Page 49 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

“Do you know any constellations?” she asks, looking up at the sky.

“The only ones I can identify are the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. Everything else, I’m out of luck.”

“I know Orion. He’s got these three bright stars that make up his belt. I don’t think it’s visible right now, though. We might have to wait until winter.”

“You can show me then,” I suggest.

She only hesitates for a second. “Okay.”

She snuggles back against me and I think, This is what it could be. Every day. If we were brave enough.

I don’t say it out loud. Not yet.

16

BRINLEY

Sheets tangle around our intertwined legs as we lay in bed, gazing out at the rolling hills and olive groves, bathed in the pink sunset glow. Beyond that, the sea sparkles like a sapphire necklace. Beau nuzzles his nose against my hair.

“My blood is gone,” I murmur.

“Oh yeah?” Beau nuzzles my neck. “Where did it go?”

“Replaced. It’s all Chianti now. Your fault.”

“It’s not my fault that Chianti pairs beautifully with my pasta alla Puttanesca.”

“You should work on being a shittier cook. Then I wouldn’t be so tipsy.” Beau chuckles as I poke his flat stomach. I have no idea where his body puts all the carbs he shovels into his mouth.

“I would be a bad cook if I could, Brin, but it’s just not possible. I’m half Italian. It’s in my blood.”

“You’re also half Canadian. Can’t you focus more on that part?”

“You wouldn’t really want that, would you?” His thumb makes little circles on my hip. “You complain, but you’d definitely break up with me if I cut you off from my homemade pasta.”

“True. Homemade is so much better than boxed.”

Beau’s fingers move slowly up along my side, dancing over my bare ribs and up to my collarbone. His hand moves over my shoulders, up my neck, into the ends of my hair. It’s not a seduction—he’s already done that, extremely thoroughly. He’s touching me like he’s memorizing every inch of me with his touch and eyes.

We spent the last three days bathing in the sea, strolling through the little town, buying daily fresh bread at the market. Simple, ordinary tasks that let us pretend this was our real life, even though the actual town residents rolled their eyes at my terrible Italian and occasionally muttered turisti under their breaths.

I didn’t care what they thought, not while my boyfriend laughed along with me. Beau held my hand the whole time, or kissed the top of my head, or wrapped his arm possessively around my waist. A whole year’s worth of PDA, crammed into a long weekend.

Whenever we weren’t in public, we took advantage of having the villa completely to ourselves. Beau laid me out on a lounge chair and ate me out until my legs were Jello. I returned the favor in the shower, right before he picked me up and railed me against the tile wall. We had laughing, playful sex on the kitchen counter again and breathless, passionate sex in the pool. I fell asleep with Beau inside me, and woke up when he got hard again for another round.

It’s no wonder we’re starving. We basically participated in a sex triathlon all over the villa.

What we just did felt different, though. It was slower, more deliberate, the kind of sex that feels like a conversation neither of us knows how to have with words. I promised with my hands and mouth and body that I want him, like this, forever, and he did the same.

Now, I feel perfect. Sated, even, except that I’m somehow still hungry for Beau. How can I not be, when he’s lying next to me, all muscles and teasing words and warm, unguarded smiles? And he’s still touching me so gently, so reverently, I think just maybe I could live in bed with him forever and be happy.

I sigh happily and wrap my fingers around Beau’s broad forearm, tracing his burn scar. I don’t need to memorize him. I already know this man, inside and out. It’s like we’re living in the happily-ever-after of a romance novel–even if we skipped over the key points of declaring our feelings and announcing our relationship. How important is that, really, if we can be this content?

“Are you cold?” he asks, and I shake my head. The air here takes on a slight chill at night, but with the furnace of a man next to me, I don’t feel it.

We lie together as the sun sinks below the horizon, as stars reveal themselves one by one in the indigo sky. For once, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence. It’s quiet, except for the rustling leaves.

As perfect as tonight is, I also loathe it, because it’s the end. When the sun comes up, I’ll take the train to Rome to actually meet with a potential coffee supplier. Beau will fly home, a staggered exit so nobody knows. A secret, just like we’ve always been.