The kiss was different from before. Hungrier. More urgent. The rain poured down around us, plastering my dress to my skin, but I didn't care. All I could feel was him—his hands sliding down my back, his mouth hot against mine, the press of his body as he pulled me closer, eliminating any space between us.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at me, water streaming down his face. Asking permission with his eyes. I answered by kissing him again, harder.
We stumbled through the rain, past the terrace, down a path I vaguely remembered. The cellar door appeared out of the darkness. Matteo fumbled with the handle, pulled it open, drew me inside.
The cellar was cool, dim, filled with the familiar smell of oak and wine. The same cellar where he'd shown me his grandfather's vintages. Where he'd taught me how grapes became something transcendent, magical.
Now he pressed me against one of the old wooden barrels, his mouth finding my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered.
I gasped, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, clumsy with want and need.
"Bella."He pulled back, breathless, his pupils blown wide. His eyes searched my face in the dim light. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm sure."
He kissed me again. Softer this time, reverent. Then his hands began to move with purpose, and I stopped thinking altogether.
He was careful. Attentive. Every touch a question, every response an answer. He learned me the way he learned his wines—slowly, thoroughly, with patience and attention and a focus that made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
The cool air of the cellar against my heated skin. The rough wood of the barrel at my back. His breath against my ear, murmuring my name like a prayer.
I came apart in his arms, and he held me through it, held me after, held me like I was something precious. When I could breathe again, he kissed my forehead. My cheeks. The tip of my nose.
"Come," he said softly. "Let me take care of you."
He led me up through the rain, into the house, up the stairs to his room. Not the guest room—his. A large bed with white linens, windows overlooking the valley, shelves lined with books and photographs and small treasures from a life well-lived.
He ran a bath, the water steaming and fragrant. Helped me out of my ruined dress with gentle hands. Eased me into water so warm it made me sigh with relief, with pleasure.
I soaked while he moved around the room, quiet and unhurried. Finding soft towels. Lighting candles that made everything golden.
When I emerged, he was waiting with a towel. He dried me carefully, gently, attending to every part of me with the same focus he brought to everything.
Then he guided me to the bed, face down against cool sheets that smelled like him.
And his hands began to work magic.
The massage was slow, thorough. He found knots I didn't know I had, tension I'd been carrying for months. His thumbs pressed into my shoulders, my back, the base of my spine. I melted into the mattress, boneless, weightless, floating.
"You carry so much," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Let me help you set it down,Bella. Even just for tonight."
I didn't have words. Just sounds. Small sighs and murmurs that seemed to encourage him.
His hands moved lower. Kneading my hips, my thighs. Working out the aches from too many hours in heels, too many nights of restless sleep.
I turned over, meeting his eyes.
He was above me, his face soft in the candlelight, his expression tender and wanting.
"Bella..."
I reached for him. Pulled him down to me.
The second time was different. Slower. We had all the time in the world now, and we used it. Learning each other's rhythms. Finding the places that made each other gasp, made the world disappear.
I rolled him onto his back. Took control.
His hands found my hips, guiding but not directing. His eyes never left my face, watching every shift in my expression, every flutter of my eyelids.