Page 166 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

Another moan came from her and her mouth opened to his as his kiss deepened, her hands winding around him, holding him against her. He said something to her, low and husky in his native language. A kind of madness was coming over her, and as he scooped her up into his arms she let him do so. The room had disappeared, the world had disappeared, the whole universe had disappeared. There was only this...only now...only Vincenzo. He was carrying her to her bed, lowering her down upon it, coming down beside her, his mouth never leaving hers.

She was in meltdown—she knew she was. It was as if she had been taken to another existence, one in which only the sweet bliss ofnowwas real. For bliss it was, and sweet it was, and all that she craved...

Somewhere, dimly, in what was left of her consciousness, she knew that this time with Vincenzo was far different from the way it had been before. Then it had been an urgent, burning flame, fierce, white-hot, incandescent, sensual, ecstatic, with each of them feeding upon the other, hungry for each other, unleashed upon each other. There had been no time for anything else. Desire—raw, visceral, physical desire—had burned, had blazed between them, wreathing them in its flames, stripping the clothes from their bodies, making them uninhibited, greedy for the sensations that naked intimacy aroused between them, their bodies winding around each other, flexing and writhing, feasting wantonly and wildly.

Now there was no wildness, no hungry urgency. Now there was a slow, sensuous coming together, with each touch of his lips, his fingers, his tongue, his palms, celebrating the beauty of her body—a body that ripened under his as his hands splayed out over her abdomen, smoothing its soft roundness. His mouth lowered to trace its gentle contours, softly and sensuously. Then his hands were lifting to her breasts, filling his curving palms.

She felt her limbs loosen, his body moving over hers. And in the darkened room, their clothes long shed, she gave herself to him, taking him in return, his long, lean body covering hers, hers yielding to his. They did not speak, and yet she heard soft murmurous Italian from him as his mouth kissed her breasts, her throat, her lips. His kisses were deep, impassioned, yet without frenzied urgency, only with slow, sweet bliss. A bliss he drew from her as he moved his body within hers, setting not a raging fire but a low, warm flame, melting and dissolving her, fusing her to him and him to her.

And when her moment came, it was a warmth, a sweet, liquid pleasure, that spread from her very core to every cell in her body, even to the tips of her fingers, with a honeyed glow that made her cry out softly...so softly...her body lifting to his, her hands pressing the sculpted contours of his back to hold him close, so close...

She felt him surge within her, felt her own body flex and pulse, drawing him in yet deeper, fusing with him, becoming one with him, as still her own moment went on and endlessly on.

And when it finally ebbed, tears were wet upon her cheeks.

Tears for so, so much...

Vincenzo stirred, sleep gradually leaving him, consciousness gradually returning. Daylight was filling the room—the curtains were undrawn since the night before. His arm reached out across the double bed.

The empty double bed.

Instantly, he was fully awake, his eyes searching the room. The empty room. The door to the en suite bathroom stood open.

The empty en suite bathroom.

He swung himself out of bed.

‘Siena?’ His voice was sharp, urgent.

No answer came.

No answer was going to come.

Siena had gone.

He slumped back against the pillows, staring out into the room. Heart thudding.

He heard his phone—still in the pocket of his discarded jacket, dropped somewhere on the floor near the bed. Instantly he went to it, snatched it up. A text—from Siena.

He read it, and frowned, then dropped the phone on the tangled bedclothes. But the words in the text were crystal-clear in his head.

I can’t do this. I can’t do any of it. I’m sorry—I just can’t. I’m sorry.

Siena sat in the railway carriage, heading back to London. Words were going over and over in her head, in rhythm with the wheels of the train over the track.

I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I’m sorry.

It was all that was in her head. All that she would allow. All that she dared allow.

She urged the train onwards. She had to get to London before Vincenzo could. Had to get to the apartment he’d taken for her. Had to get there, pack her necessities, and get out. The holiday clothes she’d taken to the seaside would have to be packed by one of the hotel maids, unless Vincenzo did it. And either he would bring her small suitcase with him, her newly purchased sketchbook and pencils, or have it sent on to her.

Wherever she was.

But where would that be?

Into her head a new question formed, repeating over the relentless sound of the train wheels.

Where can I go? Where can I go? Where can I go?

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