by Molly Molloy
Did Josh come home last night? I hadn't heard him in my tranquil slumber, nestled in Mark's huge arms. It had no doubt been late and he won't be up for hours yet.
And Mark? Is my lover hiding from me after the intense passion of last night? Did he sleep with me and slip away this morning, or had he disappeared back to his own room the moment I passed out?
I know he'll come looking for me when he's ready. Father and son will both seek me out when they need company. I'm on edge for that moment to come sooner.
I run a deep bath and pour a fragrant oil I discover in a cut glass bottle with a stopper. It turns milky the instant it hits the water and suffuses the room with the smell of tuberose and bluebells.
I lower myself gingerly into the soft enveloping liquid, sore from the intense lovemaking. My nipples are tender as well. They respond immediately to my touch when I run my hands down my body, feeling the luscious milk bath turn my skin to satin.
I'm already hungry to feel Mark's hands on me again, expertly lifting me to the highest pinnacle of joy. He's an absolute god in that department. Maybe men approaching the age of forty are all masters in the sexual art. Somehow I doubt it.
My bags are packed ready for the flight first thing tomorrow. I hardly unpacked as Mark told me to wear the outfits in the huge closet. They were far more suited to the elegant décor of the Palazzo than my American casual. Even my nicest dress - the one I packed just in case there was the opportunity to go somewhere special - looks pretty shabby around here.
A pile of books and the latest magazines sits beside the chaise. I'm sure they weren't there before. After dressing in cashmere soft pants and sweater, also apparently brand new, I settle in to indulge in the reading I rarely find time for. And wait for Mark to come for me.
When the tepid sun begins to set in the middle of the afternoon, I go to search out my hosts. Even when I tug with both hands,the tall carved door is stuck in the frame and refuses to budge. The handle moves freely but the door stays fixed.
I bend down to peer at the latch and notice both bolts crossing the chink of light between the double escutcheon. It's locked. I turn the handle again and rattle the door in its frame, hoping to catch some attention on the outside.
How did I get to be locked in my room?
The last person to leave it was whoever brought me breakfast. Was Mark still in my bed then or had he already slipped away before Signora Bonomo caught him inflagrante? Why would one of his housekeepers (I still cannot say the word 'servant') lock the door? It makes no sense. It has to be an error.
I rattle the door more forcefully but no one comes. Shouting seems totally wrong in these luxurious grand rooms. I don't want to show how lacking in class I am. So I return to my seat in front of the Grand Canal, content to watch the world pass by. Perhaps fate has dictated I'm not to leave yet. If only Madam Destiny would grant all my wishes.
A glimmery winter dusk falls over the city and it lights up like a Christmas pageant. When I look up to the sound ricocheting, a sleek black cigarette speedboat is bouncing across the water heading straight for me.
I run to the window and see Mark standing at the wheel like a glam spy in a movie. His hair is swept back by the wind battering his rugged face. He powers the boat straight into the portal beneath my window without looking up and doesn't see me frantically waving.
Mark & Josh
I know he thinks about getting rid of me. He wants this one all to himself and I'm in the way, preventing him from conquering her, seducing her into his phony web of deceit.
His face is cut along his perfect chiseled jaw. The red gash cannot mar his perfect rough beauty however. If anything it juxtaposes it so dramatically, the perfection of his face is highlighted. Riley's eyes keep straying back to the welt and eventually she cannot resist asking.
“I cut myself shaving,” he lies. Of course it's a lie. She hasn't seen the other white gashes scarring his skin.
“Must have been a very blunt razor.” She is no fool.
“Have you ever cut yourself?” he asks. “Don't women like to do that?”
“No, I never have. But I had a friend once. Well a girl who was like a friend when my mom allowed me to have any. She did it a lot. Slicing all the way up her forearms with violent little slashes.”
“I find it fascinating that women get pleasure from that. Pain and pleasure. So tightly entwined. Like love and hate.”
“I don't know that they get pleasure from it. I think they do it to alleviate the pain.”
She's so sweet and smart and strong. He listens to her like someone he trusts because she's real and genuine. They're becoming more and more bonded in their understanding of each other.
I don't like it. They can't shut me out. I won't let that happen ever. I'll take her away before I let them exclude me from their cosy connection.
Riley
Flopping back into the chaise, I flip through the latest Italian Vogue, impatient now. Agitated as Josh had been to speak to someone, get out of these confines. Finally, more than an hour after he returned in the boat, Mark comes bounding into the room.
“Here you are, hiding from the world. Are you choosing your summer wardrobe from the collections?”
“I've been locked in here all day,” I say. Sulkily after waiting so long and wasting our last day to be together. How could he imagine I can buy designer collections on my miserable salary?
“Did you lock me in?” He scoops me into his arms and kisses me.
“Of course not. The door's not locked.”
“It is. I saw the bolt across the lock.”
“It wasn't when I came in. Sweetheart, these doors are five hundred years old. They get stuck easily in the damp.”
“I swear it was. I shook it enough to rip it apart,” I counter. I'm not backing down on this.
“Do you know how adorable you look when you pout? Don't do it too often though or you might invite a spanking,” he says, trailing kisses across the top of my forehead.
Sweetheart? Adorable? Too often? His words throw me into confusion. He's talking as though we're lovers with a future instead of about to part to opposite sides of the world.
“Where were you?” I say, trying not to look sulky. Or just enough that I'm adorable and not bratty. “I saw you come back an hour ago.”
“I dropped Josh at the airport.”
“Josh has gone? You went to the airport again?”
He knows I need to go out there to deal with my flight. Why didn't he take me along? And why didn't Josh say goodbye? Perhaps Mark has an Italian mistress he wants to keep me apart from. My mind instantly flips to the cheating. My ex has left a scar that may never heal.
“His agent left him a message last night that a client booked him for Monday morning. He had no choice but to fly right back to London. Rough life these underwear models have.”
“Is the internet working again? I'll book my flight for tomorrow.”
“I don't think so. It can be very erratic with these thick old walls.”
“I should check it out so I don't have a wasted trip to the airport in the morning.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t think I'm going to let you leave me tomorrow. After what we had last night.”
The way he calls me sweetheart jangles my heart. Is he being serious or just tossing away the endearment like old ladies in beauty salons?
“Mark, I have to go back to my job. I'm already in deep shit for missing so much time. I can't take any more liberties with the cubicle.”
“What do you care about a lousy office job you don't even enjoy?”
“I don't, but I do care about a bed to sleep in and food to eat at least once a day.”
“And don't you have those things here? Speaking of which what do you want to do for dinner tonight?”
“Mark, what are you saying? You want me to stay here and lose my job?”
“Of course you must stay here. Screw the job. Or stuff it, as Josh says.”
“I can't.”
“Why not? What are you afraid of?”
“You can't pull that one on me again,” I say, with a knowing smile. Tearing me down the middle between what I wanted or should do. “You made me think so hard about my life last time you said that but this is serious.”
“I know it is, Sweetheart. I'm totally serious.”
“I don't have a bottomless bank account to keep my life afloat while I live a fantasy few weeks with an Italian Prince.”
“You don't need a bank account of any sort.”
“So you would support me? I'll be a kept woman?”
“Why are there so many questions? Do you want to do this or not? What does it tell you in here?” He taps gently on my heart area and my breasts instantly fill with pressure for his rough hands to gorge on them.
“I don't know.”
A dark cloud crosses his face.
“Of course I want to be with you but it's crazy. I've known you barely a week.”
“Time doesn't matter. All that matters is what's in here.” Again his hand in the hollow between my breasts and this time it's unbearable. My pussy tugs and makes my entire body quiver with a lick of hunger. He smiles.
“I think we have our answer.”
“But-” I'm about to say it isn't fair. I'm lying across him on the chaise and he's playing my body like a violin. It's become a ravenous beast after being starved so long and can't be trusted with the grown-up decisions.
But he's had enough of talking. His mouth covers mine in a delicious meeting of tongues getting to know each other.
Finally his hand cups around my swollen breast and he kneads it firmly in time with the twine of his tongue. His other hand takes a handful of my butt cheek and the tips of his fingers insert themselves between the already damp folds of my vulva. I'm lost.
Chapter ELEVEN
There is uproar this morning outside on the canal and in the house. It's very obvious from the activity outside my window, that there's heavy tension pervading the city.
Once again Mark is gone from my bed, so I head down to look for my vanished lover. In the kitchen I discover the cook with the two women who clean the rooms and polish all the silver, yammering in Italian.
Something has happened and it's serious. I don't know how to ask what's up in Italian but I try some Mexican Spanish; “Que paso?”
They turn to me in unison and all three begin chattering and waving their arms about ferociously. Frustrated by my confused expression, one wraps her fingers around her throat and acts out throttling herself. It would be funny if it wasn't so horrible that I'm getting the idea someone has been strangled.
I look for Mark in the breakfast room and his study but he's not there, nor in the library. Finally I head up stairs to the second piano nobile, almost as grand as the first, where the bedrooms are. I don't actually know where my lover sleeps which is an odd realization.
The endless beautifully appointed rooms, each more sumptuous than the last to my over-awed eyes, are all deserted. Aside from one, which must belong to Mark being the central door on the passage. Firmly locked.
Does he have someone in there? Another woman he keeps imprisoned in his castle?
I'm headed back to my own room, defeated when Mark comes up the wide staircase. He looks exhausted, as though he's been up all night going three rounds in the ring. His face immediately changes when he spots me, lingering in the wide paneled hallway.
“Looking for someone?” he asks, sweeping me into his embrace so I totally forget my suspicions.
I fall into his kiss, then struggle free, not that purposefully.
“Something's happened. The house maids are all flustered.”
“When aren't they flustered? It's Venice, there's always drama.
“This is serious though,” I persist, sure he's trying to protect me from something. “Did someone die?”
“They told you that?”
“I got that much from the hand gestures.”
“A woman was found strangled in an alley down by the Doge's palace.”
“OhmiGod murdered? When? Who by?”
“I don't think the polizia have released the details. Venice is in turmoil with rumors all over the place. There's no need to be afraid my angelic beauty but it's best you stay here out of the bedlam.”
He pulls me close into his warm boulder of chest and rubs my back while I shiver. The goosebumps prickling all the way up and down my arms. Cold fear pulses painfully at my chest
“Baby, you're safe here. I've got you,” he whispers into my hair until I calm.
He puts me in the library and shuts the door. I'm certain the key turns softly in the lock but I don't dare go to check. Mark will hate it if he believes I don't trust him.
The day passes more rapidly than should be possible, filled with the scene outside the windows, the amazing books. We have a long, languorous lunch in front of the roaring fire.
Mark watches me eat slowly, his eyes fixed on the kneading and stroking of my lips. And the afternoon passes with me where he likes me- on my knees naked, my breasts swaying before the tall windows overlooking the canal.
When I want to go out, Mark insists we stay home so he can ravage me again on the priceless rug in front of the blaze.
Home. Why am I starting to think of the palazzo as home?
Note to self – you do not live here.
Be grateful that you got your bucket list experience and the Venice romance all rolled up and then some. Enjoy the rugged gorgeous hunk who seems smitten with you for some unknown reason. And don't get your hopes up for any more than that. Then the inevitable disappointment won't bite too hard and the damage will be minimal.
Except it won't. I'm going to be destroyed when I leave here.
Mark won't allow me to go out alone. He says he can't bear to worry about me knowing there's a killer roaming the cobbled alleys of Venice. I'm positive he thinks I'll try to escape. When I insist on going for a brisk morning walk, he insists right back that he'll accompany me. Of course I let him. I want him with me all the time. And I doubt I'd have much choice.
We make it four blocks before the biting cold turns our cheeks and noses red raw and we duck into one of my beloved pasticceria bars for espresso and cake at the counter. Mark orders two and we feed a bite to each other while standing at the bar, the most delicious sweetmeats I've ever tasted. Then he orders two more.
“I'm going to put on so much weight.” I shake my head.
“You're perfect. A woman should enjoy food in Italy, along with the other sensual pleasures.”
His gaze roams mine and ten minutes later we're back in my room at the palazzo. The fire roaring in the grate and Mark buried between my legs, sawing in and out. Him stroking my internal walls and delivering the most delicious shivers of pleasure in the history of my world.
“I'm never letting you go,” he murmurs afterward. Holding me close so my back crushes into his solid chest.
I feel his beautiful hardness stirring again, pushing at the indentation between my thighs and know he wants me.
Me.
I have never felt this desired by a man. Especially not one as perfect as Mark. But even I know he has to let me go. The rent on our- my- apartment in Vegas is paid until the end of the month in the divorce settlement. And then I'm screwed.
I was already going to struggle to make the payment on my own. With my disappearance I'm sure my boss has left me about a thousand livid emails and I'm fired. Yeah - Completely screwed.
Perhaps it's a good thing the storm has blown out the internet in Venice. I don't care. I've been blasted out of myself into a different stratosphere where all that went before is no longer relevant. Is it irresponsible? Like I said, I don't give a fuck.
Every morning however, I wake alone and discover my door is locked. Mark really doesn't want to take any chances with my safety. I may be incarcerated but I live like a real princess.
Wake, drink the aromatic dark coffee waiting for me on the table overlooking the canal, b
efore luxuriating in a deep fragrant bath.
I read a while then select another designer outfit from what I've come to think of as my magic closet. There's always something new to discover in there and it's always my size, even though that isn't a model size two.
I lunch with my lover at a trattoria where there are always at least three courses, usually four, because pasta is a course all by itself in Italy, not the main one.
Then the afternoon is spent at home, on my knees. Which is fortunate because it means I'm not gaining any weight. If anything, my body is becoming more shapely. At least it feels that way. That my curves are elongating, firming up and becoming sexier.
We hang out watching a movie in the room he's made into a private cinema and that usually ends up with him taking me again, while I'm bent forwards or backwards over one of the seats. Mark's massively inventive with the combination of positions,
I should write a book. I keep meaning to start one so I'll have notes from this unforgettable wild encounter. I'll call it “All my Fantasies”.
I'll show my daughter in the future. Recall that I was young once and went on an adventure. Maybe I'll publish all the different sex stuff I've learned in the palace but there never seems to be any time for writing. He wants me all of it. Demands all the free time that isn't taken up pampering my lush body.
At night Mark still leaves my bed and I find that disconcerting.
Shouldn't he want to be with me? What can he be doing in the middle of the night?
I sleep as soundly as the dead and although I mean to stay awake and see at what hour he departs, I never manage to keep my eyes open. I wake late and by the time I've soaked and dressed as perfectly as possible, he's there for me.
And of course the door is always locked in the morning when I try it. I can't have him until he chooses to come for me.
Chapter TWELVE
I don't mention the issue of the locked door again. I know he'll deny it and tell me it must have been stuck, rather than admit to the vulnerability of worrying about me. That he has someone to care about now besides his perfect son.
