An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
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Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
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I mulled over Skylar's questions about Italy as I held her close. She napped in my arms, her head resting against my chest. A part of me wanted to tell her about my past, and about what I'd just discovered from Federico.
I longed to say I was just like her, a curious journalist, one who had traded great success with a slice of hell. I wanted to tell her my memories of the two people who raised me.
It was difficult for me to think of them as my parents anymore, given all Federico had revealed. And yet, I still loved them fiercely. The man I had called papa, the brave prosecutor. My mother, the primary school teacher. The summers we'd spent in San Mauro la Bruca at the country house, picking oranges, and the smell of the olive trees near my grandparents' villa.
How my mother taught me to cook. How I loved hiking the hills in comfortable silence with my father. Now, those memories were confused. Polluted. After years of explaining others' lives as a journalist, I was no longer certain how to explain my own.
I longed to tell Skylar about my book, Uomo di Sangue—Man of Blood—about Naples' most powerful Mafia boss. It had been a bestseller for eighteen months in Italy. I was certain Sky would love to hear stories about covering Mafia murders, about my off-the-record sources in the Italian government. About how I started as an intern at Il Mattino, then became a popular political blogger, and finally, my career as an author.
I wanted her admiration and desired her approval.
It would take years to share everything, though—years we didn't have. Could never have. Or maybe, once Bruno Castiglione was convicted in court, I could begin life anew. With Skylar.
Was that a possibility?
No. This was sex. Not a relationship. It had to stay that way.
As I kissed the top of her head, she stirred and opened her eyes. Smiling, she rolled over onto her back. I took this as an invitation to slide on top of her and enjoy her little noises of pleasure as I kissed and ran my tongue over her breasts and lower. She now trusted me enough to sleep nearly naked.
I dragged my half-open mouth over the velvety skin of her stomach. The tiny freckle near her belly button drove me crazy. I kissed it, and she made a soft "mmm" noise. Which also drove me crazy.
"Open your legs, mia cara." I positioned myself between her thighs.
She still had her underwear on, simple white cotton bikinis. I stroked her over the damp fabric, then hooked my finger into the panties and raked the cloth gently against her, teasing her.
Wanting to see all of her up close, I sat up and slid the underwear off, then spread her legs again. It was impossible for me to describe how she looked down there, because it was perfection. Flicking my tongue into her wetness, I groaned. I was growing harder by the second.
"Do you have any idea how much I want you?" I said in a gruff voice. It was the first time I'd alluded to my need to have sex with her, and she responded with a foggy, lust-filled smile. Why had I encouraged her to tease me? This was all my idea.
