Page 47 of Duke for the Summer

“Sure.” He could hear Jacopo take a deep breath.

“Great. Well.” Nate pushed his chair away from the table, standing up. “Let’s go. Looks like we’re both done, anyway.”

17.

Nate was drunk by sunset.

He hadn’t meant to be, but Jacopo had disappeared after they’d gotten back to the castle, saying he was going to take a nap, and Nate had been left to his own devices. Which turned out to be an overstuffed chair in the sitting room and the dustiest, most expensive-looking bottle of–whatever–that he could find in the castle cellar. Grappa, maybe. It tasted awful and it was very strong, and he forced himself to drink it out of spite, and because it was officially his now, just like the chair and the carpet and the sassy owl statues and all the grim, googly-eyed animals cavorting mirthlessly all over the walls.

He really hated the way they were looking at him right now.

Nate flicked at one of the ornate leaves embroidered on the upholstery, noticing how the gold thread had long ago grown tarnished. Jesus, what the fuck was he going to do with a castle? Pay astronomical taxes on it, probably. And what was he going to do about the town, all the people depending on him to bring in money? What was he going to do about the Brunettis? Just smile and grit his teeth and pretend that, yeah, that guy who used to take care of the castle, their wayward son, was an acquaintance and nothing more? That he didn’t hate the way they’d treated Jacopo, that they weren’t the reason he was leaving? Was he supposed to pretend that Jacopo hadn’t fucked him on this carpet, or kissed him out in the courtyard, or laughed with him in the big ornate canopy bed, that every room in this building–every inch of this whole stupid island–wasn’t full of his memorysomehow?

Nate had said he was going to travel, but he didn’t really want to. Didn’t want to stand in the Louvre alone, with nobody to talk to about the art. Didn’t want to bob around in a gondola by himself like some dumbass. He didn’t really want to be a duke, either, if it meant just living up here in isolation, keeping secrets, keeping his distance.

It hurt to think of Jacopo fading away, his presence slowly seeping out of the castle, his scent no longer in Nate’s sheets. It hurt even more to think that Nate wouldn’t be allowed to miss him.

Nate felt jittery, trapped inside his own skin, and suddenly the musty smell of the chair was cloying, the frescoes on the walls too crowded. He got up. At the back of the closet in his bedroom, his workout clothes lay wadded up, and he yanked them on, fingers unsteady, the synthetic fabric like the touch of an old friend. For the first time in a long time, he jammed his earbuds into his ears, and turned up the music on his phone until it was loud enough to burn away his thoughts, until he could no longer hear the beat of his own heart.

He was on his third circuit of the stairs when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Nate yelped, and his shuddering thighs gave out, his balance already shot from all the alcohol in his brain. He was falling backward, and before he could feel any fear about it, or anything but a vague sense of amazement, he was enveloped in Jacopo’s arms, trembling and breathing him in as if he’d been drowning. He felt Jacopo’s heart beat against his back, felt his chest rumble as he spoke. He couldn’t hear anything he was saying.

Nate took out his earbuds, registering that his hands were unsteady, his hair dripping with sweat. Now that he had stopped moving, he felt like he might be sick, little specks of light dancingin front of his eyes.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Jacopo said. His voice was tight. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Ex-exercise.” Nate’s mouth was gummy and dry. He licked his lips.

“Drunk exercise?” Jacopo muttered against his scalp. He still hadn’t let go of him, and Nate wanted to cuddle up like a cat and live here in his embrace. “Nate. You smell like grappa. And the stairs are so slippery.”

“I’m stupid, I know. I’ll probably fall off a rampart or something without you around.”

“Don’t joke about that.” Jacopo was leading him down the steps now, to the nearest landing. Nate let himself slide down the wall, the cool marble a relief against his back. He ran a hand over his shirtfront, registering that it was soaked through. His heart was jackhammering against his ribs, feeling ready to burst. He definitely wasn’t in as good of shape as he had been, and that, on top of everything else, sent his mind reeling into despair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing hair out of his face. “I’m sorry I’m so fucking dumb, and I’m sorry I’m sogross.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“I mean it. I’m disgusting. I probably got sweat all over you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Jacopo sat down next to him. There was a tender little smile on his face, and he ran a hand up Nate’s thigh, playing with the hem of his shorts.

A shiver of lust went through him, unexpected and uninvited. God, he was so confused, and everything hurt. “Jacopo–”

“I walked in on you once, doing your exercises,” Jacopo said. “Do you remember that? You were wearing one of these little things that aren’t really a shirt,” he traced the collar of Nate’s tank top, “and it–it haunted me.” He hooked a finger intothe material, pulling Nate closer. “It was stuck to you, and I could see everything, every single line, and I kept thinking how much I wanted to–”

Nate slammed his mouth into Jacopo’s, kissing him with every breath he had left, kissing him like his lips were the antidote to whatever sad, jagged little thing was lodged in Nate’s chest. Jacopo’s mouth was velvet and soft warmth, and his hands were everywhere, wrestling Nate out of his shirt, nails running over his back, the ladder of his ribs, digging into his ass as he pulled Nate on top of him. They rolled over, and Nate’s teeth clacked as Jacopo pinned him to the floor, the cold stone sending a shock down his spine. Jacopo’s mouth was on his throat, teeth scraping over his pulse, and Nate’s heart was pounding for a different reason now, his blood feeling electric, and Jacopo was kissing his way across his chest, his nipples, his abdomen, harsh, sucking kisses that turned into bites, until the line between pleasure and pain became a blur and Nate’s synapses were on fire and his skin was made out of stars and all he could think was that he wanted the marks Jacopo was making, wanted them to last, because soon they would be all that was left–

He heard himself let out a sob, and clapped a hand over his mouth. But it was too late. His belly was shuddering, and tears were in his eyes, and he scrambled back against the wall as Jacopo withdrew, looking at him in surprise.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Nate found his shirt and tried to drape it over himself, hands shaking. Jacopo was right; it really was a flimsy thing, and he felt too exposed all of a sudden. “I’m fine, I–” he wasn’t fine. Tears were spilling down his cheeks, and he had started to hiccup, and he was furious at himself. “Who’s going to water your plants?” Nate asked. “I’ll fuck it up, I know I will. And who’s going to feed the cats? They don’t trust anybody else.And–and the library’s not done, so you can’t–you can’t leave.”

“Nate,” Jacopo sighed.

“I don’t understand.” Nate couldn’t look at him; it was too embarrassing. He stared at his own hand, splayed on the floor. Watched a tear fall onto it, leaving a perfect circle. “I know your parents are awful, but Gracie would be on your side. And I would, too. I can–I can be your family, even if they won’t.” Something felt lodged in his throat, and Nate forced himself to swallow. “I don’t want to just forget about you, Jacopo. You’re the only guy who’s ever made me feel worthwhile.”

---