-something beats to fifty. His hand moving up and down at the base of my back, slowly, at the rhythm of a man who was no longer in a hurry about anything.
"Four weeks, bella mia," he murmured.
"Four."
The window was open. Somewhere in Posillipo, down below the hill, a dog barked once and went quiet.
