Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,90

laugh and shook his head, not saying anything as I stepped close and kept my hand latched to his arm while we walked.

That had been our night.

After the day sunbathing, we got ready and had the most delicious dinner. But better than dinner had been the walls that slowly disappeared throughout the day. The best part was the laughing and subtle flirting. The best part was the ease that sprouted somewhere between Rome and Naples.

He’d even interrupted my shower again, and instead of a heated argument, I’d merely thrown my loofah at him and stormed off, smiling, kind of loving his taunting laugh behind me.

Nico’s laugh…It should be one of the wonders of the world. It rose from deep in his chest and poured from his full lips. The smile disarmed you, and then the gruff rumble of humor struck while your guard was down. It was sensual, deep—rough.

Just like the way he fucked me against the railing at the gala.

All through the night, women looked, desire, and want in their eyes, probably the same way it was in mine. They looked, but the silver wedding band shined brighter on his finger, letting them know he was taken.

Mine.

Possession flooded my body each time I caught a glint of it.

I clung tighter to him, and I wondered if this was what cavemen felt like. This desperate urge to claim him, to mark him as mine so everyone knew he was taken. I wanted to bare my teeth like an animal to ward off anyone who said otherwise.

I wanted him and blamed nothing but my need. No champagne, no living in the moment, no rash decisions. There was nothing to blame but his words weaving their way around the cracks in my wall and the emotions they planted there. They grew like a flower in a desert, rare, and unlike anything I’d ever felt before. The vines wove through my stubborn barrier, creating crevices where the emotions slipped through until it broke free and poured over me. It was all-consuming, washing away any stubbornness I still clung to.

I…cared.

I almost laughed at the simple word. I more than cared, and damn-well knew it.

Maybe it’d been there the whole time, growing in the shadow of my defiance and persistence. But his words shined a light like a ray of sun, illuminating that it’d been there all along.

We walked down the narrow street, people sitting outside, laughing and living, enjoying the warmer night. When we rounded a corner to an opening, we found musicians playing music to a small crowd of dancers. Couples laughed under the string lights, twirling out only to be brought back into their partner’s arms. I picked up a few Italian words in the song about getting lost in the night with your lover, and it sounded like the best idea I’d ever heard.

“Dance with me.”

“What?” he asked.

I tugged him over to the fringes of the group. “Like our parents did.” It was a memory we shared of our parents dancing together. Each time I’d encountered my parents laughing and holding each other tight in the kitchen, it was all I could fantasize about for my own future. “Like a tradition.”

His face softened, probably remembering his own parents, and slipped his arms around my waist. “We can make it our own tradition.”

His words stole my breath. It was the first time we’d both talked about our marriage like it was real—like it was the beginning foundations of a long future and not just a business transaction.

He pulled me close, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaling his spicy scent. I loved the way he smelled. I had since the very beginning. Not that I’d admit it, but if he ever interrupted my shower at the right time, he may have found me sneaking a smell of his body wash.

The guitar played softly, and the singer crooned. I was too lost in Nico’s arms to try to translate the lyrics. Instead, I listened to the beat and let him guide me, focusing on the feel of his thighs brushing mine, on the wind caressing my thighs where my dress rode up. I focused on holding back my whimper when his tongue slicked across his lips, and I held back from tracing it with my own.

The music turned sensual, and Nico’s grip tightened, moving up and down my back, sometimes stopping to grip my hips and move me how he wanted. I dug my fingers into the soft hair at the