He turned onto his side and blinked.
Sunlight streamed through the massive bedroom window and he guessed from the angle that it was late morning—long past the time he would normally rise. He wouldn’t normally leave the blinds up either, but last night Marietta had wanted to lie in bed and watch the sunset and he’d indulged her, spooning against her as he’d listened to her ooh and aah over the fiery sky until his body had stirred and he’d given her something much more impressive to ooh and aah about.
When the sky had finally turned a deep navy blue and the stars had begun to wink he had turned her onto her back and taken her again, watching her moonlit face as she climaxed before giving in to his own mind-shattering release.
He watched her now, asleep beside him, the sheet rumpled around her waist and her breasts bare. Her ebony eyelashes were dark against her skin, her long mahogany hair fanned out in thick waves across his pillow. The night had been warm and humid, but she’d tucked the sheet around her lower half, conscious of her legs even after everything they’d done together—all the ways he’d explored her—over the last twenty hours.
He didn’t understand her insecurity. Marietta was a beautiful, sensual woman and he didn’t give a damn about her legs.
He curled a thick strand of dark lustrous hair around his fingers. He’d known his attraction to her was strong, but he hadn’t predicted just how fiercely and completely his hunger for her would consume him. He had the feeling she had been seared into his memory for life—and yet he knew the danger of collecting memories. Knew how treacherous they could be. How they could lurk in your soul, lying in wait for the moment when you finally thought you were strong and then raising their insidious heads just so they could remind you of what you’d once had—what you’d lost.
Marietta’s eyelids fluttered open and she turned her head, blinked sleepy, liquid brown eyes at him.
Nico shook off his maudlin thoughts, curved his mouth into a smile. ‘Morning, ma petite sirène.’
She stretched her arms above her head. ‘What does that mean?’
‘My little mermaid.’
She blinked, took a moment to process that, then turned her face towards the window. An adorable scowl formed on her face. ‘It can’t be morning.’
‘It is,’ he assured her. ‘Late morning, in fact.’ He circled a fingertip around her left nipple and the nub of caramel flesh puckered and hardened. ‘Time to wake up.’
She stretched again, shamelessly thrusting those perfect breasts towards him. ‘Coffee...’ she mumbled. ‘Mermaids need coffee to wake up.’
He took her hand and guided it to his groin. ‘I have something better than coffee to wake you up.’
Her eyes flared, her lips parted—and suddenly his little mermaid didn’t look sleepy any more.
* * *
Over the next forty-eight hours time slowed and blurred and the outside world ceased to exist—or at least that was how it felt to Marietta. They made love at regular intervals and in between they ate and swam, either at the beach or in the pool. When Nico disappeared to his study every so often to work she would paint, parking herself in front of her canvas and the easel which he’d erected for her in a sunlit corner of the living room.
In no time at all she started feeling as though she were living in one of those protective bubbles, the thought of which she’d scoffed at only nights before. Which was dangerous, she knew. Bubbles were pretty, but they were temporary. Sooner or later they burst—and hers was about to burst very soon. Because it was Thursday afternoon, and that meant that tomorrow she would return to Rome.
A good thing too, she told herself, slotting tubes of paint into their storage container. This thing with Nico couldn’t last. A few days of indulgence—that was all it was meant to be. He’d been up-front about that, and so had she.
She had a life to return to. An excellent, satisfying life where there was no room, no need, for unrealistic expectations.
Plus she had little Ricci’s party in two days’ time. That would cheer her up. Help her get rid of this silly ache which had settled in her chest this morning and so far had refused to budge.
Nico appeared in the doorway of the living room. He’d been working in his study for no more than an hour and still her breath hitched as if she were seeing him for the first time in days.
She smiled, forced herself to sound brighter than she felt. ‘I thought I’d get a head start on packing up my things. I assume we’ll leave early in the morning?’
‘We’re not,’ he said.
She paused in the process of wrapping her brushes in a cloth. ‘Oh...? What time will we leave, then?’
‘We’re not leaving.’
She blinked at him, and for a fraction of a second her heart soared. Because if they weren’t leaving then she wouldn’t have to say goodbye to him just yet. She wouldn’t sleep with him tonight knowing it was the last time they would ever make love. The last time she would ever feel him inside her, filling her. Making her feel beautiful and desirable and wanton and whole.
And then her brain reasserted itself. ‘What do you mean, we’re not leaving?’
‘Exactly that.’ He came into the room. ‘You’re not going back to Rome tomorrow.’
His tone left no room for misinterpretation. He wasn’t giving her a choice. He was telling her.