Page 77 of From Italy With Love

I kissed her.

God, I kissed her as if I were dying and she were oxygen. Like I had been drowning for months, and she was the surface, the air, the moon and the stars. Like she was the only thing in the entire universe that mattered because she was, she always would be, and I had been so fucking lost without her. Lost in a way that had nothing to do with direction and everything to do with missing half of my soul.

Her mouth opened under mine, and I tasted her, really tasted her, and it was like coming home after years of exile. After years of wandering in the wilderness, cold and alone. She tasted like tears and desperation and wine and something uniquely her I had craved every second of every day since she left. Something I thought I would never experience again, something I had to convince myself was gone forever.

I heard the door close. Distantly. Somewhere in another universe where things like doors and privacy and the outside world still existed. The sound echoed faintly in my consciousness, a dull thud that might as well have been happening on another planet. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that everything else faded to white noise, to nothingness, to irrelevance. But here, in this moment, in this space, carved out from reality itself, there was only her.

Only us.

I walked her backward until her back hit the wall, never breaking my kiss, and my hands were everywhere at once—her face, her hair, her waist, her hips—trying to touch all of her simultaneously because I couldn’t choose, couldn’t prioritize, needed her all at once. My fingers tangled in her hair, then slid down to cup her jaw, then gripped her waist as if she might disappear if I didn’t hold on tight enough. Every inch of her skin beneath my palms felt like a revelation, like something I had been searching for my entire life without knowing it.

She made a sound against my mouth. A whimper or a sob, or maybe both, something raw and vulnerable that seemed to come from the very center of her, and it broke something inside me. Something that had been holding me together through sheer force of will. Some last vestige of control or restraint or self-preservation deep inside me shattered like glass, and suddenly I was not sure where I ended and she began.

I pulled back just enough to look at her. To really see her. To memorize this moment because some part of me knew I would need to remember it later; I would need to hold on to it when everything else fell apart.

Her eyes were wet as tears streamed down her cheeks in rivulets that caught the dim light. Her lips, swollen from my kiss, red and full, parted as she tried to catch her breath. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in quick gasps, matching my own, as our bodies synchronized in a desperate rhythm.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Absolutely devastating in her vulnerability, in her want, in the way she looked at me as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And I needed her so badly I was shaking with it. My hands trembled where they held her. My whole body was trembling. I needed her like I needed oxygen, like I needed my heart to keep beating, like I needed to keep existing.

I knew should say something. Knew I should tell her I was sorry for the way I behaved the last time I saw her, that I loved her, that I missed her, that these months without her had been utter hell. That every morning I woke up and reached for her before I remembered she was gone. That I saw her in every crowd, heard her voice in every laugh, smelled her perfume on strangers passing by. Knew I should ask her how she was here, how long she could stay, what this meant for us, whether there was still an “us” to speak of. But words felt inadequate. Meaningless. Insufficient for the weight of everything I currently felt. How could I summarize months of heartbreak in a sentence? How could I explain the depth of my longing in a phrase? How could I capture the way I had merely existed instead of living, going through the motions while feeling hollow inside?

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Instead, I showed her.

My hands found the zipper at the back of her dress and pulled it down slowly, deliberately, as I watched her face, watched her eyes flutter closed as the fabric loosened and the tension between us built. Her dress fell away like water, pooling at her feet to reveal what she wore underneath: black lace, a bra and panties that made my mouth go dry and my heart hammer against my ribs.

I traced the edge of the delicate lace with my fingertips, barely touching, teasing, feeling her shiver under my touch. Her skin was so soft. So warm. So perfectly, achingly familiar. Like coming home after being lost for far too long.

I had dreamed about touching her like this. Had woken up reaching for her only to find empty space and cold sheets. Had spent countless nights remembering the feel of her body against mine, the sounds she made, the way she tasted. I tortured myself with memories that felt more like ghosts than anything real. But my memory was nothing compared to this reality. Nothing compared to having her here, solid and warm and responding to my touch.

I unhooked her bra with practiced ease and let it fall to the floor. I cupped her breasts in my hands, felt their weight, their fullness, the way her nipples hardened under my palms. She arched into my touch, her head falling back against the wall, exposing the long line of her throat, as I leaned down to take one nipple into my mouth. She gasped as her hands came up to grip my hair, holding me against her as I sucked and licked and bit gently, not too hard but enough to make her whimper. I moved to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, lavishing it with my tongue, feeling her body respond, feeling her legs start to tremble beneath her.

I dropped to my knees in front of her, looking up at her flushed face, her parted lips, her eyes dark with desire, then hooked my fingers in the waistband of her panties, pulling them down slowly, reverently, watching as more of her skin was revealed. She stepped out of them and I tossed them aside, before my hands slid up her thighs, spreading her legs wider. She was already wet. I could see it, could smell her arousal, and it made me dizzy with need.

I leaned forward and tasted her.

She cried out as her hands tightened in my hair, her hips bucking against my mouth. I gripped her thighs to hold her steady and licked her slowly, thoroughly, relearning every fold and curve. She tasted like salt and sweetness and home, and I couldn’t get enough.

I found her clit with my tongue and circled it, making her legs shake, then slid two fingers inside her wet pussy. God, she was so fucking tight, so hot, so perfect that I had to close my eyes against the overwhelming sensation of her. I worked her with my mouth and fingers, and built her up slowly, methodically, paying careful attention to every sound she made, every tremor that ran through her body, every subtle shift in her breathing. I knew her body like I knew my own. Knew exactly what she needed, exactly how much pressure, exactly when to speed up or slow down. I knew how to make her fall apart completely, and I needed to see it. Needed to watch her come undone beneath me. Needed to know that I could still do those things to her, that months apart hadn’t erased the connection between us, hadn’t dulled the way our bodies fit together, hadn’t diminished what we had.

She was close now. I could feel it in the way her muscles tensed beneath my touch, in the way her breathing had gone ragged and uneven, in the desperate little sounds she made somewhere between whimpers and moans. Her fingers tangled in my hair and held me in place as her thighs trembled on either side of my head. I curled my fingers inside her, found that spot that made her see stars, and sucked hard on her clit. She came with a broken cry, her whole body convulsing as her hands pulled my hair hard enough to hurt. I didn’t stop. I kept licking her through it, drawing out her orgasm until she pushed at my head, oversensitive and trembling. Her thighs quivered around my ears, and I could feel the aftershocks ripple through her as she gasped for breath.

I stood up slowly, watching her chest rise and fall, her skin flushed and glowing. She immediately reached for my clothes, her eyes dark with desire. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it off my shoulders. The fabric slid down my arms and fell to the floor, forgotten as she ran her palms over my chest, my stomach, tracing the muscles as if she were memorizing them. Her touch was both reverent and hungry, as her fingertips dragged across my skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

I helped her with my belt, our fingers fumbling together in our urgency. She hooked her thumbs into my waistband, pulling them down, and I stepped out of the pile of clothing at my feet until I was as naked as she was. There was nothing between us but air and need and months of longing. We stood there for a heartbeat, looking at each other, drinking each other in. The tension was almost unbearable, electric and thick, the space charged between our bodies. She wrapped her hand around my cock, and I hissed through my teeth. Her touch was gentle at first, exploratory, as if she were relearning the feel of me. Then she stroked harder, and I had to grab her wrist to stop her because I was already too close, too desperate, and I needed to be inside her when I came.

I lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around my waist automatically, instinctively, as her arms slid around my neck, and I carried her to the bed. I laid her down gently on the white sheets. The crisp fabric contrasted with her flushed skin as I covered her body with mine and settled my weight over her. For a moment, all I could do was look at her. Really look at her. I took in the sight of her beneath me, the woman who had consumed my every thought. Her hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo; her lips were parted and swollen from my kisses as her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her eyes were dark with desire and something deeper, something more profound. Something that looked like love and pain and relief all mixed together, like she had been holding her breath for months and could finally exhale.

I positioned my cock at her entrance, and felt the heat of her, before pushing inside slowly. Inch by agonizing inch. She was so tight. So hot. So perfect that I had to stop and breathe because the sensation was overwhelming, almost too much to bear. Like coming home after years of wandering. Like finding something precious I thought I had lost forever and never expected to hold again.

She made a sound, a half sob, half moan, and it went straight through me. Her legs wrapped tighter around me, as her heels dug into the small of my back, and pulled me deeper, urging me forward. I bottomed out inside her, and we both froze, suspended in this moment, just feeling it. Feeling each other. Feeling this connection that nothing, not distance, not time, not her father or the Society or anything else in this world, had been able to break.

Then I moved.