Page 53 of Italian Weddings

“ W E SHOULDN’T BE DOING this,” she groaned against his throat, tasting him, fingers pulling his shirt from his waistband and connecting with bare flesh as though it had been months, not hours, since they’d seen one another. “Not here.”

His response was to push her skirt up higher, his hand cupping her naked rear, pushing her forward. “So you want to stop?”

Damn it, he knew she didn’t. He knew she was driven as mad by this as ever.

Never mind that they were at a charity event.

Never mind that they’d sought out yet another emergency stairwell, just like that first night.

Except then, she’d been so angry with him, and that dark anger had permeated her feelings. Now?

Now she felt a tangle of things that were as confusing and overwhelming as anything she’d ever known. Why, of all the men she’d known since Jesse, was Salvatore the one who could turn her blood to fire and flame? Why was it Salvatore that made her pulse throb and twist, and her heart yearn.

Yes, her heart.

And him, a Santoro!

“Emilia?” His voice was sharp, and she realised she hadn’t answered him. Did she want this to stop? Not now. Not ever.

She shook her head quickly, then turned her attention to his belt, unfastening it and working on separating his pants.

“Don’t stop,” she implored, groaning as his erection was freed from the confines of his pants.

“Good choice,” he murmured. “I want to fuck you.”

She shivered, reveling in the raw honesty of that. In the animalistic urges that drove them. Telling herself that a chemistry like this – pure, raw physical – wasn’t actually love. It was just lust and dependence. She’d get over him sooner or later. Of course she would.

As intoxicating as this was, it was an addiction she could conquer.

“God, but you’re perfect,” he swore, pulling her closer to him, so she could feel his naked cock against her sex and she trembled at the promise of what was to come.

“Enough talking,” she begged, as she pulled him deeper down the stairs, kissing him as he sat on the landing, enabling her to straddle him and take him deep inside, to feel his power and perfection as she shifted her body over his length until the sensations were almost too much to handle.

His hands cupped her breasts, his mouth sought hers, and with his kiss, she felt herself tumbling over the abyss, into a space where time had no meaning, and nothing else existed.

She found herself cordoned off from reality, in an oasis of pleasure—where it was easy to imagine, just for a moment, that this was never going to end.

How could something so good, so right, be doomed to fail?

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The voice was familiar to Emilia, but also, jarringly hard to comprehend, because it was the last thing she’d expected to hear at the top of the stairwell, as she and Salvatore prepared to return to the party.

Panic surged through her and she clung to a futile, stupid hope that her ears had deceived her. Even as she was turning and confirming with her eyes that Leandro had just burst through the door and was glaring down at them with a look of absolute fury.

Her lips parted, yet no words came out. She could only stare at her brother as he began to stalk down the stairs, to the landing on which they stood. Mercifully, they were dressed again, but that wasn’t to say there was no sign of what they’d just been doing.

Emilia had no doubt her hair was untidy, and one side of Salvatore’s shirt was untucked. She squeezed her eyes closed on a wave of something awful, like nausea, and panic, and anger, too, because she didn’t want Leandro here, now. What right did he have?

“I cannot believe it,” he ground out. “Just what the hell is going on?”

But it was Salvatore she was conscious of, moving to stand in front of her, his big, broad frame protective and familiar.

Emilia tried to think. To work out what to say. Leandro was someone she knew better than just about anyone on earth. She could fix this. She could make him understand. She just had to concentrate on finding the right words.

Except her brain just wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t connect the dots. This thing with Salvatore was secret. Their secret. It was a bubble out of time. It was not supposed to include her brother. It wasn’t supposed to include anyone.

“What the fuck, Emme?”

He’d gone from angry to shocked, to possibly hurt, so she fidgeted her fingers in front of her before putting a hand on Salvatore’s back.

“Hey, listen,” Salvatore’s voice emerged calm and level, as though this sort of thing happened to him every day.

“I’m not talking to you, Santoro,” Leandro ground out, eyes flicking to Salvatore’s with obvious disdain. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Emilia’s temperature spiked. She ran her fingers over Salvatore’s broad, warm back.

How many times had she done that in this past month?

Touched him like this, intimately and in a familiar way, as though they were designed for this, and each other.

Touched him like she had every right. Like this wasn’t a loaded gun they were casually playing with.

“Salvatore, you should go,” she whispered. In contrast to his even, level tone, her own voice was tremulous and soft.

He turned to face her, his eyes roaming her features.

He was so familiar to her. Without really meaning to, she’d committed every single part of him to memory, from the fine freckles that ran across his cheeks, to the specks of gold in his otherwise dark eyes, to the bump midway down his nose.

She’d never asked him what had happened to cause it and it was all she could think of in that moment.

Not just his nose, but all the other little things about him she didn’t know and didn’t have a lifetime to find out.

She’d known it was going to end, but she still wasn’t really prepared for that. And she wasn’t prepared for this. How could she be? They’d taken such care to avoid being seen. Except, they hadn’t. Not really. Using this stairwell had been reckless—and impossible to resist.

“What are you doing here?” She asked Leandro.

“Looking for you,” he ground out. “Carey Mossa said you came in here. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“That hardly seems to matter now.” Leandro’s voice rang with barely concealed anger. “Do you know who this is?”

She met his question with an unblinking stare.

“Is this a one-off thing?” Leandro demanded, when she didn’t answer.

“With respect, that’s none of your business,” Salvatore cut in. “Emilia’s life, and my life, for that matter, are our business. No one else’s.”

“With all due respect,’ Leandro volleyed back, making it clear respect was the last thing he felt for this man, “my sister’s life is very much my business.”

Emilia bristled at that.

“She is a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.”

“Evidently not,” Leandro disputed. “Not if you’re one of them.”

She felt Salvatore tense a little, but Leandro continued before Salvatore could speak. “What the hell is this all about, Santoro? Some kind of game? A way to hurt us?”

“Leo – that’s not –,”

“I’m not talking to you, Emme.”

“But you are speaking about her,” Salvatore interjected. “And she has a right to reply.”

And then, Salvatore’s hand was coming around to his back, his fingers catching hers and lacing them together, squeezing.

“Don’t tell me?—,”

“Leo, please,” Emilia groaned. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do this? You’re saying that to me? Have you been fucking this—this—piece of shit, Emme? Have you actually been?—,”

Salvatore squeezed her hand. “Careful,” he warned Leandro.

But Leandro’s temper flared up and then he was shoving Salvatore, so he almost fell backwards.

Emilia gasped at the uncharacteristic show of violence from her brother, as she instinctively stood aside, out of danger.

“Stop,” she said, shaking her head, but Leandro was pushing again, harder this time, so Salvatore took a step backwards.

“Touch me again, and you’ll regret it.”

Salvatore’s words rang through the concrete stairwell.

“Is that a threat?”

“What do you think?”

“You want to know what I think? I think you’re using my sister. I think you’re using her to get back at us, and Emme just doesn’t see it. Damn it, Emme,” he rounded on her. “You are too fucking trusting. This bastard is using you. How can you not see that?”

“He’s not like that,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s not like you think.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious, Leo. Salvatore is?—,”

But she drew a blank, because where could she start? What could she say that wouldn’t be completely insufficient?

Handsome? Kind? Generous? Sincere? Wonderful? Perfect? Her other half?

She almost groaned out loud as the words floating though her mind jostled for space in her mouth. Yet none formed. She couldn’t admit it. She couldn’t say to Leandro what she hadn’t even been brave enough to tell Salvatore: how much he meant to her. How much she needed him in her life.

She’d thought it. She’d shown it. But she’d never said the words.

“Fuuuuck, Emme, this is absolute crap. You are—you should have known better. Where’s your bag?”

She blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“Get your goddamn bag. We’re leaving.”

“Hey,” Salvatore’s voice cut through Leandro’s tirade like a whip. “You cannot order her around. She’s a grown woman, not a child.”

“Stay the hell out of this, Santoro. It’s a family matter.”

“No, it’s an Emilia matter. What does she want to do? Stay here, with me? Or go, with you?”

Both men looked at her and Emilia felt the whole world slipping.

She looked from her beloved brother who had supported her through thick and through thin, with whom she had a billion wonderful memories and shared experiences.

And then, she looked at Salvatore, who she now knew held the keys to her heart, and always would.