She lifted her back and writhed against the cool ground; he moved harder, faster, an ancient, animalistic rhythm driving him to make love to her like this, imprinting on her in some vital way.
Her voice filled the orchard and burst through his soul. He heard her and felt her and understood her. In that moment they were truly one, mixed in every way.
Desperation filled her tone and he understood. He moved one hand between them, brushing his fingertips over her sex as he thrust into her; she fell apart in his arms. He held her tight, releasing her wrists so she could grab hold of his shoulders for support and he held her while her breathing escaped from her lungs and her body was wracked with tension and he held her until her breathing slowed. Then, he began to move once more, this time more gently, kissing her slowly, teasing her with his tongue until her heart was racing so hard it was beating against his chest.
“Please,” she said, over and over, and a rush of sheer masculine pride burst through him. Hearing her beg for him was its own special aphrodisiac. He moved his mouth to her breasts, flicking her nipples with his tongue while he moved within her and she cried out with each touch, raw, aching, familiar.
His own pleasure built within him, brick by brick, movement by movement, until he was matching her short, sharp, rasping breaths, his body moving until finally, both were set free, cascading together in a fevered, mix of voices and pleasure. He dropped his body on top of hers and kissed her, selfishly swallowing her cries, wanting them too, wanting everything of hers she could give him, just for that night. Nothing lasts forever but pleasure could change your soul.
She hadn’t noticed before, but it was one of those perfect starlit nights. The sky was darker than dark, like an ink pot she’d spilled on her father’s desk one afternoon – a true enthusiast, he liked to grade his students’ assessment with a quill. Stars burst across the ink, little sparks of light like pricks in fabric. A cluster was right above them, and it seemed to have its own weight. She felt that if she lifted her hand she could almost touch it.
She didn’t.
She stayed right where she was, pressed by the weight of Raf’s body against the grass in the citrus grove, her legs wrapped around his waist, his heaviness completing her in a way she allowed herself – for a moment – to relish.
He pushed up on his elbows, his eyes seeking hers. She didn’t look away now.
Strange, she’d never noticed that either – how like the galaxy his eyes were. Dark, speckled with flecks of silver and grey. She lifted a hand and traced the sharp line of his cheek – cheekbones a supermodel would kill for – then pressed her finger into the divot of his chin.
She didn’t know what to say, and that didn’t seem to matter. Maybe their bodies had said everything they needed to. Or maybe she was just riding some kind of magical unicorn sex cloud and delirium was making her forget all the Very Sensible reasons she’d decided to put an end to this.
Her hand roamed to his shoulder, exploring his clavicle slowly, moving inwards by degrees. His breath fanned her temples. Warm, citrus air swirled around them. Lauren inhaled it, missing nothing, noting everything.
“Come home with me.”
The words seemed to reach her from a very long way away. She sighed heavily. It wasn’t an answer – not a ‘yes’, nor a ‘no’. It was simply a method of processing.
He moved, pulling away before joining her on the grass, so they lay side by side, staring up at the same sky, and all the stars that bound them.
“Why?” She angled her face to his.
He did the same. Their eyes met and something hummed between them. “Because I want to make you dinner.”
The answer surprised her. She smiled.
“And because I want you to spend the night in my bed, with me.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Danger lights flared.
“I’ll bring you back here first thing in the morning. Yaya won’t notice you’re missing.”
“Missing?” She smiled again, despite the blade of fear that was moving through her. “Are you planning on abducting me or something, Rafaello Montebello?”
His smile made her feel as though she was floating.
“No, Lauren Monroe.” He reached over and traced the outline of her lips. “I’m planning on making you something delicious to eat before spending the night driving you crazy.”
Her heart slammed into her. “Are you?” The question emerged breathless, husky.
“Unless you have any objections?”
She had hundreds. Or dozens. Some. But she couldn’t clarify them in her mind. Somewhere there was a darkness, a need to finish the conversation they’d started earlier. She frowned, wriggling closer and pressing her head against his naked chest. “Please don’t take stupid risks with your life, Raf.” She didn’t ask him to promise her; she wouldn’t do that. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t change, and she wouldn’t ask him to. She simply had to harden the part of herself that was inclined to care a little too much.
In response, his fingertips trailed her arm, making it hard to focus again.
For a moment they stayed like that, the night perfect, nothing needed to change. But a noise a moment later heralded that it had reached nine o’clock and the automatic sprinkler system burst to life, spraying water over the citrus grove – and all over Raf and Lauren. She squawked and laughed as she jumped to her feet. Raf moved quickly, snatching up their clothes piece by piece, bundling them to his chest as he held a hand out to her. He was laughing too, his eyes crinkled at the corners. She put her hand in his and followed him willingly, running naked through the trees, panting with laughter now.
“When did you learn to cook?”
His smile transformed his face. She lifted her feet to the edge of the stool, so her knees sat right beneath her chin. She pressed her cheek to them, her still-wet hair straggled down her shins.
“Yaya taught me. Taught all of us, actually.”
“Really?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“You’re just not someone I can imagine in the kitchen, really.”
“You see me now?” He queried, gesturing to his chest and where he stood, behind the enormous marble bench top in his state of the art kitchen. The ocean was just beyond his window, the roar of the waves coming towards them sparking Lauren’s senses to life.
“I do,” she agreed, taking a sip of wine to bring moisture back to her mouth.
“Yaya was adamant we’d all learn to cook, do our own laundry.”
Lauren lifted a brow in silent inquiry.
“She wasn’t born into money. Her parents were dirt poor, her childhood extremely difficult. She never really spoke about it but I gather her memories of that time were marked by a sense of hunger and loss. She told me once that she spoiled her children dreadfully and I think it was because she’d done without for so much of her life that she wanted them to have everything.”
“That seems like a wholly relatable impulse.”
He nodded. “It backfired. My dad and uncle are the most selfish bastards you can imagine.” He grimaced. “She seemed determined not to make that mistake again. The housekeepers at Villa Fortune were given very specific instructions not to do a single thing to tidy our rooms, nor help with our laundry. We were responsible for all of it. As for cooking, you’ve probably gathered that Yaya values the importance of family meals above almost all else.”
“Yes,” Lauren’s voice pricked with loneliness. She had been captivated by Yaya’s tale of the shared family meals long before she’d seen examples of them for herself.
Raf reached for a bunch of basil and rinsed it under the sink, tapping it a few times before transferring it to the board. He chopped it roughly then tossed it into a white ceramic bowl.
“Teaching us to cook was another way she made sure we’d contribute, but now I’m older, I think there was more to it.”
“Like what?”
He added a handful of pine nuts and a glug of olive oil, then reached for the pestle, u
sing it to club the basil into submission, releasing a summery fragrance into the air. Behind him, a big pot of water bubbled volubly on the stovetop.
“A sense of connection.” His smile was brief. Her heart tugged. “She’d take us aside, one at a time, to give us lessons. As we cooked, we talked. Yaya didn’t want us going off the rails like her own children had.”
“She saw you guys as a second chance?”
His eyes lifted to hers. “I suppose so.”
She nodded. “She did well. You’re all…lovely.”
He burst out laughing.
“What?” Self-consciousness made her cheeks glow.
“Lovely is just – makes us sound like flowers or something.”
“You’re definitely not floral.” She tilted her head, a teasing smile on her face. “Decorative, maybe.”
He grinned, grinding salt and pepper into the bowl before turning away from her, moving to the fridge. He removed a block of pecorino cheese and a container which closer inspection showed to be full of fresh linguine pasta.
“Do you cook?”
“Out of necessity,” Lauren said, taking another sip of her wine. The flavour was acidic and robust – she loved it. “When I’m working, I’m often a guest of the family. I eat what they eat.”
He nodded slowly. “That must be strange.”
“Strange how?”
“You’re seeing families at an immensely vulnerable time.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I keep to myself as much as possible. I read, a lot – which makes my dad happy.” Her smile shifted, and then she sighed. “It’s hard, Raf.” She didn’t know where the confession came from. It was something she hadn’t even really admitted to herself. Her eyes followed his hands as he used a fine grater to crumble the pecorino.
“Go on.”
He tapped the grater then scooped up half the cheese and added it to the mortar, then began pounding once more. His fingers moved deftly, showing that this was an act he’d performed many times.
“There’s nothing more to say. Just that it’s hard.” A frown tugged at her lips. “I used to find meaning in what I do. I still do. But the last few patients I’ve dealt with – usually I work with kids. I’m not sure if I’ve told you that?”
His nod was brief, but more of an encouragement than an answer.
“They’ve torn me apart from the inside out. It’s probably why I agreed to come here when Alessia called. The idea of working with someone who’s lived a long, full, and textured life felt like a relief.” She winced. “I’m sorry, I know we’re talking about your grandmother but –,”
He held a hand up in appeasement. “I know what you mean.”
“It’s awful to lose someone, no matter their age, but it’s less of a tragedy when it’s after a wonderful life filled with love and laughter. Helping children navigate a terminal illness is –,”
“Harrowing,” he supplied.
Her throat thickened with tears.
“You’ve been doing this a long time.”
She nodded.
“Maybe it’s time to have a break.”
The idea was foreign. Unwelcome. What would she do if not this? What else was she good at? And yet – her heart felt immediately lighter at the idea of not having to look into another pair of grief-filled eyes for a long, long time.
She shook her head, brushing it away. “Aren’t we meant to be having fun?”
He frowned, no doubt because he saw her response for what it was – her pushing him away again, shutting down their line of conversation. But it wasn’t because she wanted to keep him at a distance, so much as because she needed space to think about her work. There was no easy solution there.
He pushed the bowl aside and reached for her hand, threading their fingers together as he’d done in the citrus grove. He squeezed her hand and leaned forward, far enough that he could brush a kiss over her lips. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
Before his words could even settle within her ears she mentally rejected the offer. She was still pushing him away but she knew that there were certain things she had to keep locked up if this was going to work. She couldn’t expose all of herself to him, wouldn’t become vulnerable to him.
He turned away to add the pasta to the water, his back to her for long enough that she was able to regain her composure.
“What about you?”
He threw a gaze over his shoulder. “What about me?”
“You work in your family business?”
He made a throaty noise of agreement. “I oversee most of our European acquisitions.”
“You buy things?”
He laughed. “I evaluate corporate and commercial opportunities, yes.”
“Such as?”
“Well, at the moment I’m negotiating a deal to buy a private bank.”
“To buy…a bank?”
He nodded.
“That sounds…I didn’t even know individuals could do that.”
“We’re a company,” he said. “But yes, depending on the size of the asset and debt list.”
“So how do you decide it’s a good buy?”
“I look at the figures first, then work out the potential. This bank has under-expanded, and invested badly.”
She shook her head, amazement obvious in her eyes. “I can’t even imagine where you’d begin with something like that.”
“I’m sure you could. Don’t forget, I grew up with Gianfelice instructing me in this, and then studied business at university.”
“So you’ve always wanted to do this?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Hell, no. I used to want to be a rock star.”
She laughed with him, but her mind was flooding with memories of the night she’d found him playing the piano, the way he’d seemed to create music as most people did words. “That’s not even in the ballpark of being the same thing. What changed your mind?”
“Gianfelice.” He sobered. “My parents were a cautionary tale to a certain lifestyle. He was adamant we wouldn’t turn out like them and apparently me going on tour with just a guitar was not his idea of reassuring.”
“I can’t imagine anyone telling you what to do, to be honest.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said with a sexy, dishevelled shake of his head. His hair was still damp, dark and clinging to his brow. “He would have supported me but I got it. I loved him. I didn’t want to disappoint him, I guess.” He shook his head. “No, that’s not it.” His laugh was a little uneasy. “Why the hell do I find myself telling you things I’ve never even admitted to myself, Lauren?”
She stared at him quietly, her heart turning over in her chest because she had thought exactly the same thing about him, many times.
Ignoring the implications of that, she ran her fingers over the stem of her wine glass and sought a subject redirection. “Do you even play guitar?”
“Yeah. Want to hear?”
The idea of Raf playing guitar was a little too much on the sex appeal side, and yet she found herself nodding. “Yeah.” The word was a husky admission.
“After dinner.” There was a promise in those words. A shiver ran the length of her spine. He leaned over the bench, catching her hair and tucking it behind her ear. His dark eyes held hers, and her breath snagged in her throat, parting her lips. “You’re beautiful.”
Heat filled her cheeks. She dropped her gaze but he didn’t allow it, moving his hand to her chin and pushing his fingers beneath it so their gazes were fused once more.
“I’m –,” the word tapered into nothingness.
“And kind.”
Her stomach dropped to her toes.
“I like you.”
Her heart ached. She swallowed, darting her eyes away. And then, it was over. He dropped his light touch from her chin and turned away, moving to the pot of pasta, resuming the act of cooking. But his touch had left an indelible mark on her; or perhaps that was his words? She sat perfectly still, staring at his back, wondering at why she w
as letting this go on any longer – and simultaneously aware she was completely powerless to stop it.
Chapter Ten
SHE LOVED JACK JOHNSON music, she always had done, but listening to Raf playing his songs made her think she’d never really heard them before.
His fingers moved quickly over the guitar but his manner was relaxed, pure, laid-back rock god. Or maybe it was that they’d stepped off his terrace after dinner and straight onto the crisp white sand of this stretch of private beach. Tall grass tufted out of the sand nearest to the house, and they’d sat at the edge of it, the water slowly inching towards them as the tide dragged it closer to the house. And Raf played, his guitar gleaming in the milky moonlight, beauty in the sound of his voice, the ease of his skill.
After his third song, she sighed blissfully. “I think your grandfather was wrong. You are a musician, Raf.”
He grinned, strumming idly now, no song she’d ever heard, just playing until the air was filled with music.
Her eyes followed the movements, her expression unknowingly captivated, and slowly, he brought his fingers to a stop before placing the guitar down on the sand. “Would you like to dance?” He held a hand out to underscore his invitation.
She frowned. Without his guitar, there was no music. “While you play?”
His grin sent a thousand little arrows flying through her bloodstream.
“No, with me.”
She tilted her head to the side. “There’s no music…”
His smile was all the answer she received, but she stood, her hand in his, and he pulled her towards him so their bodies were fused, his arms wrapping behind her, loosely around her waist. He began to move in the moonlight, the sound of the waves forming the beat of their movement. And then he started to sing, in Italian now, so she didn’t understand all the words, but that hardly mattered. It was the sound of his voice, the richness of his tone.
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