Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,91
base of his neck and held on. The warm air, the soft music, the twinkling lights, the passion of Italy itself wove around us.
The dance turned sensual, and we clung to each other like we were both barely hanging on to our control. We moved, forming our tradition of foreplay.
When the song ended, he leaned down to my ear. “Ready to go back?”
I nodded, tipping my head to the side in hopes his lips would travel down my neck. They didn’t, but he dragged his nose along my cheek, inhaling my scent like I did his. I pulled back to look up at him, but his eyes were focused on something over my shoulder.
“Stay right here.”
“What?” That wasn’t what I’d expected.
He looked down, a smile tipping his lips. “I want to get you something.”
Giddy excitement quickly replaced my confusion. “What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Come on. Tell me. I want to make sure it’s worth it.”
I wanted to make sure it was worth not rushing back to the yacht and continuing where the dance ended. He bopped me on the nose, and I laughed at the playful gesture.
“So impatient.”
“Only child syndrome.”
“Well, too bad. Stay put and I’ll be right back.”
“Fine,” I whined.
He walked away, laughing at my dramatics, and I stood there in awe, another smile making my cheeks ache. I’d smiled more today than I had in months, and I never wanted it to end. I watched his broad shoulders disappear behind a few people as he perused the street vendor’s shop.
I tried to see what he grabbed, but the crowd blocked my view. When he finally made his way back to me, he laughed at the way I couldn’t help but bounce on the balls of my feet.
I opened and closed my hands, wanting whatever was in the brown bag.
“Verana Rush,” he mock reprimanded. Hearing my name attached to his only amped up my excitement, and I giggled. “I should make you wait until we get back.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He shook his head and gave me the bag. I tore open the paper to find an ornate footed shot glass with the word amore etched along the front.
“What is this?” I asked slowly. Surely, he couldn’t know what this meant to me.
“I’m assuming you don’t have a shot glass from Italy?”
“No…Why?”
“I saw your collection in one of the boxes marked as your mother’s things,” he answered simply. “I forgot to give it to you, but I also got one from Rome. I figured we could find a way to display them at home when we got back.”
“Oh…” I didn’t know what else to say. “This is…thank you. My mother had a collection and I’ve added to it over the years.”
“I guess we both collect things to hold on to the people we lost too soon.”
“I guess we do.”
Tonight, I wanted to hold on to him before I lost him. I wanted to collect memories that I could hold tight at the end of our agreement. No more stubbornness to hold me back. No more denial to keep me from admitting what I knew. I trusted him, and that realization only watered the flower, making it grow into something I knew I was running out of time avoiding.
“Come on. Let’s head back.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me close the short walk back to the yacht. Each step solidified my decision. Need beat through me with each thud of my heels against the pavement. By the time we stepped onto the yacht, every muscle pulled tight with need, ready to snap.
“Nico.” My hand held him still, and he turned back to see why I stopped. I swallowed, and his brows furrowed. “Do you respect me?”
I knew he did. I just wanted to hear it. “Of course, I do.”
“Then that’s enough.”
First must come respect. Then the love can grow.
My mom’s words rang in my head, and I had no doubt that love had already begun to grow.
I jerked his hand, pulling him close, so I could wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down to me. “I’m done fighting,” I confessed so close to his face, my lips brushed his.
He stood frozen, and to make my declaration clear, I flicked my tongue against his lips and pressed my core against him.
With a growl, his hands dropped to grip my ass and lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and moaned when he turned to press us against a wall.