Neither of us speak.
We just look. Stare. As if cataloging all the changes that have taken place between us.
When he finally slides off of me, it isn’t rushed. He helps me to my feet. We right our clothing. Then he leads me back down to his cabin and into his bathroom.
This time he doesn’t leave me at the shower’s edge. He undresses me with reverent hands and hungry eyes, then steps beneath the spray with me. His lips trace my shoulder. His palms gently explore my curves.
He treats me as if I’m sacred, the unholy worship addictive.
I moan as the tenderness burns away, a harsh fever taking its place.
His mouth trails fire along my skin. My nails dig into his nape. He pins me to the cold tile. Fucks me against the wall.
The slap of water echoes through the bathroom, his name torn from my throat like a confession before I’m left wrung out, trembling, and wrecked beyond recognition.
“Dormirai con me stanotte,” he says against my temple. “You sleep with me tonight.”
My cheeks warm at his unfettered translation. Dear Lord, hearing him speak in Italian is the world’s most dangerous aphrodisiac. “As long as you sleep under the covers.”
He dries me with soft, fluffy towels and drapes me in a fresh robe. “Neanche l’ombra di un vestito tra di noi.”
He agrees without hesitation, his promise a low thrum of intent I feel deep in my bones even if the words themselves are a mystery.
We settle on the bed in the darkened cabin. No lights. Just me leaning against the solid plane of his chest as we eat the delights of a fresh charcuterie board and stare at the stars out the window, the ghost of Raffael’s fingers idly tracking along my back.
It feels like a stolen fragment of domesticated bliss. A glimpse of a relationship with overwhelming potential.
“Were you born in Italy?” I ask.
There’s a lengthening pause before his voice rumbles near my ear. “No.”
I wait for him to elaborate, hoping he’ll let me in, praying I haven’t reached a dead end, but nothing comes. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
His chest tightens against my cheek—the only sign I’ve hit a nerve. “Some details come with risks.”
My heart pangs.
He doesn’t trust me.
He’s happy to share a bed and learn the intimate secrets of my body, but insider knowledge on his life is a step too far.
I inch away, trying, and failing, not to take it personally.
I don’t regret what we’ve shared—I’d relive it a thousand times over—but I foolishly thought it might mean more. That the crackling energy in my veins was reciprocated.
“I was born in New York and raised by my biological parents until I was six.” His palm slides around my neck, stopping my retreat. “That’s when my mother was murdered and we were shipped off to Italy.”
I raise my gaze to his, understanding the magnitude of his offering. The risky glimpse into the foundation of the man he became.
I want to know more. To learn everything, but I remain quiet, worried one wrong word will ruin our progression.
“We were all young.” His thumb strokes my skin, featherlight and soothing, as if the contact grounds him as much as it comforts me. “But I was old enough to understand what happened, at least to an extent. I knew the masked men who stormed our house were the reason we’d never see our mother again. And that she was gone because of the type of man our father was.”
Raffael was there? He still remembers?
“But Giancarlo was more of a dad than my own flesh and blood,” he continues. “Him and his wife, Marianna, had struggled to conceive for a decade and considered us a blessing when our father called in a favor.”
“Did your father visit often?” I risk asking.