The American Lady(54)

“Come here,” Marie whispered. Her hands trembled as she reached for the collar of his shirt to undo the first button. She could have screamed in frustration when it wouldn’t come loose right away.

“Slowly, my love . . .”

At last they lay there, skin on naked skin. Her gentle curves nestled into his hard, muscular body. Marie caught fire beneath Franco’s hands, and she yearned for the moment when he would take her. She thrust herself toward him like a young foal, wanting to wrap her long legs around him, but Franco stopped her. As he pushed her back down into the pillows with his left hand, he ran his right hand down her side.

His hand glided in wide, strong strokes from her calves up to her breasts and then back down to her belly. Although she thrust her mound toward him, he lifted his hand over it and resumed stroking her thighs. At first Marie could have screamed from the disappointment; she wanted more, more, more, and it had been so long since a man had touched her! But soon his long, powerful strokes calmed her, and she felt beautiful and slim and young. All of a sudden she felt his mouth on her right breast. She was overcome by dizziness. How many other women had he driven wild this way? She didn’t know, but she knew she never wanted to share him again. She was shocked by the vehemence of her reaction.

He kissed her again on the mouth and then took her nipple between his teeth, sucking on it until a thousand bolts of lightning shot through her. She wanted to wriggle out from beneath him, but his left hand held her fast. He moved his mouth across to her other breast and had his way with her there too. Only after that did he release her. She shimmied toward him and pulled him to her. Her legs spread open like a flower in bloom, as though she were a blossom carried from a cool, dewy garden into the warmth of a house. When she felt how hard he had become, she groaned aloud. She wanted this man. Now. Right now. And forever after.

But again Franco stopped her at the threshold. He pressed his body down upon hers, but he put his hand on her soft opening instead. He moaned when he felt how wet she was, and the sound made her so happy she was even a bit frightened. She whimpered.

“I love you so much that it hurts,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice torn to shreds by the passion she felt for Franco, the passion that grew with his every touch. Anything that Magnus had ever done to her was faded and forgotten now, meaningless, unimportant, not worth her memory.

“I love you! Mia cara . . .” Franco took her head between his hands, his thumbs pressed into her cheeks, and his eyes held her gaze as he thrust himself into her.

At last!

She was scared to give away all that she was feeling and wanted to shut her eyes, as though there were some way to disguise her innermost self. But she returned his gaze, more scared that she would hurt him if she did not. When he let go of her head and clasped his arms around her body, she buried her face in his shoulder and breathed in deeply. The aroma of tobacco, sweat, and cologne was unmistakably and uniquely his. If I die tomorrow, I will die happy, she thought and laughed out loud.

From then on they moved to the same rhythm. They were one flesh, one passion. It didn’t take long for their desire to reach its climax—they had waited long enough for one another. They screamed aloud together, one voice, one triumph, as they conquered the last peak, clinging to each other, slick with sweat, trembling.

Marie did not want to let go of Franco. He tried to shift his weight off her, but she clung tight to him. Never leave! Don’t say a word. Don’t even stroke me. He understood. He stayed there with her, propping himself up very slightly on his elbows. Marie never wanted this feeling to end, never. She was complete now.





16

That summer New York was in love with itself and so was Marie. For the first time in her life she felt the need to make herself look pretty, to wear perfume and jewelry, and she did it all for Franco. Until now she had barely bothered with such frivolities, but the blazing sun of his adoration beamed down upon her and made her shine.

“You slept with him!” Pandora blurted out the first time she saw Marie after the festival.

Marie blushed more than just a little, then nodded. “How . . . do you know that?”

“There’s a certain gleam in your eye that women only have after a night of love. A night of pleasure! What I wouldn’t give to feel that way again.” She sighed deeply. “But at the moment all the men I meet are either unappealing or more interested in their own sex. Would it help if you kissed me? Maybe happiness is infectious?”

They flung their arms around one another and giggled for a moment.

“Love is a strange beast,” Pandora said, becoming serious again. “It attacks us poor women and—”