Page 49

We kiss frantically, hungrily, taking all that we can. I slide a hand under his jacket, my fingers making quick work of the row of buttons lining his dress shirt.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever.” He presses the words into my flesh.

Not even Elodie.

The thought is like a sticky lyric now stuck in my head. But I force myself to tune it out and focus on the feel of Braxton instead.

Like the way his fingers trace along the seams of my dress, moving up and over my rib cage before pausing at the undercurve of my breasts.

I arch into his touch, wishing we could immerse ourselves in each other until we are one, intertwined, no clear boundaries between his body and mine.

And all the while we kiss like we’re starved for it—our lips eternally seeking—our hands greedily exploring.

We are hooked. Addicted. Completely and utterly lost in each other.

And the best part is, we’ve only just gotten started.

When Braxton lifts me off my feet and places my back against the wall, my legs instinctively fold around his hips, tethering our bodies so tightly, a low, sexy grumble sounds deep in his throat.

With a wash of stars glimmering above and a wide splash of ocean breaking below, my palms skate over the muscled curve of his chest, then down along the taut valley of his torso, and then down lower still.

“Tasha…” he breathes, his own hands skimming past my knees, under my dress. His fingers move gently, reverently, pausing in question when his thumbs edge against the flimsy strip of lace—a barrier so easily breached with a simple nod of my head.

I shutter my eyes, marveling at the relentless scorch of his touch.

“Tasha, I—” His lips retreat; he presses his forehead to mine. And as my eyes slide open and our gazes lock, I know he’s on the verge of telling me something—when a new symphony suddenly blares from out of nowhere, drowning out the vibrant chords of Vivaldi.

29

“Ignore it,” Braxton whispers. “Arthur’s letting us skip curfew tonight.”

“Remind me to thank him later.” I grin, eager to get back to kissing when Braxton’s hands circle my waist, and he lowers me back to the ground.

“Listen—” He lifts a hand to my face and traces the edge of his thumb over my cheek. “I was wondering if maybe we should…wait.”

“Wait for what?” I press closer, eager to shed my clothes and his clothes and—

“For Italy,” he says. “You know, make it more special.”

I pull him back to me, my lips nipping at the soft lobe of his ear, making my way to that sweet hollow space at the crook of his neck.

Braxton groans, slides a hand around my hip while the other holds fast to my waist. “I just thought that if we waited, it could be really special. Or rather, even more special,” he says.

I study his expression, unsure if he’s serious or just trying to do the right thing. And honestly, while I appreciate the sentiment, right now, when there’s so much heat passing between us, I can’t see the point of waiting for anything.

“You do know it’s not my first time,” I tell him, pretty sure I told him about that regrettable night back when I was a sophomore.

“Nor is it mine,” he says. “But it will be our first time together, and I thought it might be nice if we waited to share that moment in some place more memorable.”

His eyes shine with so much sincerity, I’m tempted to go along, but not before saying, “You do realize that to the outside world, Gray Wolf would qualify as pretty memorable.”

“True,” he agrees. “But I have to say, Renaissance Italy is truly outstanding.”

“So, does this mean you’ve done some location scouting?”

His lips curve into a grin. “I have the perfect place in mind. Not that the safe house isn’t nice, because—”

“Safe house?” I frown. “That sounds…kinda dodgy.”