She sighed and shivered as he kissed his way from her throat, to her collarbone, to her breasts, and tummy, and then finally between her legs. He settled there, too, and kissed and sucked and licked for an impossibly long time, making her arch and cry his name until he finally gave her the release she craved.
They made love twice, and she fell asleep curled against him, but now it was almost morning and she was wide-awake and still lying in his arms, but she felt restless and anxious and as she struggled to not think, or feel too much, tears started to her eyes.
This was madness coming to his room. She shouldn’t have done it, but she couldn’t stay away. She’d wanted him, and this, and he’d more than satisfied her last night, but now she felt sad, as well as strangely empty.
Monet pressed her cheek to his warm chest and blinked back tears. If only she didn’t care for him. If only her feelings for him had been purely physical and making love with him could have satisfied her. Instead it had teased her heart, opening her to emotions she wasn’t prepared to face.
She’d loved him since she was just a girl. She couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone but him. But Marcu didn’t love her back. Marcu would be able to take care of her, and give her enormous pleasure, but he’d never give her what she needed most—love. Endless, boundless love.
“What are you thinking about?” Marcu’s deep voice broke the silence.
She wiggled closer to him. “Nothing.”
“I can feel the weight of your thoughts. You can talk to me. Tell me what is worrying you.”
But she couldn’t talk to him. She didn’t want to change what was between them—the intimacy was lovely, and special, as well as fleeting. It wouldn’t last. Which is why she wanted to treasure it as long as she could. “I think I’m just tired. We don’t sleep much when we’re together.”
He laughed softly, and stroked her hair, and then her back, his caress a comfort and a pleasure. “Then sleep.”
* * *
It had taken her a while, but Monet was sleeping now, curled close to his side. Marcu was glad she slept, but he couldn’t. He was lying on his back, an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling, chest tight with bottled air.
It hurt to breathe. His head ached. He couldn’t ease the pressure in his chest, while the difficult conversations with Monet played endlessly in his head.
She said he’d never mentioned love to her, and it was true. Love. Such a difficult concept for him.
He’d spent the past few days trying to figure out what love would look like, feel like. He loved his children, but even that was restrained and controlled. For him, love was duty and responsibility, love was loyalty. Had he ever truly been in love?
He’d married Galeta because it was a smart decision, a good decision, and so it had proved to be in that they suited each other and had a strong marriage. He had been prepared to marry Vittoria because he’d considered that she would make a good wife and mother. He’d never felt any desire for Vittoria. She was a beautiful woman but he felt nothing resembling need, hunger, passion. The only person he had ever truly wanted like that had been Monet. But had that desire, that craving, been love? Or was it, as Monet said, just lust?
He tried to think back, tried to remember who he’d been eight years ago. He’d changed so much it was hard to think back without some scorn because he’d been so much softer then, so unrealistic. He’d wanted Monet badly. He wanted her not just in a sexual sense but in a keep-her-close, and keep-her-safe way.
She’d felt like his. His family, his home, his heart. No one knew him better. No one had talked to him more, or listened more. No one had smiled the way she’d smiled when he entered a room. Her face would light up, her eyes would grow bright. She’d radiated warmth and sweetness, energy and light. She’d made him think of orange blossoms and honey and sunshine.
Had that been love?
Had what he felt then been love, but he hadn’t known it? And yet how could he not know?
How could he go through a life without love?
How could he not know how to express love?
Did his children not feel loved by him?
What was his problem with love? Was it the word, or the action?
Or both?
Marcu eased away from Monet, put his robe on and went upstairs to the nursery to check on the children. They were all sound asleep, each in a different position. Rocca slept sideways, Matteo was straight as an arrow, and Antonio was a little ball.
He went from bed to bed, straightening covers, pressing a quick hand to a small warm head, and each time he felt a twinge in his chest, adding to the ache already there.
What had happened to him since Galeta died?
But also, what had happened to him before he married Galeta to make a practical marriage so appealing to him? Surely it wasn’t just his father’s influence? His father had only had so much influence over him.
Then what?
Marcu knew he was more reserved than his younger brother and sisters. He was old enough to remember the day his mother left, and yet young enough to miss her profoundly. But he’d always been more reserved, hadn’t he?
Or had losing her at twelve changed him? Hardened him? Numbed him? Made it more difficult for him to feel—and give—love?
He wished he knew, and tonight as he went back around the nursery once more, to kiss each child on the forehead, he felt as if his chest was full of hot sharp shards of glass.
He did love his children, very much. He simply struggled to show the depth of his feelings.
Worse, he struggled just feeling feelings.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to express them. And he would. He had a plan—it’d take some work...but he could do it.
He would do it.
* * *
Monet woke up to blinding sunshine. Warm golden light flooded the room, illuminating the floor and warming the bed. For a moment she couldn’t get her bearings and then she realized she was in Marcu’s room, and from the light pouring through the window, it was late.
She sat up, and glanced around, discovering Marcu in sweatpants and a knit shirt, reading in a chair by the fire. “What time is it?” she asked, running a hand through her long hair, trying to smooth the tangles.
“Almost nine.”
“Nine? The children!”
“Elise is with them. We’re sleeping in and in moments we’ll be having a lovely breakfast here together.”
“In your room?”
“In my bed.”
She blushed. “It’s daylight. I can’t be here. If I’m caught having breakfast here, then the staff knows we’ve been together.”
“And you don’t think they’ve known you slept in here the last two nights?”
“No,” she said, thinking they’d been quite clever and stealthy.
“There are cameras in the corridors,” he said, “for security.”
“Oh.”
“And then there were the sheets.”
Monet closed her eyes, mortified. It was embarrassing to realize that everyone knew what she and Marcu had been doing. “I can’t imagine what they’re thinking.”
“I don’t really care.”
“But I do,” she said, throwing back the covers, to get her robe and gown, because the vexing thing was, she really did care. Having grown up listening to people whisper about her mother, Monet didn’t like being the subject of anyone’s conversation. She’d spent her whole life trying to avoid gossip and speculation.
He rose from his chair and peeled his sweater off and carried it to her. “Put this on instead, it’s warm and will cover you as breakfast will be arriving soon.”
She frowned at him but did it, and crawled back into bed. “Is this your normal routine?”
“No.”
“Have you had many women stay over here?”
None.”
That gave her pause. “What about in Palermo?”
“No one has ever stayed over at any of my family homes. I conduct my private life elsewhere.”
“You mean in hotels?”