by Zoë Archer
She took more of him into her mouth. Drew on him, as if taking sustenance. And, heaven help her, did he feel wondrous. Hot. Hard. Silky.
Her eyes drifted shut as she lost herself in sensation and strength.
She felt his fingers threading into her hair. Gently pulling her closer. She took him deeper, past the head to the shaft itself. Impossible to fit all of him into her mouth, so she wrapped her hand snug around the base of his penis. Pumped him in time with her sucking. It took a few moments to find her rhythm, but find it she did.
“Cara, bella, dolce fragola,” he said hoarsely. “È così buono.”
A tide of arousal flooded her at his words, and the tightening of his fingers in her hair. She glanced up again to see his own eyes closed, his head thrown back. This tightly controlled man had given up control. To her.
Suddenly, he pulled from her mouth. She was left on her knees, with his erection in her hand, wet with her saliva.
“Remember that other postcard?” he rumbled, drawing her up to standing. “Where the woman had her skirts hiked up around her waist, her arse in the air as the man bent her over a table, his cock buried deep in her pussy.”
“I … remember.” She glanced over to the vanity. “There weren’t any mirrors, though.”
He led her toward the small table. “We can do better than those postcards. You’ll watch yourself as I put my cock in you. You’ll see the look on your face as I fuck you.”
Heat flared through her at his words. Ah, God.
At the vanity, he placed her hands on the edge of the table. She could already see the stain of desire on her cheeks, how her eyes were heavy, and the loosening of her hair so it formed a wild corona around her face.
She watched as he gathered up her skirts, and felt the slight shaking in his hands as he did so. Cool air touched her through the opening in her drawers. But he didn’t seem satisfied. He pulled her drawers down, guided her to step out of them. Aside from her stockings and tiny evening slippers, she was bare now from the waist down. Again she was struck by the erotic feeling of being partly dressed, but also so exposed to him.
Looking in the mirror, she watched hunger carve him into hard contours as he stared at her behind, and the exposed folds of her sex. Surely he could see how wet she was, how ready, yet he looked his fill. His penis curved up higher, twitching, as he stared at her.
“Marco.” She moaned. “Now.”
“Ora, amore?” He teased her with the head of his penis, rubbing it along her and around her opening.
“Sì,” she managed to gasp.
He chuckled darkly. “I like my language on your tongue.”
“I like … my tongue … on you.”
His laugh abruptly stopped. And with one thrust, he was inside her. Her gaze locked with her reflection. There she was. With Marco inside her. She looked the picture of unbridled lust. Like one of those erotic postcards. But better—because this was real and now. And him. God above, how she loved it. Loved …
No—this was only sensation. Nothing more. Wasn’t it?
She continued to watch herself as he slid slowly, almost completely, out. Then back in. Sensation filled her as much as he did. His fingers gripped her hips tightly. Bruisingly. But she didn’t care. Wanted that. To be marked by him. Marks that showed he was past control. That they could belong to each other.
His pace increased, his thrusts coming faster. The vanity shook with the force of his strokes—and so did she. She barely managed to tear her gaze away from the reflection of her face to look at him. He grimaced in pleasure, but his gaze was tight on hers. They stared at each other as he … fucked her. As she fucked him back, pressing hard into his thrusts, letting sensation build and build.
One of his hands unlocked from around her hip. Curved between her legs. She felt his fingers circle around her bud. Then, with each stroke of his cock, his fingertip lightly tapped against her pearl. With each tap, ecstasy shot through her.
“Ah, God,” she moaned. “I—”
The orgasm poured through her. Wave upon wave. A crash of gold and light. She couldn’t keep her eyes open, but fell fully into sensation.
Yet even as the pulses of her climax faded, he continued to stroke in and out of her. She watched him in the mirror. Here, together, he was unguarded, unrestrained. A glimpse of his truer, rawer self.
“Cara, I—” He pulled out. She felt the heat of his seed upon her bare skin. And though it hadn’t been that long since they’d last made love, his climax seemed to go on and on. Until, at last, he bowed over her, his breath hot against her neck.
They stared at each other in the mirror, both panting, and she could see the same expression in his eyes as in hers. Pleasure and satiation. And shock.
They’d held nothing back. Leaving them more open and exposed than either of them had ever been.
ELEVEN
Marco woke with sun in his face and Bronwyn in his arms. For a moment, he could only lie there, shocked. A quick check of the clock on a nearby table revealed the time to be eight o’clock. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept past five. He couldn’t remember waking with a woman. Always, he crept out before she’d awakened, leaving behind cooling sheets and fading memories of a night spent in momentary gratification.
Yet here he was. Waking at an opulent hour, and with the warm, soft form of Bronwyn pressed close, her hand spread over his chest. He marveled at the rise and fall of her hand, in time with his breathing. Deceptive, with its slimness. One might think she had no strength at all with a hand so delicate. But he knew better.
He’d seen her hands last night moving over the neck of her violin, holding the bow as it glided over the strings. And while he’d been to more than his share of concerts in his life—even with female musicians—none of them had fired his blood as she did last night. It was more than seeing her sway like a siren, or imagining how those dexterous fingers might feel on him. It was as if each note she played shot right into him like an arrow dipped in a strength potion. Filling him with her capability. Her resilience. Her passion.
As he glanced down at her, she slept on, peaceful, her hair spread upon the pillow and over his shoulder. What an illusory picture she made, looking like one of those soft-limbed nymphs in a painting. But he knew her to be far more than that.
That ache took up residence in the center of his chest again. But he couldn’t move to soothe it, not without disturbing her. So he let the pain fill him. It reminded him of when he’d nearly lost several toes to frostbite outside Moscow. He hadn’t felt anything at all in his foot, just a pleasant numbness. And then, slowly, the flesh had started to thaw. The pain had been excruciating as his extremities had come back to life. Despite his high tolerance for discomfort—he’d been trained to withstand torture, after all—he’d almost have preferred losing the toes than suffer as he had. The lack of feeling was better.
Bronwyn stirred. She blinked up at him, seemingly almost as surprised to see him as he was to be there.
Would she turn away? Murmur some distracting inanity? They’d spent most of last night making love, keeping nothing back as they’d laid themselves bare in so many ways. They had done things together—acts he’d more than a passing familiarity with—but now with her … They’d become so much more than two bodies selfishly chasing pleasure.
He’d no reason to think she’d give him anything more than her body, when that’s all he’d offered her. Yet, fearlessly, she’d cast aside pretense and self-protection. Let him see her totally. And in the way he’d made love to her—telling her over and over again how beautiful she was, how she filled him with need, seeking her pleasure before his own—he’d done the same.
But this morning, in the brightness of an Italian sun, would she retreat? Maybe he would, out of habitual self-protection.
Instead, she leaned up and kissed him. Her breath was stale from waking, but he didn’t care. He kissed her back. Openly. Hungrily.
Thoughts of retreat fled. He wouldn’t hide from thi
s. Couldn’t.
Already, his body stirred.
“Di distruggere me,” he rumbled. Easier to speak of these things in a language she couldn’t understand.
“Unfair,” she murmured. “When I can’t fathom what you’re saying.”
“I’m not a fair man.”
“Not fair at all.” She ran her hand over his stubble, and the sensation nearly made him shiver.
They kissed again, hotly. He cupped her breast, tracing his fingers around her tightening nipple. She moaned softly. Pressed herself closer so that his erection was snug and scalding between them.
Suddenly, she was straddling him. The covers fell away from her shoulders, and she was naked in the daylight. Her hair tangled. Her face still slightly puffy from sleep. Real and unafraid. More beautiful than he’d ever seen her.
Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she slid her pussy up and down his cock, wetting him, preparing them both. Then she positioned herself, the head of his penis at her opening, and sank down.
He made an animal sound as he gripped her hips. Neither moved. Allowing themselves this moment to feel and be seen. Doubtless he looked like an unkempt brigand, hardly a sophisticated man who’d make sophisticated love to an elegant woman of society. He didn’t care. He only wanted her, as they both were right now.
She lifted her hips slightly. Pleasure tore through him at this smallest of movements. And when she lowered her hips, taking him deeper in, he groaned.
“Ti senti molto bene.”
She couldn’t know what he was saying, but she moaned. “Yes.”
“Time … for an Italian lesson,” he growled.
“Now?”
“You’ll want to know … these words…” He lifted her hand. “Mano.”
“Mano,” she repeated breathlessly.
He kissed her hand, his tongue tracing a line on her flesh. “Bacio.”
“Bacio. I like … that one.”
“Have another.” He leaned up and took her mouth with his. They unfurled together, bare and revealed.
Slowly, she discovered her pace and rhythm. He watched her face as she learned that if she moved her hips just so, they both cried out in pleasure. And when she bent to kiss him as she went faster, they panted into each other’s mouths, sharing breath, sharing sensation.
She’d ridden him last night, too, but there was something new about sharing this in the uncompromising light of day, something unrestrained. Her breasts bounced as she moved, and he reached up to stroke them, taking the nipples between his fingers and pinching lightly.
Suddenly, she bowed back, her mouth open, eyes closed. The climax had her. It seemed so strong, she couldn’t even make a sound. Dio e il paradiso, was she gorgeous.
The moment she curved over him, her orgasm finally releasing her, he flipped their positions. Rolled her onto her back and plunged into her with the ferocity of a lion taking his mate. He was already close to the edge. A few more strokes, and he was gone.
He barely managed to pull out in time. But, God, was it a struggle. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to come inside of her, feel her heat as she gripped him through his release. His seed shot from him as if he hadn’t made love to her over and over last night. As if he’d been waiting his whole life to have her.
When the last aftershocks faded, he rolled onto his back. Together, they lay side by side, gasping. He stared up at the canopy as more light filled the room.
L’inferno. If he wasn’t careful, he’d want this. Every night. Every morning. With her. This racking pleasure that came not only from sensation, but being entirely open, unhidden.
There was a word he hadn’t taught her. Could barely utter it in his thoughts. But it whispered to him, and would not be pushed aside.
Amore.
Did he…? Was he even capable of…? He’d never believed it.
Until now.
But he couldn’t forget who he was. A spy. An agent for Nemesis. A man stripped clean of everything but purpose. What he and Bronwyn shared wasn’t viable. He had to remind himself of that, in case he started to think of the impossible. Things like amore.
Men like him didn’t dream.
* * *
After bathing, Marco and Bronwyn joined their hosts back in the dining room for breakfast. Thomas was all smiles—a genial fellow—but Giovanni was more restrained.
It had been a hell of a setback to learn that the former spy wouldn’t help them. But Marco wasn’t through yet. He’d other tricks in his arsenal. And while finding the Grillons man without Giovanni’s help was a massive obstacle, Marco didn’t believe in obstacles that couldn’t be overcome. Somehow, he’d locate the former Grillons operative.
He just needed to figure out how.
After he and Bronwyn had been served coffee and rolls by the hulking Niccolo, silence fell over the company. Marco’s nerves pulled tight. Yet he only ate his roll and drank his excellent coffee, and quietly schemed.
“Montepulciano,” Giovanni said suddenly.
Marco set down his cup. “Just like that?”
“I did some thinking, last night.”
“Enough to change your mind,” Marco said.
“We seem to be missing part of this conversation,” Bronwyn noted. “What are you talking about?”
“The location of Émile Bertrand, the Grillons agent,” Marco answered. “Giovanni’s decided to tell us our friend’s location. And that location is the little town of Montepulciano, which is about seventy miles from here.”
“I don’t understand.” Bronwyn leaned forward in her chair. “Yesterday you were utterly set against giving us this information.”
“You changed my mind, Signora Parrish.” Pressing his index fingers just beneath his bottom lip, Giovanni looked pensive. “Or it is more accurate to say it was your violin that convinced me. I heard the beauty of your playing and I heard more than music. I heard your heart. While it might have inflamed some of us”—he shot a glance toward Marco—“it made me think. All night, I thought.”
“Kept me awake with his tossing and turning,” Thomas said in exasperation. “But with good cause.”
“I could not, in clear conscience, consign you to the street. That is where you would be without your fortune, no?”
“Perhaps not the literal street,” she answered honestly, when she could have just as easily lied. “I thought I might become a paid companion.”
Giovanni shuddered. “The drudge of some old woman, or worse, a callow girl trying to ensnare a husband? No, I could not abide the idea that you, the maker of such exquisite music, who have the heart of someone who could play so divinely, would fade like wallpaper and play only in some dreary attic room, all alone.”
The image Giovanni painted struck Marco like a fist in the gut. He’d known all along the stakes of this mission. But after last night, failure became impossible.
“There is courage, I think,” Giovanni added, “to play as you did in the company of strangers. And I thought, too, about your plans for your money. A home for the poor ladies. I could not refuse, my own mother being once a young widow with many children.”
“Though I appreciate your decision,” Bronwyn said, “the risk to this Bertrand is still just as high this morning as it was last night, violin or no violin.”
Giovanni gave a small smile. “There is no agent for any country better than amico mio, Marco. If Les Grillons had followed you from France, we would have all woken up dead this morning. But as we are alive and enjoying this fine colazione, clearly he was able to keep them away. I must trust that he will do the same and preserve Bertrand’s safety.”
Marco merely tipped his head in acknowledgment.
Bronwyn was less restrained. “Thank you so much, Giovanni.”
“The thanking is mutual,” he answered. “I had an incredible private concert last night, and for the first time, I have met Marco’s donna.”
Pink spread across her cheeks. “I’m not … that is … I’m his client, not his woma
n.”
Thomas dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Yet, according to Giovanni, not only has he never met one of Marco’s lady lights, he’s never even met one of his clients. All rather intriguing.”
“Isn’t it?” She stared at Marco pointedly, and he only stared back with a cool look he’d been cultivating for decades with great success. Yet it didn’t seem to affect her. She continued to hold his gaze, until he was actually the one to look away first.
“I imagine you’ll want to leave right away,” Thomas said sadly.
“We can’t move too quickly,” Marco answered.
The Englishman sighed. “What a shame. I’d hoped to talk more with Mrs. Parrish, and hear her play again.”
“Perhaps if we come through Florence again,” Bronwyn suggested.
But Marco had to dash that hope. “Not this trip, fragola. From now on, there is a single direction: straight ahead. No looking back.”
* * *
Giovanni graciously loaned Marco and Bronwyn his carriage to transport them to the train station. And so they found themselves on another platform, waiting for a train to take them away from Florence.
There was no train station at Montepulciano. Even if there had been, Marco would never have taken a direct route. Instead, he booked them tickets first to Pisa. Once they’d arrived at Pisa, their next stop was Lucca. He wished he could spend more time there, to see his mother’s family, and bring them news of her. But it was impossible. It gave him a small thrill of gratification, though, to bring Bronwyn to his mother’s home city.
From there, they doubled back to Pisa. Finally, they headed on to Siena, the closest station to their endpoint.
It wasn’t elegant or fast, but then, neither was most espionage.
Bronwyn dozed several times through their travels. He couldn’t blame her after how little sleep either of them had gotten last night. The strangest thing—he’d have thought by now he’d have gotten her well out of his system. He’d seldom gone back to the same woman more than a few times, and never with the enthusiasm he’d shown with Bronwyn. Yet as he watched her lightly slumber, her head leaning against the window of the second-class seating compartment, he sensed a clamoring within himself. A demand for more. More of everything. Sex—yes. But her, too.
