“Why do I want you the way I do?” she asked, her voice husky. But I didn’t speak. I kissed her neck instead. “Why do I need you this way?” Her hand moved to cup the back of my head, holding me to her, and I gave her what she wanted. “Why do I need you to touch me?” I kissed a trail up to her ear, and she angled her neck to give me all the room I needed. “It’s all I can think about since you kissed me,” she breathed, “since you first touched me.” My hands slid down her thighs, under her dress. “Touch me again, Court.”
It was a whispered command I was powerless to resist.
My hand slipped between her legs, cupped her heat, stroked her with the flex of my fingers, tracing the line, rolling my slick fingertips against her hood.
“It’s all I want,” I whispered against her earlobe as my hand did just that. “To touch you. To hear your sigh.” My free hand captured her jaw and lifted it, extending her neck, eliciting the sound I wished to hear. “To see your smile and know I put it there.” I latched on to her neck, sucking, nipping. “To feel you come and know it was by my hand.”
I dipped my middle finger into her and flexed my palm. She tightened around me in answer.
I turned her around, desperate for her lips, for her hot tongue in my mouth and mine in hers, and for a moment, that was enough.
She wound her arms around my neck, lifting up onto her toes to bring us closer to level. The kiss deepened, my nerves firing at the feel of her long body flush against mine from sternum to hip to thigh, and I caged her waist and squeezed, standing to lift her off the ground and walk her to the bed.
I laid her down, her arms still tight around my neck and shoulders, pulling me down with her. Our mouths still melded in a kiss that burned slow and hot and deep, a kiss of whispered worship. I pressed her into the bed; her dress had hitched up, her thighs bare, the sliver of her naked, wet flesh against my rough jeans. When I shifted away to spare her discomfort, her hands slid down my chest, gathering the hem of my shirt in her fists.
“Naked,” she whispered the word I’d commanded her with yesterday, and I obeyed.
I rose, kneeling as I reached between my shoulder blades and tugged off my shirt, and her fingers moved on to unbutton my pants, unzip them, slide them down my hips.
I wore nothing underneath. The second my cock was free, she wrapped her long fingers around its length, stroking gently, her body rising and lips angling for mine in a silent request, one I fulfilled.
I lowered us to the bed, kicking out of my jeans, spending a long moment in the warmth of her mouth, in the feel of her hand around me, in the weight of her breast in my palm and the peak of her nipple under my thumb. My hips thrust me into her fingers around my cock, her hips rose to join the slick center of her to the base of my cock, the feel of her heat deepening every thrust into her fist with desire to bury myself in her.
When my patience ran out, I backed away, my absent brain working to locate a condom. But she held on to me, drawing her body up with me, still stroking me.
“Condom,” was all I could manage, my traitorous hips still pumping into her hand.
She kissed my neck. “I’m on birth control.” She sucked the tender skin behind my jaw. “You’re safe?”
Safe. Not even close. But in the way she meant in that moment, I answered, “Yes.”
“I trust you,” she said.
And my chest ached. She shouldn’t. But I wanted her to. I wanted to be worthy of her trust.
“I want to feel you,” she breathed.
And I broke, gave up the fight, let myself fall.
I kissed her so deep, our lips stretched almost painfully, my body moving with determination and barely restrained power as she swept my tip against her hood and to the dip, slipping me into her.
With a flex of my hips, I filled her achingly slow, feeling every fucking millimeter of soft, wet heat as it surrounded me.
The kiss had stopped without meaning to, our faces turned down to watch me disappear inside her, our foreheads together. And our bodies were a seam with no space, no air, joined completely.
She sucked in a breath and kissed me with fevered possession, my hand clamped on her hip as I pumped mine.
Her thighs opened up, her knees sliding up my ribs, and I grabbed her shin, breaking the kiss to look down her body, to wrench her leg wide, to see the strain of her tendon, the curve of her ass, the sweet pink skin that swallowed me again and again and again.
My cock throbbed inside her at the sight.
She whimpered, her hand skimming her breast, skating down her torso to the hem of her dress, pulling it up her ribs. I wanted to touch her, to give her pleasure in exchange for what I took, and my hand moved to the soft, supple skin of her stomach and down to her hood. My thumb circled in rhythm with my hips, my fingers splayed on the skin above, to feel my cock pumping inside of her—the sensation against my fingertips drew my barely contained orgasm closer to the edge, to the surface.
I shifted, lowering my body to hers, hooking my hand on her thigh as I rolled to put her on top of me. The skirt of her dress covered her thighs—I gathered them out of the way so I could see her—but she brought herself up to sitting, pulling the dress off in a blur of blue, leaving her exquisitely naked, thighs split around my waist, my cock buried in the heat of her.
Never had I felt so defenseless. And never had I thought I would derive so much pleasure from the feeling.
I grabbed her hips, grinding her against me.
Her hands moved to her hair as I watched, her breasts rising with them, and I was caught in the beauty of her fingers in her hair, in the wave of her body, in the feel of her hands splayed on my chest as she locked her elbows, breasts caged, the pale pink of her nipples begging to be touched.
She rocked her hips, shifting me deep inside of her in slow, easy strokes.
Her eyes fluttered closed, face tilted, lips parted, body rolling. I was an instrument for her pleasure, a voyeur of her indulgence, a witness to her desire. And I gave her that control without interfering beyond the gentle guide of my hands and the flex of my body to meet hers.
There was no thought of myself.
Only her.
With every moment, every deep stroke, every sigh from her lips and clench of her body around me, I ached, swelling inside of her, my breath heavy and loud. And it was her turn to command me, her turn to own me, her eyes opening only enough to meet mine with simmering heat.
“Come,” she whispered, flexing her hips. “Fill me up.” Another flex, a rumbling moan in my throat, my neck strained to see the point where our bodies met. “Let go,” she breathed.
Let go, my heart sang. Let go, my body hummed. Let go, my soul sighed. And with a hot, shuddering surge that stopped my heart, I did.
My body bucked beneath her in a blind, electrifying shock, my hands gripping her hips with aching knuckles, my abs burning and neck kicked back in an arch of strain and release, my thighs rising to meet her ass in surrender.
“Yes,” she hissed, her own orgasm close, breasts bouncing with every swing of her hips.
My chest heaved, my senses rising from the fog, my hand moving for her breast, stroking the curve, squeezing. My other hand circled her ass, gripping it, popping it, and she gasped. Her lashes brushed her cheek, her face turned up in benediction, stretching the length of her neck as a flush bloomed high on her chest and climbed up her pale column, to her lips, to her cheeks. My hot release slipped out of her, slicking my base and her clit, the friction gone, the pressure mounting, her hips speeding.
And with a sharp breath, a jerk of her hips, the clench of her fingers against my chest, she tightened around me and came with a thundering pulse. Every flex of her core was coupled with a high, breathy moan, and I sat up as she slowed down, pulling her into my arms, pinning her with a searing kiss. We twisted around each other—my arms around her, my hands in her hair, her arms around my neck and legs shifting to wrap around my waist, keeping me inside of her.
Which was the only place I wanted t
o be.
22
Promises, Promises
Rin
My heels were unsteady on the cobblestone streets, but it didn’t matter—Court held me against his side, strong and steady and solid.
It was our last night in Florence, and the very last thing I wanted to do was go home. I’d spent the last few days in one of the most beautiful cities in the world with one of the most brilliant, beautiful men I’d ever known.
The change in him had been complete.
Everything with him was easy, from the conversations to the quiet, from the day to the night and every moment in between. I’d met some of his old professors and some of his colleagues, heard the stories about his studies and endeavors. The admiration in their eyes for him was mirrored in my own—he was a man of confidence and power, of charm and laughter, when he let himself be free.
“You know,” he said as we walked, “I’m not surprised that your mom has red hair.”
“Really? Most people are.”
“No. I can see the red when the sun shines on it.”
I smiled, my eyes on the street so I wouldn’t trip. “She’s almost as pale as I am and tiny, delicate like a bird. I get my height and coloring from my dad. My grandmother apparently had dominant genes—she kept the Korean line alive. But my grandfather was a six-foot-six blond giant.”
He chuckled. “I come from a long line of American. Somewhere two hundred years ago, we were French, but that’s been so mixed up, I can’t imagine much is left.”
I pictured him as French aristocracy in a cravat and tails, and my smile spread. “My heritage only really exists on the fringes—my dad was a San Francisco hipster who met my mom at Berkeley and knows absolutely zero Dutch or Korean.”
“My father only knows one language—power.”
I didn’t speak right away. “Has he always been like that?”
“Always. He dominates everything and everyone he comes in contact with.” He paused, and I waited for an explanation. “We should get gelato.”
I sighed. It was like this every time I tried to ask him about his past—an elegant hedging. He’d give me just enough to whet my appetite and then take a hard right, steering us away again. And I let him. He’d tell me more when he was ready.
“Gelato sounds perfect.”
“There’s a place just up here.”
I looked up to see a cheery shop, glowing and warm in the twilight, the sidewalk dotted with people enjoying their cones. My gaze wandered around the narrow street, breathing in the last night as if I could savor it forever, but when I glanced into a window, I stopped dead at the sight of a ring I recognized.
“Oh my God, Court—look!” I hurried to the window where the glittering display of jewelry sat. We stood outside the glass, looking down, our faces bright from the lights. “That one, right there. Johanna of Austria wore a ring just like that in the painting by—”
“Sofonisba Anguissola. Except this one’s—”
“An emerald instead of a ruby. Look at the detail on the setting, the golden filigree, even the cut is the same. I wrote a paper on female painters in the Renaissance my senior year, and I had a whole section on this piece. Because Johanna was a slave to her sex as much as Sofonisba. Sofonisba couldn’t learn anatomy because nudity was considered vulgar, and she was forced to marry, just like Johanna.”
“Except that Sofonisba’s husband cared for her, allowed her to study art at the college. Johanna was married to the most powerful man in Italy—Francesco Medici—and he all but discarded her.”
“For his mistress. God, it’s so tragic. And that ring is incredible,” I breathed, and I had to stop myself from touching the glass. “I wish they were open so I could try it on.”
He was watching me, I realized, and when I met his gaze, he held it, searched my eyes with a question behind his. But then he smiled at me, and the moment disappeared, leaving me wondering if I’d imagined it.
“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. “Gelato awaits.”
I sighed, my eyes on the window as I tucked back into his side. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Me either,” he said softly.
I looked up at him, pulling him to a stop.
He met my eyes.
I summoned my courage. Took a breath. Said the words that could be the beginning or the end.
“It’s our last night,” I started, and he nodded with understanding, sobering at the words. “We said we’d give it until the end of the trip. And here we are.”
He stepped in front of me and brushed my hair away from my face with his eyes on his fingers. “What do you want, Rin?”
The question felt like a test, like my answer would determine my fate, and I hesitated, not knowing how to answer. “I told you, I only want you.”
“And that’s still true?” He still hadn’t met my eyes—they remained on his fingers as he held my jaw.
I nodded, shrugging off my confusion. “This trip, Florence, you have been more than I imagined. It’s been perfect, and—”
“Then let’s not talk about this. Not yet. Not now.”
A shot of fear zinged through me. “But—”
“It’s our last night. We have all day tomorrow to make decisions. But for now, tonight, I just want you. I want you exactly like you are right now, in this moment. Let’s deal with New York in New York.”
And when he looked into my eyes, when I saw the shifting uncertainty, fear, desire behind his irises, I could only sigh. A day wouldn’t matter. We could deal with it tomorrow.
And I held on to the hope that his answer, whenever I got it, would be the one I wanted to hear.
“All right,” I said.
And his relief and deliverance were transcribed through his lips when he kissed me.
When he broke away, I leaned into him with a smile, grateful for his arm around me.
“Take a picture with me,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his phone.
My smile fell like a bowling ball down a flight of stairs. “Oh no,” I said, unconsciously shifting away. But he held me fast against him.
“I’ll delete it if it’s bad. I promise. Look, I took one of you sleeping yesterday, and it was fine.”
I was full-on frowning at his phone screen as he pulled up a photo of me. I was lying on my side, wound up in the white sheets, though they draped over my hip, exposing my back. The shadows were deep, the light low, my dark hair against all that white striking, the light highlighting the curve of my shoulder.
“Okay, first, my face isn’t in that picture, which is why it’s not bad. And second, you are a fucking creep.”
He chuckled. “I woke up and you were asleep, just like this. And for a long time, I lay there and wondered just how someone like you existed in the world, how you were real. I took a picture to remind me. I’ll delete it if you want—I realized not long after I took it that I’d never forget.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest, in my cheeks, and I touched his face, kissed his lips.
When he broke away, he smirked. “Can I keep it?”
I laughed. “Yes.”
“Can we take another?”
I sighed. “Promise if it sucks we can delete it?”
“Promise.”
“All right,” I conceded, knowing it would be gone in a few minutes anyway.
He held up his phone and put us in the frame, the street curving behind us and soft shop lights illuminating our faces. Mine was frozen like a wax head at Madame Tussauds.
His thumb hovered over the button. “Okay, one…two…you’re beautiful.”
I swiveled my head to look up at him, smiling. And he looked down at me, kissed me again, wrapped me in his arms and let me melt into him.
When I broke away, his smile slid right back in place, and we turned to his phone.
“Wait, you actually took a picture?” I asked in horror.
“Yup,” he answered, flipping back through the photos.
He’d snapped one the moment he s
aid I was beautiful, and my face was bright and smiling.
I’d never taken a photo that looked like me, and that was no exception. Because the girl in that photo was so happy, so free, I barely recognized her as me.
There were two more photos: one of us smiling at each other in profile and a final one of us kissing. And those three photos were the most perfect things I’d ever seen in my life. And I’d seen David.
He kissed me again on the streets of Florence, held my body to his with hope and devotion. And like a fool, I thought it would last.
23
Can't Have It All
Rin
I could have stayed in Italy forever.
We spent our last night in each other’s arms, our bodies and minds coming together one final, unobstructed time before we went back to the reality that New York promised.
The change in him was so blindingly brilliant that I barely recognized the man he’d become, the one who smiled and laughed and touched my face like I was the only woman on earth. The man who’d flung accusations and assumptions at me like a flying guillotine had disappeared.
He was like a toasty marshmallow—charred and crispy on the outside, warm, gooey mush on the inside.
We didn’t sleep on the flight home, hoping we could forgo some of the jet lag by waiting to sleep until we got back to New York that night. Instead, we talked. We talked about my family, my friends. My dissertation and the exhibit. But for all our conversation, I couldn’t get him to delve past cursory details of his life—his mother had died when he was young, and his father had been largely absent from his life though a constant source of pressure and control. I knew his family was rich and powerful, his grandparents and extended family a distant fixture but always looming. But beyond that, I knew very little. In fact, he spoke more about his college years than anything, and I got the sense that was when he’d been most happy.
Finding out who had hurt him and how had proven elusive. I sensed he wanted to tell me; sometimes, he’d watch me, part his lips as if to speak, and change his mind, smiling instead or kissing me or making a joke.