How could she ever be ready for such pleasure? How could she ever have prepared for the litany of sensations she’d experience as his mouth caressed her sex, his tongue alternately suckling and lashing, his stubble rough against her inner thighs, his kiss moving from firm and insistent to gentle and slow, until she was crying out, the torture of waiting causing sweat to bead on her brow as flames licked the soles of her feet and she wondered if anyone had ever had a heart attack from the intensity of this kind of passion? His hands held her thighs in place as his mouth drove her closer and closer to release, and as she began to soar into the heavens his hands cupped her breasts, tweaking her nipples as he had the night before, so shards of delight pierced her soul. His name spilled from her lips again and again, her nails scrambled to dig into the sheets first and then his shoulders, holding tight as she slipped off the edge of the world, into an abyss from which she wasn’t sure she’d ever return.
Her breath tore into the room, rapidly at first, like a hurricane, and then slowing to a gale-force wind, until eventually she felt her pulse returning to something close to normal. He stood in the interim, turning his back on her, moving to the bathroom then returning a moment later, regarding her with an expression that gave nothing away.
‘I’m starting to feel that this education is a little wanting,’ she said, propping up on one elbow, uncaring, in that moment, for her nakedness.
‘Oh? Is that a complaint?’
‘Well...’ she plucked at the sheet, heat spreading through her veins ‘...it does feel a little one sided.’ Her eyes dropped, pointedly, to his trousers, which were still fastened, then returned to his face.
He stayed where he was, arms crossed over his broad chest. ‘We have plenty of time.’ He held out a hand, and she placed hers in it, so he could pull her to standing. ‘Besides, we have plans this morning.’
‘We do?’
He nodded slowly.
‘What plans?’
‘I thought we could tour Murano, seeing as you have not been to this part of Italy before. Their glass is incomparable.’
Her heart stammered for a different reason now, his thoughtfulness wholly unexpected. This wasn’t a real honeymoon, and yet he was acting as though it were, and there was a part of Olivia—a large part—that was happy because of it.
Except it was all make-believe; she had to remember that. This was all a ruse, and she had to play her part.‘I’ve always wanted to see Murano,’ she murmured.
‘Then get dressed.’ But he didn’t relinquish his grip on her hand; instead, he squeezed it more tightly. ‘Before I change my mind.’
‘About that,’ she said softly, allowing her own hand to brush his trousers, watching for his reaction. It didn’t disappoint. His eyes lowered, his lips parting on a hiss of breath, and then he stepped backwards. ‘Murano’s been there for hundreds of years. Do you really think an extra hour will make any difference?’
‘An hour?’ He leaned closer, his eyes fighting with hers, his tone self-deprecating. ‘Believe me, cara,if you touch me, nothing will take close to an hour.’ A frissonof anticipation spread through her at the promise of his words. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ He released her hand and left the room, with Olivia staring after him with a strange mix of arousal, satisfaction and frustration.
Murano defied every single one of her expectations. Brightly coloured buildings stood on either side of the canal, and the sun shone as their boat cruised along the water. Halfway, Luca asked that they stop, handing her from the boat and gesturing to one of the buildings.
‘This is one of the oldest glass galleries in Murano. Come, see if anything takes your fancy.’
She walked beside him, happiness and contentment lifting her soul. It only intensified when they stepped inside the enormous ancient yet beautifully preserved building.
‘Glass has been manufactured on Murano since the thirteenth century. The techniques haven’t changed in all that time.’ He gestured to large timber doors that led to a workshop. The area of creation was separate from the gallery. A handful of tourists was ahead of them, more entered behind, but as Olivia watched the workers below, crafting unique, individual, ethereal pieces, with Luca right by her side, she felt as though they were the only two people on earth.
‘They’re so skilled,’ she commented in awe as they neared the end of the gallery, to a shop where various pieces were displayed, their price tags conspicuously absent.
‘Yes. This is a family business. Each craftsman has been trained by their parents, the skills passed down from father and mother to child.’ He reached out, lifting a delicate glass. ‘It’s fascinating how just a few elements can combine to make something so unique.’
She blinked, strangely overcome by the experience, and even more so by Luca’s apparent reverence for the ancient skill. She offered him a tight smile then moved away, needing a moment to compose herself.
Shelves lined with glasses, bowls and little trinkets—statues and decorations—clamoured for her attention, so she circled the store several times, scanning the objects with growing admiration. But each time, her eyes lingered on one in particular—a brightly coloured bird with large wings. It stood on a glass base. The whole thing was about the size of Olivia’s hand, but every time she passed it she felt a tingling sensation in her fingertips, as though she simply had to touch it. On the third time she passed it, she finally gave in, stopping and admiring it from every angle first, before reaching out and gingerly lifting the piece.
Something locked into place in her chest. Her eyes met Luca’s and flames with all the intensity of those the glass blowers worked with flared between them.
‘You would like this?’
She lifted it once more, looking for the price. None was visible. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said, non-committally.
He reached out, taking it from her, then caught her hand, guiding her towards the cash register, where an older woman was working at the computer.
‘Ah, this is one of my favourites,’ she exclaimed, eyeing Olivia and Luca with approval.
‘My wife chose it.’
My wife. The words were said so naturally, but they sparked a thousand and one feelings inside Olivia, feelings that she couldn’t fathom. There was panic, fear, a sharp need to say ‘no’, because being some man’s ‘wife’ was something she had always, always loathed the idea of. And yet, in the midst of that, there was surprise and warmth, pleasure at being marked as Luca’s. Her nerves tangled, making it impossible to understand herself or her feelings.