Chapter Eight
Caresa
“I would like to thank you all for coming here today.” I met each of the society ladies’ eyes as I held my glass of champagne in the air. “I know I met many of you when I was a child, and I look forward to remaking your acquaintance now that I am full grown and not in diapers.” My joke was met with polite laughter. Raising my glass higher, I said, “To Italy!”
The ladies repeated my toast, and then the bell rang out in the opulent dining room signaling the beginning of our luncheon. Our antipasti were placed before us. As I lifted my fork to eat my affettati misti, I could feel the heavy stares of the aristocratic ladies on me.
“So, Duchessa,” one of the ladies asked. I looked up to find Baronessa Russo regarding me closely. She was in her mid-twenties, with long blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her light features showed her heritage—she was from a town near the Austrian border. “Is the prince at home?”
My stomach flipped as the table grew quiet. I forced a smile. “No, he has been busy at the vineyards in Turin. This month sees him occupied with the harvests of Savona wines; he will return for the grape-crushing festival.”
Baronessa Russo tilted her head. I thought I saw a hint of triumph in her eyes. “That’s strange,” she said. “I was recently in Florence and met the prince for a private dinner at the palazzo . . .” She pulled her features into a dramatically thoughtful expression. “. . . Oh, perhaps two days ago?”
I understood the underlying message—she had been with him for more than just dinner.
I did not let my smile slip. Instead, I nodded. “He goes back and forth to where he is needed most. Florence is his home. It’s his business base.”
“Yet you stay here?” Contessa Bianchi asked curiously. I remembered her face from the photographs Maria had made me memorize before the luncheon.
“I prefer it,” I said smoothly. “I love the Umbrian countryside. It is peaceful.” I chuckled. “Peace is welcome. I know my life will only become more hectic toward our wedding.”
Of course it was a lie. Every lady here knew it was a lie, but good women of society were adept at falsifying truths and ignoring the glaring subtext of anything said aloud.
“A wedding date, yet no engagement ring,” Baronessa Russo observed, holding out her champagne glass for a member of the staff to refill.
“I’m sure it’s coming,” the woman beside me said. “The prince is a busy man with a hugely successful enterprise. I’m sure when he returns he will spoil the duchessa rotten.” Some of the tension released from my shoulders when all but the baronessa nodded in agreement. Most of them wore their obvious envy of my marriage to the prince clearly on their faces.
I felt like telling them there was nothing to envy.
As the servers began to clear the table of the first course, I leaned closer to the woman who had defended me. I studied her face, searching my mind for her name—Contessa Florentino. “Thank you, Contessa,” I whispered so no one else could hear.
The pretty petite brunette with large green eyes waved her hand in dismissal. “Not a problem.” She leaned closer still, turning her head away from the rest of the table. “I’m afraid this luncheon is more like a den of snakes for you, Duchessa. I don’t know how much you know of the prince, but many of these women know him very well. Thankfully, I’m not one of them.” The contessa never broke my gaze. She was direct and ballsy. I liked that in an acquaintance. Often in Italian society, or even among those in Manhattan, people rarely spoke the truth to one’s face. They preferred to do it behind your back, because apparently it is more ladylike.
Societal politics was a peculiar game to play.
I took a sip of my champagne. “I am well aware of Zeno’s reputation, Contessa. But thank you for being so forthcoming. It is more than welcome.”
She smiled. “Call me Pia.”
“Then call me Caresa.”
I clinked my glass against hers. “I’m guessing the baronessa is one of Zeno’s conquests?”
Pia nodded. “I live in Florence, Caresa. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she is just one of many.”
“I thought as much. She has been weighing me up since she arrived.”
“At least you’re not crying into your pasta over the news that your fiancé is a cad. Then again, one would have to be naïve to believe that these elaborate marriages we enter into are for love, no?”
“I knew I’d like you,” I said to Pia and laughed when she threw back her head.
The other ladies were watching us, deeply intrigued. “Pia was just telling a funny story about my fiancé,” I said. The women seemed satisfied by my vague explanation.
“We all have stories, Duchessa,” Baronessa Russo said under her breath. The awkward tension from the women in her vicinity was palpable.
“I suspect you do,” I quipped back, letting her know I had heard. Her embarrassed, flushed cheeks were but a small victory.
“How are you enjoying life in the country?” Pia asked, loud enough for the whole table to hear.
“It is beautiful. The estate is no doubt the most magical place I have ever seen.”
“What do you do here for fun?” Contessa Bianchi asked.
My mind traveled to Achille. Unable to refrain from speaking the truth, I said, “Ride. Mainly dressage. I like to walk. Jog. I spend a great deal of my time doing that. And of course, I watch the harvest.”
“The king owned a dressage team, did you know that? They were frequently the national champions. King Santo was horse-mad,” Pia informed us; my interest was piqued.
“How quaint. But I’m not sure watching the harvest constitutes fun, Duchessa,” Baronessa Russo said, pulling my attention from Pia.
“On the contrary,” I replied. “This is the jewel in Savona Wines’ crown. My family is tied into the business, as well you all know. I have been a part of this industry my whole life.” I hid a smile as I added, “Zeno has been extremely happy with my interest. He will soon have a wife who understands his entire world—both his status and his business. I can share in all his victories.”
A collective sigh came from all but Baronessa Russo and Pia. Baronessa Russo because she had meant what she said as a slight. And Pia because she knew the game I played.
“Did you work with your father in Manhattan, Duchessa? With Savona Wines?” Viscontessa Lori asked.
I shook my head. “No, I was at college. I had just finished my master’s degree when I came here.”
“In what?” Pia asked.
“Educational psychology. I would have loved to have pursued a career in education. Working with children and adults to overcome learning difficulties.”
“There are many charities under the king’s name that promote work such as that. I’m sure now he has passed, the chairs of those charities would appreciate the future queen taking his place,” Viscontessa Lori told me. Excitement lit up my heart. I hadn’t known about that side of the king’s business.
“Thank you, Viscontessa,” I said sincerely. “I will look into the possibilities immediately.”
The entrée of tortelli di zucca was placed before us, and I inhaled the scent of the Bella Collina olive oil drizzled over the fresh pumpkin-filled pasta, curls of Parmigiano-Reggiano lying gently on top. “A treat from my home,” I said, pointing to the dish. “I know we are in Umbria, but I wanted to bring a little of Parma to the table. Please, eat.”
I ate my meal, listening to the ladies talk about the charities they were involved in or about their husbands and betrotheds. Contessa Bianchi had the table enraptured with a tale of a “commoner” she had once had a fling with.
“Caresa?” Pia said in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“Do you know methods of helping those who struggle to read or write? Those with learning difficulties?”
Her comment took me by surprise. “Yes,” I replied. “I worked for many charities and schools during my studies, and assisted some of the best educational psychologists in Manhattan. I didn’t get as far as I would have liked in the field, but I am proficient.”
Pia glanced around to check no one was listening. She looked into my eyes. “My nephew.” She cleared her throat. “He doesn’t always do well in school. My sister married well, and her husband is ashamed that their son struggles to read and write. I love my nephew—when I talk to him he is bright and knowledgeable. But academically, he is weak. Very weak. He struggles with such simple tasks as holding a pen. He can barely write, and worse, he confided to my sister and me that when he reads, the words jump around the page. He can never focus enough to make out a single sentence.”
My heart broke for Pia and her sister. “It sounds like he is dyslexic and maybe has dyspraxia. It is scary for the person at first, as they see everyone else doing these things with ease, but there are methods to help overcome the challenges.”
Pia’s eyes filled with tears. “Really?” I nodded. “His father, he won’t help. He won’t have his reputation damaged by his son being regarded as slow. He is threatening to send him away to a Swiss boarding school.”
I covered Pia’s hand. “If you want my help, Pia, it’s yours. No one need know.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course,” I assured her. She squeezed my fingers in appreciation. She didn’t speak for a while after that. I could see she was still teary.
As the dessert of limoncello gelato was placed before us, Pia said, “It was just little things at first. He would make up the stories for the books he was assigned to read as homework for school. He would get angry when we questioned him on silly mistakes in his class work. It wasn’t until my sister gave him a book she knew by heart and asked him to read it and tell her about it that she realized he was fabricating stories about what he was supposed to be reading. He broke down after that and explained his troubles. It’s . . .” Pia sighed. “It’s been quite a challenge. But the worst part is seeing the frustration he bears. He is a kind, shy boy, but can explode with bouts of aggression when his pride is threatened.”
I knew Pia kept talking to me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard her voice telling me more of her nephew’s plight. But I couldn’t make out what she had said. Because I was too busy feeling my face pale as a cold realization began to hit.
The newspaper story . . . the labels . . . the illegible tick . . . the holding of the pen . . . the shaking . . . asking me to circle the mistakes . . . asking me to leave . . . the pain and fear in his beautiful eyes . . .
He struggled to read and write. Or . . . maybe he couldn’t read or write at all.
Achille, I thought, a stab of sympathy hitting me like a knife in my stomach. How did I not see it? Caresa, you stupid, stupid girl.
“Caresa?” Pia’s questioning voice called me from my inner turmoil. I faked a smile and, somehow, for the next two hours, managed to make small talk as the ladies and I made our way to the grand reception room for drinks. I was sure I agreed to more dinner and charity functions than I could truly commit to, but I couldn’t remember a single one.
Pia was the last to leave, taking with her my promise to see her nephew very soon. The minute she left, I told Maria I needed to lie down—a sudden headache, I explained. I just needed to rest after such a long function.
I didn’t even bother changing from my white cap-sleeved Roland Mouret dress or my matching Prada heels. I didn’t take off the Harry Winston diamond chandelier earrings that hung in my ears, or tie back my hair that had been curled into 1940s pin curls and left in flowing waves to my shoulders. Instead, the minute my bedroom door was locked, I fled through my balcony exit and hurried toward Achille’s home.
The pace of my furiously beating heart kept time with my rushing feet. A crack of thunder roared above and spots of fat raindrops came sailing down from the sky. I ran into the barn to find Achille standing in the center of the floor, placing a bucket of freshly picked grapes beside the crushing barrel.
He started when I came rushing in, as a curtain of torrential rain dropped from the dark clouds outside. His blue eyes were surprised at my intrusion, but then heat exploded in my stomach as Achille, completely frozen to the spot, raked his gaze over me in my dress. And there was nothing innocent or timid about the sudden flare of passion in his eyes. The need and want was there, as plain as day. The muscles on his bare torso bunched and tensed; his hands clenched at his sides. Spatters of dirt and grape juice lay on his bronzed skin, his black hair unkempt and in disarray.
I imagined the picture we made. Me, a duchessa, styled and dressed to the nines and him, a winemaker, dirtied and roughened from an honest day’s work.
I averted my gaze when I could no longer take the hunger in his eyes. I strived to find my composure, to find the courage to speak. But when my eyes landed on the trash can in the corner of the room, on the wrinkled newspaper that was still its only occupant, I rushed forward. I took out the paper and read the article, no longer caring if the story about me was good or bad. I just had to know. I read every word, and with every sentence, my heart broke a little more.
How long had he kept up this charade? How long had he kept this secret? Then my soul cracked completely. He had been without his father for months. A man who would have helped him. A man who read to him when Achille couldn’t read for himself.
Achille . . . he was so alone.
So completely lost.
I felt him behind me. Still on the same spot across the room. I looked up; his distraught eyes were focused on the paper in my hands. “Achille,” I whispered, feeling tears build in my eyes. “It made no mention of my staying here in Umbria. Or anything about the prince, like you said. It was a piece about my life in New York, about my family and the business.”
Achille’s skin became ashen. He looked away at the sheet of rain dancing beyond the open barn door.
“The labels.” I dropped the newspaper on the floor. “The missed mistakes, the incorrect sample . . . you didn’t know, did you?”
“Don’t,” Achille bit out when I was a mere three feet from him. “Don’t talk of things you don’t know, Duchessa.”
“Achille—”
I expected him to shout, to display the aggression I knew he harbored so deeply inside, the aggression he had shown me twice before. The aggression born from frustration.
But instead Achille tiredly hung his head, his body losing its will to fight. “Please . . . don’t . . .” He took a deep breath. “Not you . . . not from you . . .”
My bottom lip shook at the defeat in his voice, in his stature. My soul screamed in sympathy for the torment afflicting his. Because this reaction, this lack of willingness to argue, told me everything I needed to know.
He truly couldn’t read or write. He could make the world’s finest wine, could be such a kind and gentle man, yet he could not read the labels of the award-winning merlot he made with his talented bare hands.
It was the cruelest of God’s jokes.
“Don’t pity me.” My breath paused at the softly spoken request. “I don’t want your pity.”
“I don’t pity you,” I said, my voice shaking with the tension of the moment. “I am angry for you. I am so angry that you were never given the help you should have been.”
Achille flinched, as if my words had physically wounded him. An expression of pain disfigured his beautiful features.
Achille avoided my eyes, instead searching the barn. His hands shook at his sides, but not with anger. There was no anger left in this hollowed-out space. I could feel only Achille’s despondency, his lack of understanding about what to do now that his greatest secret had been exposed to the harsh light of day.
I saw the empty buckets spread around his feet, only one still full. I saw the rest of the grapes in the barrel ready to be crushed. Achille’s eyes shone like the most beautiful stained glass as helplessness gathered in their depths.
I had never wanted to hurt him, to shame him. I only wanted to help. My pained soul wanted nothing more than to see him healed of this injustice.
I needed to make him feel comfortable.
I needed this lost boy found.
The old cassette player was sitting on the countertop. Skirting around the motionless Achille, I pressed play . . . and my eyes closed as a wave of emotion washed over me. The opening bars of “Sogno”, my dressage music, graced the humid stormy air with their perfect sound.
Achille had been listening to this music today. The old speakers of the player were still warm. He had been listening to this song. As Andrea Bocelli sang of sleep and of dreams, I turned and saw a bead of sweat travel the length of Achille’s back. His skin shivered in its wake and his muscles danced.
I approached him slowly, like one would approach a wild animal. I stood before him, and his nostrils flared. His eyes were still focused outside. “Were you about to crush the grapes?”
My diversion tactic worked; Achille’s eyebrows pulled down in confusion and his eyes fell to mine. “Yes,” he said.
“Then let’s crush them.” I bent down to take off my shoes. Achille watched me as I kicked my heels aside. He looked dubiously at my dress, but I didn’t let that stop me. It was only fabric, and replaceable. Achille was a fellow human in pain. There was no comparison.
“Do we wash our feet?” I asked, looking around the barn for cleaning supplies. Achille took a while to move. He led me to a metal trough filled with an astringent-smelling solution. As I stepped into the cold liquid, Achille bent down to rid himself of his boots and roll his jeans up to his knees.
I stepped out of the bucket. Achille washed his own feet, then he poured the final buckets of grapes into the barrel. Lifting the hem of my dress, I hitched the material up to my thighs and tried to climb in, but the sides were too high. Just as I was about to ask for Achille’s help, he slipped his hands around my waist, and as if I weighed no more than a feather, he placed me in the barrel. The top layer of grapes exploded under me, the juices slipping between my toes and flowing over my feet and ankles.
Achille watched me in fascination. The final note of “Sogno” sounded from the cassette player. A clicking noise sounded though the speakers, and then another song began to play.
“Are you getting in?” I asked.
I was rewarded with a timid smile. Then Achille stepped in, his tall, broad frame crowding me in the barrel. I yelped as I was thrown off balance by a shift in the mass of grapes beneath us. Achille reached out and steadied me. His hands wrapped around my own, causing the hem of my dress to fall back to my knees. His gaze drifted downward, and mine followed. The bottom of my dress was covered in red juice.
“You are ruining your dress.”
“Yes, I suspect I am,” I replied. A husky sliver of a laugh escaped his lips. It was the most heavenly sound. “So,” I asked, ignoring his concern for my attire. “How do we do this?”
“We stomp.” He began lifting his feet, slowly crushing the grapes under them. Holding onto him more tightly, I copied his movements, the sticky juice flowing faster the more we stomped.
“It feels bizarre,” I said, looking down at the grape juice rising up the sides of the barrel. “The juice is sticky, the grape flesh soft, but the stems are hard. They keep stabbing the soles of my feet.”
“We leave the stems on to strengthen the tannins and deepen the color of the wine.” The more Achille talked of the wine, the more his confidence returned to his voice. Wine, he knew. He could never be caught off guard when it came to his beloved merlot. It followed a system at which he excelled. A routine that he knew as well as he knew himself. There was no threat, no feeling of inferiority.
“How long do we do this?” I asked as we circled the barrel, ensuring each grape was paid equal attention.
“As long as it takes,” he replied. “I can be here for an hour on my own. With you, it will be less.” As the minutes passed and the juice rose, the splashes came higher, reaching my chest and his stomach.
“I believe your dress is beyond saving,” Achille said, a slight breathiness to his deep voice. I checked out my dress, and, sure enough, it was now sodden with red grape juice up to my waist. The once-white material had become transparent due to the wetness of the juice.
As I flicked my head up in embarrassment, a drop of grape juice splashed from the barrel to spray the side of my neck. And then everything happened at once. I cried out in surprise. Achille’s hands released mine, moving to my waist. And he lowered his mouth to my neck, his soft lips stilling on my skin as they kissed away the sweet, rolling drop of juice.
I felt as though I was in a dream, a surreal out-of-body experience where Achille’s mouth was on me. I could feel his breath ghosting down my skin and his hard chest pressed flush against mine. I wanted this dream to be real. I wanted to be in Achille’s warm embrace. I wanted him to want me enough to drop his guard and let me in.
I wanted him to want me, period.
Then when a low groan sailed into my ears, and I felt the soft swipe of a tongue lapping at the spilled juice, I knew I wasn’t lost in a fantasy. I was here. In the barn . . . wrapped tightly in Achille’s arms.
His mouth was on my neck.
He was against me, body against body . . . feeling exactly like I knew it would: perfect, like we had always been.
Achille’s lips suddenly stilled against my skin. His hands tightened on my waist, then he slowly withdrew his head, stopping just inches in front of my face. His pupils were dilated, the black nearly eclipsing the blue, as his wary, shocked eyes fixed upon my face. Heat filled his cheeks, and his mouth worked as if he wanted to speak but could find no words to say. His breathing was heavy; mine had stopped altogether.
I stared.
He stared.
The air between us crackled with tension.
I wasn’t sure who moved first. Like the last time we had been this close, something pulled us together, an unexplainable attraction that seized our minds and our hearts and our souls. One moment I was transfixed by his eyes, the next, Achille’s mouth was fused with my own, his soft lips against mine, his large hands in my hair.
My hands landed on his back, my fingers clawing at his naked skin, trying to pull him even closer. I needed him closer than he was, needed to feel him against me, within me, taking me. It was irrational and wrong, but I couldn’t persuade myself to stop.
My fingernails scraped along the flesh of his back, and Achille hissed into my mouth, followed by a deep groan. His hands tightened in my hair, and he plunged his tongue forward to meet mine. The taste of him exploded on my taste buds—fruity and sweet with just the faintest hint of wine.
This time it was me who moaned, heat surging through my veins and muscles and bones. I felt on fire, dancing on the precipice of something I wasn’t sure I could come back from. But, like anything addictive, I took and I took until my lips were bruised and my desire was raw.
I broke away to recapture my lost breath. Achille’s lips didn’t stop, traveling over my cheeks, down my neck and along the top of my chest. My head tipped back, eyes rolling shut as he seared me with his touch, setting fire to my blood.
My hands traveled to his arms, then up into his hair. Achille’s nose ran up my neck until his forehead pressed against my own. “Caresa,” he murmured in a slow, graveled tone. “I feel you inside me. Here and here and here.” His hands moved to his head, his mouth, his heart.
I should have stopped it. I knew I should have stopped it. But I moved closer, pressing my breasts to his chest, breathless as he hissed and let out a groan.
And that was all it took.
That was all it took to break the shy, retiring winemaker into a soul untamed. Achille reached down and took hold of the bottom of my thighs, lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist. My already ruined dress split at the back, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was the man whose neck my arms were wrapped around, the warm skin searing its blazing heat through mine, and the lips that were joined against my own—wanting me, needing me, taking me—just like I craved.
I closed my eyes as we urgently explored each other’s mouths, as if time were a fragile hourglass, the sand taunting us, stealing away this moment, reminding us that our hearts could not entwine.
Achille stepped out of the crushing barrel and carried me into the heavy sheet of rain outside. The water was a cooling balm as it fell from the stormy sky above, drenching us, yet our lips still did not part.
We could not be separated . . .
. . . not even for a moment.
Achille’s feet sloshed on the flooding ground, and the remaining sounds of Andrea Bocelli’s hypnotizing voice sailed away into the distance as he carried me into his house.
I pulled my head back with a gasp, blinking as my mascara rolled down my cheeks. Achille’s lips were reddened from my smeared lipstick, his eyes dancing with light. He clearly didn’t care what I looked like. In that second, I couldn’t care either. Our movements were rough and raw and fumbled . . . we were tangled, chaotic perfection, a frantic, flawless mess.
The fire was roaring, basking the small living room in burnt orange and yellow and red. The wood crackled and split, and its earthy smell filled every inch of the air.
Achille’s eyes met my own, and for a brief, suspended moment we simply stared at each other. I drank in his beauty as he did my own. No words were spoken, yet we communicated with ease.
His parted lips told me he wanted me. His flushed cheeks told me he hungered for me. But his open, honest gaze told me he needed me more than air.
“Yes,” I whispered. It was all that needed to be said.
Achille took me from the living room, down a small hallway and into a bedroom. The entire time, I ran my hands through his thick, black, wet hair and over his stubbled cheeks and tensed neck. I had to touch him.
I could not let him go, not even for a single second.
He was a drug I could not forego. I lusted for the hit of his taste, the high from the heat of his body.
Achille stopped before a simple wooden-framed full-size bed. The room was sparse but for the bed and a nightstand. An oil-burning lamp sat in the window, a curiously old-fashioned light, yet perfectly suited to this cottage. The warm glow cast a golden sunset hue over the room, the slightly open window allowing the pitter-patter of rain to be our serenade.
I could hear his heart pounding next to mine. Then, in a move that made my legs tremble and an intense lightness fill my chest, Achille ran the back of his finger so painstakingly slowly down my cheek that it brought tears to my eyes. He was cherishing me . . . memorizing me. He was worshiping me as though I were the answer to his prayers.
In that moment, he felt like the answer to all of mine.
His hands drifted from the tops of my shoulders to the nape of my neck. He unzipped my dress. Cool air kissed my damp skin as the ruined material slid delicately from my body. I did not move my eyes from Achille’s the whole time. So, when my dress slipped to the floor, pooling at my feet, and my white lace bra and panties were exposed to his naked gaze, I witnessed it all—the burning desire filling every part of his beautiful face, his clenching jaw and flushed skin as he dropped his eyes to study my bared body.
A moan slipped through my lips, my eyelashes fluttering to a close, as his fingers wandered along the crests of my breasts. The feel of him touching me so closely, of having Achille Marchesi caressing me just as reverently as he nurtured his wine, was the headiest of sensations.
I opened my eyes, lids heavy, as warmth built at my core. Achille reached down to unfasten the front clasp of my bra. With a soft tug, the bra joined the dress at my feet.
My nipples ached as my damp skin was exposed to the warming air. Achille cupped my flesh in his hands, and a hiss ripped from his throat. I moaned at the feel of him touching me so intimately. He stepped closer and pressed the bare skin of his chest against me.
The sensation was almost too much to bear. Every cell in my body roared to life, a mighty ache in my chest pulling me further and further against Achille, yet yearning to get closer still. He molded me to him like a second skin. His hands on my back trapped me in their grip, his cheek running along my cheek, his earthy musk warming my skin.
Our lips fell back together, and all the tenderness ebbed away, along with any worries I had that this act between us was wrong.
His tongue slipped along mine. Our hands roved and branded, clawing at one another with a desperate urgency; no more patience remained. My hands moved down his hard abdominals, feeling them flex and twitch, before landing on the waistband of his jeans. My fingers trembled as they unsnapped the button and pulled down the zipper, brushing down over his hardness.
Achille groaned as my hand reached inside, shaking like a leaf with anticipation. I returned the pained sound when my hand met his flesh, no underwear blocking my way.
He was hard and large and so warm to the touch. My free hand tugged on the falling waistband of his jeans and helped drop them from his tapered muscled hips. Achille’s tall, broad frame dominated me, towering over me, making me shake where I stood.
As I gave him one gentle stroke, it unleashed something wild within him. His hands fell to the sides of my panties and, with one pull, tore them from their seams. The delicate French lace fluttered like gossamer feathers to the floor.
And that’s how we took pause. Exposed, vulnerable—two hearts and souls and bodies unveiled. Achille’s breathing echoed in my ear, roughened like a harsh wind rustling through fallen autumn leaves.
Achille, with an easy strength, lifted me from the clothes at my feet, and into his muscled arms. I held on tightly, never wanting this feeling to end. Never wanting to leave the security of his embrace, and never wanting to be parted from this man who was burrowing his goodness into my blood and my bones.
He turned and lowered me down until my back landed on the soft mattress below. As the weight of my body hit the faded patchwork comforter, his scent from the fabric engulfed me. This was the bed where he slept each night, where he dreamed and despaired, resting his tired body and gentle soul.
Achille moved back as he freed himself from the jeans at his ankles, standing in the oil lamp’s glow. And I couldn’t breathe at the sight. His body was toned to perfection, not over-muscled, but athletic and strong, with the most stunning golden olive skin just begging for my touch. He looked down at me, naked and exposed on his bed, with nothing but fire and desire in his eyes.
For me.
Only for me.
“Caresa . . .” Achille murmured, edging forward. For the first time since we had given in to our lust, I saw nervousness etch across his beautiful face. He froze; fear had robbed him of his courage.
I held out my arms, guiding him to me, coaxing him near. “I have to have this,” I said softly, a slight tremor to my voice. “I have to have you, Achille.”
“Caresa,” Achille moaned again, but this time came forward, his hands landing on either side of my body.
The minute he was over me, his arms caging my head and his body covering mine, we locked eyes—blue searing brown. He pushed a damp curl from my face, a gentle, contented smile upon his lips. An all-encompassing emotion swept through me, a realization of peace found in another’s embrace.
Achille laid the sweetest of sweet kisses to the center of my forehead and whispered, “Beautiful . . . beautiful . . .” The ravenous heat of the previous moment was, in a second, turned on its head. Gone was the hungry, desperate need, and in its place a calm serenity shared in the vulnerability of the other.
Before Achille could see the tear escaping from the corner of my eye, I threaded my hands through his hair and brought his lips to mine. He melted against me like ice under the Umbrian sun. This kiss was slow and deep and true.
It was a tattoo on my heart.
Achille’s hand skirted down my waist, landing on my thigh, pushing it to the side. He slipped his hips between my legs, placing his body flush against mine. Stomach to stomach, chest to breast, kiss to lips.
I felt his hardness against my core and spilled my moan into his mouth. He rolled his hips, touching me where I needed it most. “Caresa,” he rasped against my mouth, his skin scalding the palms of my roaming hands.
I reached down between us as our temperatures soared, stroking him in my hand. He followed my lead, running his fingers along my most sensitive part. My back arched and my skin prickled.
Achille peppered kisses along my jaw and over my cheek, until I hit a sudden peak. I screamed out his name, pressing against his fingers until every last morsel of pleasure had been wrung from my body.
But I wanted more.
I needed more.
Guiding Achille’s hand away with my own, I shifted until he was moving toward my entrance, exactly where he belonged. He stared into my eyes, his jaw clenching as I took him in my hand once again. His olive skin glistened under the strain of maintaining his composure.
“I want you so badly,” I whispered. Achille’s eyes closed, and he pushed forward. My head tipped back as his length filled me, until I was consumed by his scent, devoured by his touch. I could not see where he ended and I began. I felt him within me, both physically and spiritually, the connection simultaneously wondrous and terrifying.
Achille tensed as he filled me to the hilt, his breathing ragged and raw. His arms tensed as he held me close. I looked up at his face, and I melted. His eyes were studying me as if I were a dream, as if at any moment I could disappear, to leave him all alone once more. His lips were red and slightly open, and his soft skin was flushed and warm. I lifted my hand and pressed it against his cheek. Achille curled into my touch just as surely as a sunflower follows the warmth of the sun across the sky.
His mouth found the center of my palm and pressed on it a single kiss. I wasn’t sure why, but that pure, sweet gesture shattered my heart. It was as though it was a silent thank-you; for what, I could only guess.
Then, as if he could not wait any longer, he rolled his hips, moving inside me. My hand, still burning from his kiss, became wrapped in his hand, his fingers threading tightly through my own. His lips sought out mine. In seconds there was nothing unconnected between us. We were two halves of one whole, clinging and clutching, desperate for each other.
Achille increased his speed, the hard muscles of his chest brushing against my breasts, shivers of pleasure darting straight to my core. “Achille,” I murmured over and over as the feeling of him inside me became too much, yet not enough.
He moved faster and faster, low raspy groans slipping from his lips. The heat between us rose until condensation built on the window and our skin was slick with sweat.
When I wasn’t sure I could take any more, a tension so great, so earth-shatteringly beautiful, began surging at my core and flooding through my veins. “Achille,” I cried, my fingernails pressing into the flesh on his back.
I knew Achille was as close as I when his movements became stronger and more jagged, his head tucking into my neck. My eyes closed and I smiled, feeling him take such comfort in me, such absolute happiness.
And then it hit. Pleasure, like nothing I’d ever felt before, engulfed me like a flame, taking every part of my body hostage as it burned through all my senses, only to restore them with bliss and light and life.
Achille groaned. His body stilled above me and he filled me with his warmth. The muscles in his back bunched and jerked, then slowly calmed along with his rapidly beating heart.
I ghosted my fingertips over his back, more than content to stay exactly like this—joined in every possible way, calm in the peace after the storm.
Achille’s warm breath dusted over my neck, until he carefully lifted his head. I had thought him beautiful since the day I had first seen him working in his vineyard, torso bare with jean-clad legs. But as his sated face met mine, awe and reverence so clear in his expression, I knew I had been mistaken. Because nothing could ever beat this moment.
The moment I realized this had not just been about making love. But that something bigger, deeper pulsed between us. And then my heart broke, because whatever dormant spark had just ignited within us, it must not be given chance to flourish.
Tears filled my eyes. This could never be. We were from two completely different worlds. We weren’t written in the stars.
“I know.” Achille spoke in a pained and graveled voice. I turned my head and allowed myself to look into his eyes. His chest expanded as he took in a heavy breath. “I know.” He slid to the side and wrapped me in his arms, cradling my face into the crook of his shoulder and neck. “There can never be more than this—”
“Achille,” I whispered painfully, hearing the sadness and resignation in his tone.
“You are not part of this world, and I am not part of yours.” I didn’t have anything else to say. It was the truth, and no frivolous sentiments or empty promises would ever change things.
So I relaxed into his chest, savoring each second that we had left. Achille’s hands ran lazily through my hair, and I stared through the window at the falling rain.
The oil lamp flickered in the breeze, the golden reflections dancing over the white-painted walls. My eyes became lost in the trance, so much so that I nearly missed Achille take a long breath, then softly say, “They said I was slow.”
My gut clenched. I stilled, every muscle in my body going rigid.
“They said that I was dumb and nothing would ever change that.”
I winced. My chest cracked in two at the embarrassment in his voice. I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to push him or say anything that would stop him from opening up.
He no longer had his father. No one to share in his pain.
I would be that person for him tonight. He needed this from me. I couldn’t give him my heart, so this would have to be enough.
When the sun rose, this would all be a distant dream.
So I prayed to God and begged him to keep the darkness at bay as long as he could. To keep our stars shining and the rain crashing down . . . so I would have time to say goodbye.