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She groaned softly, lifting a hand to her lips. But if Dante was in a state of undress, then Georgia had almost as much skin on show. It was a warm night, and she’d chosen to sleep in a lightweight singlet top and a pair of silk shorts with ruffled edges. They fell just below her bottom, and were not something she’d ever intended to wear around another soul.
“I was hungry,” she said, into the silence. Somehow, the lack of noise felt thicker here and now, in the middle of the night with just herself and Dante in the kitchen.
“Were you?” His question was deep, his voice gruff, his accent thick. Her stomach knotted.
“Uh huh.”
Their eyes seemed incapable of breaking their connection. She stared at him and he stared back and she felt as though something was dragging on her, a literal force she had to fight to ignore.
“Georgia…”
She waited, not moving, unable to make her body cooperate.
“What happened tonight?”
She shook her head. The anger she’d felt seemed a million miles away now. Her veins were charging with a static electricity that was making all thought impossible. “It doesn’t matter.”
He frowned, inhaling, so his chest shifted and her eyes finally left his, but only to drop lower, to the wall of abdominals she remembered touching and licking and tasting. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t matter. She could see him in her mind’s eye, just as she had been ever since that night. The realisation was like a bolt of lightning. Yes, she’d been fantasising about him. She’d told herself she couldn’t forget him because she hated him, but forced to reckon with the truth now, she grimaced.
She had to get out of there.
“I—just—I’m just making a sandwich,” she said, after a beat. “I won’t—take long.” Her voice was so soft and halting, as though her words couldn’t penetrate the stillness of the middle hours of the night.
“Okay.” He watched as she moved deeper into the kitchen, closer to him. In fact, to reach the bread bin, she had to walk directly past him, which she did slowly, her arm brushing his chest so she shivered, and heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Actually,” she whispered. “I’m okay. I’ll wait til morning.” She placed the Vegemite down and went to take a step back, but his hand snaked out, wrapping around her wrist, holding her where she was. Now it was Georgia’s turn to suck in a quick breath of surprise, her eyes latching to his.
“Georgia,” he groaned, closing the distance between them, his body pressed to hers, his arousal evident against her stomach. “We can’t do this.”
But his other hand came to her stomach, pressing to her belly, to the little life that united them and bonded them in a sacred and incredible way, and her heart leaped because maybe this was all they shared—an undeniable chemistry—but couldn’t that be enough? Couldn’t that help them forge a relationship of sorts, a respect and understanding? It didn’t have to be conversation over dinner, it could be as simple as a physical connection.
“I know,” she said, dubiously though, because she wasn’t sure she agreed with him.
“I love my wife.”
Her heart twisted. She knew that too, but for some reason, standing in the kitchen with him, that hurt. It really hurt. Was it just her feminine pride he’d injured?
She went to pull away but he closed his eyes, breathed in deeply.
“But I want you. Cristo, I hate myself for it, but I want you in a way that is burning me alive.”
It was something. Not much. Not much more, in fact, that an admission of what was patently obvious. She could feel the strength of his desire for herself, pressed to her belly. She dropped her head forward, so it rested against his chest, trying to control this, to control herself, but her pulse was raging and her heart was racing; she was losing herself, just like she had in Como.
His hand on her stomach moved higher, to her breast, curving around it with possessive need and she jerked, tilting her head backwards in a visceral, aching response. He dropped his head, his lips brushing her neck, her throat, her décolletage, while his hand ran over her breasts, feeling their changed shape for himself, brushing her nipples until unbearable heat had built between her legs and she was whimpering with need.
He swore in Italian and then English, his hands pushing at her silk shorts as Georgia stepped out of them, then he was cupping her naked bottom, lifting her easily at the same time he pushed his own shorts down, just enough to free his arousal, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting into her, finding a wall to press her back against, kissing her hungrily, feeling her breasts, his voice a deep, guttural sound of animalistic need and want.
His possession of her was absolute and complete, pleasure like a blade slicing through her even as she was tumbling through fields of euphoria. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, and he kissed her harder, his hands moving to her bottom and kneading her flesh, until she exploded on a sharp, raw cry, the pleasure reverberating around them like a hurricane that had come out of nowhere and dissipated just as fast.
Her breath was soft and slow in the dimly lit kitchen, her heart racing against her chest. Dante pressed a kiss to her lips and when she was afraid he was going to put her down again and push her away, he instead began to move, carrying her wrapped around him, up the stairs and to her room. He placed her on the bed with reverence and kissed her here, slowly, delicately at first, his lips chasing hers before his mouth had full reign over hers, his hands removing her singlet whilst his lips followed the path, taking her nipples in his mouth, rolling them with his tongue, pressing his teeth to them, his knee wedging between her leg creating a desperate hunger in Georgia so she was writhing against him, seeking more of him already, needing him in a way that made her want to weep. How could she feel this for him, of all people?
The moment he sunk into her, all the way in, was like euphoria and manna all at once. She cried out, her voice no longer speaking in coherent English, her hands seeking to understand him through his flesh, running over his body, every inch of it, her mind in total disarray as pleasure began to build like waves in a storm, more and more, higher and higher and then she was crying out on a huge swell of release, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his back, her heels digging into him, holding him where he was, her body sheened in perspiration as she rode the waves back to shore, bit by beautiful bit. Only Dante wasn’t finished and a moment later, he was stoking her pleasure once more, every thrust and movement a lesson in sensual mastery, so she was trembling against him when they came together, bodies entwined as one.
It was something strange.
Something out of time.
Something that didn’t make sense and neither had wanted nor invited. And yet, it had happened. Georgia lay on the bed, her heart racing, questions on her lips. But then, in an awful instance of history repeating itself, Dante pulled away from her without looking at Georgia, and left the room, closing the door softly behind himself. Her eyes swept shut and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She dashed it away.
