I…cared.
I almost laughed at the simple word. I more than cared, and damn-well knew it.
Maybe it’d been there the whole time, growing in the shadow of my defiance and persistence. But his words shined a light like a ray of sun, illuminating that it’d been there all along.
We walked down the narrow street, people sitting outside, laughing and living, enjoying the warmer night. When we rounded a corner to an opening, we found musicians playing music to a small crowd of dancers. Couples laughed under the string lights, twirling out only to be brought back into their partner’s arms. I picked up a few Italian words in the song about getting lost in the night with your lover, and it sounded like the best idea I’d ever heard.
“Dance with me.”
“What?” he asked.
I tugged him over to the fringes of the group. “Like our parents did.” It was a memory we shared of our parents dancing together. Each time I’d encountered my parents laughing and holding each other tight in the kitchen, it was all I could fantasize about for my own future. “Like a tradition.”
His face softened, probably remembering his own parents, and slipped his arms around my waist. “We can make it our own tradition.”
His words stole my breath. It was the first time we’d both talked about our marriage like it was real—like it was the beginning foundations of a long future and not just a business transaction.
He pulled me close, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaling his spicy scent. I loved the way he smelled. I had since the very beginning. Not that I’d admit it, but if he ever interrupted my shower at the right time, he may have found me sneaking a smell of his body wash.
The guitar played softly, and the singer crooned. I was too lost in Nico’s arms to try to translate the lyrics. Instead, I listened to the beat and let him guide me, focusing on the feel of his thighs brushing mine, on the wind caressing my thighs where my dress rode up. I focused on holding back my whimper when his tongue slicked across his lips, and I held back from tracing it with my own.
The music turned sensual, and Nico’s grip tightened, moving up and down my back, sometimes stopping to grip my hips and move me how he wanted. I dug my fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck and held on. The warm air, the soft music, the twinkling lights, the passion of Italy itself wove around us.
The dance turned sensual, and we clung to each other like we were both barely hanging on to our control. We moved, forming our tradition of foreplay.
When the song ended, he leaned down to my ear. “Ready to go back?”
I nodded, tipping my head to the side in hopes his lips would travel down my neck. They didn’t, but he dragged his nose along my cheek, inhaling my scent like I did his. I pulled back to look up at him, but his eyes were focused on something over my shoulder.
“Stay right here.”
“What?” That wasn’t what I’d expected.
He looked down, a smile tipping his lips. “I want to get you something.”
Giddy excitement quickly replaced my confusion. “What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Come on. Tell me. I want to make sure it’s worth it.”
I wanted to make sure it was worth not rushing back to the yacht and continuing where the dance ended. He bopped me on the nose, and I laughed at the playful gesture.
“So impatient.”
“Only child syndrome.”
“Well, too bad. Stay put and I’ll be right back.”
“Fine,” I whined.
He walked away, laughing at my dramatics, and I stood there in awe, another smile making my cheeks ache. I’d smiled more today than I had in months, and I never wanted it to end. I watched his broad shoulders disappear behind a few people as he perused the street vendor’s shop.
I tried to see what he grabbed, but the crowd blocked my view. When he finally made his way back to me, he laughed at the way I couldn’t help but bounce on the balls of my feet.
I opened and closed my hands, wanting whatever was in the brown bag.
“Verana Rush,” he mock reprimanded. Hearing my name attached to his only amped up my excitement, and I giggled. “I should make you wait until we get back.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He shook his head and gave me the bag. I tore open the paper to find an ornate footed shot glass with the word amore etched along the front.
“What is this?” I asked slowly. Surely, he couldn’t know what this meant to me.
“I’m assuming you don’t have a shot glass from Italy?”
“No…Why?”
“I saw your collection in one of the boxes marked as your mother’s things,” he answered simply. “I forgot to give it to you, but I also got one from Rome. I figured we could find a way to display them at home when we got back.”