Page 115 of Sins of the Orchid
Finally, I was free of my cell phone and shoved it back into my purse. My eyes landed back on Santi. He was back to wearing his black three-piece-suit with a white dress shirt underneath, right along with the gun holster.
Italy suited him. His tanned skin was slightly darker after all the time we spent in the sun. He had never looked more like a true mobster of the Cosa Nostra. Or maybe it was the stark contrast after seeing him the whole week in jeans or swim shorts.
I wore a long, white dress with a strapless back and paired with silver sandals. I kept my makeup simple and to a minimum while my hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. The only jewelry I wore was the necklace Santi had gifted me.
When I came out of our bedroom earlier, Santi stopped scrolling through his phone when he spotted me. His eyes darkened and his teeth raked over his bottom lip. “Stunning.” He called me, lifting my hand to his mouth and placing a soft kiss on my knuckles. “Absolutely perfect.”
Why couldn’t it just remain like this? Just the two of us in our little world where nobody and nothing else mattered.
“Amore, what’s bothering you?” Santi read me too well.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. We’ve had an amazing week. Laughed and talked about everything. And fucked. So many times, everywhere. I was convinced that by now, we had covered every spot of his villa.
I dropped my gaze for a moment. It was uncharacteristic of me not to express what I wanted. Yet, I have never been so scared to hear a denial. I craved his words of love like the oxygen I breathed.
“Amore, look at me,” he ordered. As if on instinct, I obeyed, meeting his gaze. “Tell me.”
I sighed deeply.
“I don’t want you to go back,” I murmured. “It’s stupid, I know. I have to get back to work, then studies will start. I just want…”You. Now. Forever. “... more time.”
He leaned over the small table, his hand reaching out to take my chin. Instinctively, my body leaned forward too, and his mouth brushed lightly over my lips.
“I want to stay too,” he rasped against my lips. “But I have to get back. Shit is happening, and I have to take care of some things. Make it safe for you to come back.” My face fell. I didn’t expect him to stay anyhow. “But I’ll visit often, and I’ll send my plane for you too.”
“I have my own plane,” I told him stupidly.
He smiled. “I know, but this way, I can ensure there are no changes in the plans. Nobody will keep you away from me. Not a delayed flight, not weather, not your father or grandmother. Remember.” His languid drawl washed over me like warm water. “Mine forever.”
My eyes snapped to him, and my heart fluttered in excitement. Those words sounded permanent. There was no misunderstanding forever.
“Yes,” I whispered, the word coming out as something in between a question and a confirmation.
His eyes darkened. “Yes. You are mine. No other man touches you. If they do, I’ll kill them.”
“Threats of killing are not funny, Santi.” Though my lips were curved into a soft smile.
“I’m not joking, Amore. You are mine,” he growled.
I took his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Okay, but then you are mine too. No woman touches you either.” Surprise flickered in his eyes. Now that he had opened the door, I wanted to stake a claim too. “It is only fair, Santi. It’s a two-way street.”
A satisfied smile spread over his face. “Bene.”Good. His eyes danced with delight and smugness. “Nobody touches me. Nobody touches you.”
A laugh bubbled inside me and spilled through my lips. He made me happy, and I was determined to make him happy too. No riches or dangers of the world mattered to me; only this man that sat in front of me.
“I’m all for it,” I muttered, grinning happily. “Seal it with a dance and a kiss?”
Santi gave a throaty laugh and stood up, extending his hand. I took it immediately and followed him onto the dance floor. He didn’t waste any time, his mouth searching out mine. Our bodies started swaying, harmonized and slow. The old Italian songs played, and he showed me steps while I followed his lead. Our bodies worked well together in the bedroom and on the dance floor.
The song switched to a more upbeat Italian song with freestyle dance moves. Santi was smooth on the dancefloor, an excellent dancer. A sting of jealousy slithered through me to think how many women he had danced with to become such an expert.
“You are an excellent dancer,” I commended him. “Must be popular with the ladies.”
He chuckled. “Maybe, but only one lady matters.”
My cheeks warmed. “Who taught you how to dance so well?”
I frowned and realized too late that I might not want to know about Santi’s many women.
