Racing the Sun(54)

He’s still staring at me, his brow furrowing, casting shadows down his perfect face. His lips are just out of reach. “I need to know if I can feel anything. I want to feel something.”

There’s a quiet desperation in his voice. It makes me ache for him.

Then he leans in and kisses me. His lips are soft, perhaps a little unsure as they press against mine, but then the pressure increases, our mouths yielding in unison and it feels like drinking and breathing and living. He tastes like the honey tones of scotch and of faded smoke and mint. It’s an elixir that flows down my throat and right between my legs, and his probing tongue stirs it further.

My tongue teases his back as it slides into my mouth, stoking the wildfires. Our kiss deepens and his hands find their way into my hair. He lets out a low moan that reverberates through me and I gasp in response, the glass almost slipping from my hands. I want to pull him into me. I want more of this, all the time. My free hand slips around his back and presses into his firm, hard muscles. I’m so incredibly turned on that I’m seconds from just throwing the scotch across the room and dropping to my knees. I want to take him in my mouth and make him moan again—I want to make him feel something. I want to make him feel me. I want to know what he looks like when he comes, if it brings him some kind of peace.

I want so much more than the hunger and desire he’s already giving me, our lips, tongue, mouth heating up, our kiss fueling our needs and our needs threatening to take over. I wonder if he’s afraid of this kiss because to me it feels a bit like drowning. But we’re not drowning alone. We’re clinging on to each other like a life raft.

I’m so insatiable now, so greedy, that I almost whimper when he pulls away. He holds me, fisting my hair, and presses his forehead against mine, eyes pinched shut and breathing hard. I gulp in the air, unsure if we’re going to stop or if I need to refuel to go further. I could go all night and every night after that.

My lips tingle now and a few beats pass.

“Did you feel anything?” I ask softly, hopefully.

He shakes his head ever so slightly, his forehead damp against mine. “No,” he murmurs. “I felt everything.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and we both jump, breaking apart.

“Derio?” Alfonso calls out from the outside. “Dove si trova Amber?”

We exchange a look. Derio is flushed and has a rather obvious erection straining against his jeans. I know I look properly messed up.

“I’m in here,” I yell through the door. “Be there in a second.”

I look back at Derio but he’s walking slowly over to the windows, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll go see what he needs,” I tell him, going for the door.

“Yes,” he says thickly. He clears his throat. “I will see you tomorrow.”

All right, then. So I guess that’s the end of that.

I’m too overwhelmed to even get riled up over it. I take in a deep breath and smooth down my hair before leaving the office.

Alfonso is standing in his pajamas in the hall and the sight of him looking so small and vulnerable brings reality crashing down around me. I have to take care of these kids. Kissing their older brother isn’t part of the job.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“I had a bad dream. I can’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“Bad dreams are just your mind trying to tell you bad stories. They can’t hurt you.” I take his hand and lead him up the stairs to his bed, where I read to him for half an hour—but no Harry Potter this time since he confessed that his bad dream included Professor Snape. Instead, I read to him from an Italian children’s book, and though he giggles at my pronunciation through most of it, soon he’s fast asleep.

I leave his room and as I head to my own, I catch a glimpse through the windows of Derio standing on the patio, watching the black sea, smoking his cigarette. Alone.

I don’t have any bad dreams that night. In fact, I barely sleep at all. I keep reliving that kiss over and over again until it’s more than just a memory.

Drunk or not, Derio kissed me. He felt something. I felt something.

And I have no idea what any of this means.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Saturday mornings usually mean you get to sleep in, but not in this household. I’m up at the crack of dawn and running around the house trying to get ready for the day. I tackle the kitchen first, cleaning and scrubbing it from top to bottom, then prepare an American-style feast for the kids with what I have on hand. They don’t have bacon in the house so I fry up the cold cuts and slices of pork instead, then fry eggs with some salsa type of sauce. Sliced-up sweet potatoes go in the oven in place of hash browns.