Roman Crazy
Page 46

Two knocks rapped at the door.
I jumped, dropping the phone to the floor with a clatter. “No way.” I gasped, picking it up and tiptoeing to the door. “Tell me this isn’t you.”
He let loose a low chuckle. “I would be lying.”
I’d just taken my hair down from the braids I’d been wearing all day. I’d borrowed a shirt from Daisy to wear; it was a size too small, so old it was practically see-through, and happened to be covered in cartoon lobsters. To say nothing of my boxers; yes, old-man boxers that I wear around when I am alone.
Not exactly the seduction I had planned. And yet, I didn’t care.
I tossed the phone and flung the door open. His warm brown eyes went wide when he saw me.
I didn’t think or consider; I just jumped, wrapped, and held on while he pinned me to the door. He was all grasping arms and seeking fingers, and I was melting.
IT WAS SCARY HOW MUCH I wanted this. Nine years later, and it was as if no time had passed. That feverish undercurrent was ever present, and thankfully it wasn’t just me who felt it. Marcello wasn’t holding back, kissing, squeezing, sliding over every inch he could reach.
“What is this you are wearing?” he asked between searing kisses, gripping the waist of my shorts.
I felt scattered, trying to remember any thought I had before he kissed me. What underwear did I have on? Does the bra even match? He kissed along my collarbone before nipping at the crook between my neck and my shoulder. Lord, don’t kiss me there. Fuck, my thoughts were lost again.
“I had plans, lingerie, seduction. These are—”
“Perfetto,” he answered, and slipped his hands beneath the shorts to cup my bottom. He just held them there, ten perfect pressure points. His arms trembled beneath me. “You don’t need to seduce me. I wanted you again the moment you walked up to the table.”
“Marcello,” I whispered, and in response his hands squeezed just so.
He rocked his hips up slowly, dangerously. “Give me a minute. Don’t move,” he breathed against my neck.
Staying there for a moment, his chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths. My muscles were bunching, pulled so tight from being still. It was a delicious burn. I could feel him ready and impatient, and as much as I wanted to savor every moment of this reunion, I didn’t want to wait.
Pulling away from my shoulder, he pressed our foreheads together, as his body tensed with each breath. “Tesoro,” he began, sounding nervous.
“What is it?”
Kissing me quickly, he took a deep breath and exhaled a quiet, “I want this. All of you, now. I know there are talks we need to have but I . . . if you are not ready or if there is something else stopping us . . . tell me. We can wait. We can wait.” He finished, stumbling over the last few words.
I knew without a doubt he would have stopped then, no questions asked. He would help me get dressed and we’d carry on our night as if the past ten minutes never happened.
“I need this. You,” I answered, and pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a plant in the corner.
A surge lit him up from the inside out. “Thank God.”
If possible, he became more eager, more harried, grasping and clutching. My legs locked around his waist, my hands twisted in his hair, and my lips touched, kissed, and tasted everywhere they could reach.
My back was against the door again with a thud, and that damn door knocker was there, biting into my skin. One of his arms held me while the other roamed, slipped, and brushed. He pulled the front of my shirt down, exposing my pink bra. He pulled back and took in the sheer fabric, muffling a curse against my chest.
“Hold on,” he ordered, not giving me any time to react. He stepped over the threshold and kicked the door shut before pushing me against the window beside it. It was cool against my heated skin. Perfect.
Holding me with his hips, his hands snaked up between us until he gripped the top of the shirt—
“—wait, wait—”
—and tore. Tossing it off to the side to land on a lamp.
“That was Daisy’s.” I laughed, pulling my face away from his needy lips.
“I will buy her a new one.”
I reached up and held his face in my hands. He turned his head to the side to kiss my palm once, then again, and held them there breathing deeply. It was a sweet gesture and such a strong contrast to the fevered kisses. I smoothed my hands over his shoulders, counting and remembering all the little freckles that were scattered across his bare skin. The scar on his shoulder had faded a bit since the last time I saw it, his body fuller and more muscular. My cheeks and chest were hot from staring at him. I reached down over his chest, then lower before gliding back up in a slow circuit.
My hands slid over his pecs, my thumbs rubbing just over his rib cage where he had a crop of tiny birthmarks. I realized just how much of his body I had memorized; there wasn’t an inch I had forgotten. I tightened my legs at his waist while pushing at his shoulders so that I was at a slight angle.
His eyes were the darkest I’d seen them since arriving in Italy. They were filled with a yearning that I missed. A want that I hadn’t seen or felt in so long.
I wondered then what answers he was seeking.
But more than anything else, he looked like my lover from Spain. Felt like him, and made me feel like I was with him again. That feeling of us conquering the world was back.
“You are making me crazy,” he said, moving us down the hallway.
“You’re the crazy Roman who started kissing on me the second he came in the door. Or was it before you even got in?”