Brave Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #3)(43)

“It’s the company,” I mutter, dragging my lips over the smooth skin of her shoulder.

“It is?” she asks, a smile in her voice.

“Definitely. Being with me makes everything better.” I let one hand slide down her bare, flat stomach to the elastic band of her panties. When I feel her crease and slip a finger inside, I find that she’s already wet. Her readiness is all it takes to inspire my readiness. With a light groan, I press my cock against the curve of her ass as I explore her more deeply. “And don’t bother denying it. I can feel how much you agree.”

“I wouldn’t dare deny it,” she assures in a breathy voice that makes me want to bend her over the balcony railing and let her bask in the view of Tuscany as I pound into her from behind.

“Good, because you’d be a liar,” I tease, licking the lobe of her ear before I sink my teeth into it.

“I’d never lie to you,” she pants, working her hips over my hand.

That cools my ardor a little. I believe her when she says she’d never lie to me. She’s better than that. But I’m not.

Not that I’ve lied to her, per se. I just haven’t told her everything. Omission isn’t lying.

Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Weatherly, there’s something I need to tell you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wonder why the hell I said them. I have to think this through. I can’t let my feelings for her mess up everything. Too much is at stake. But I do have feelings for her. Strong ones. Stronger than I expected to have, especially so soon. But admitting them would be a disaster. I can’t do that yet. And when I do, I don’t want there to be these secrets between us, things she can’t know anything about at this point. When I tell her I love her, if that’s what the hell this is, then there won’t be anything else between us. Nothing to stand in our way.

My movements have stilled, so Weatherly reaches behind me to dig her nails into the side of my thigh as she rubs her plump little ass against my cock. “Can it wait?” she asks softly.

My balls tighten and thoughts of lies and omissions, of guilt and burden fade away into the early Tuscan sun.

“Do you really want to be doing that here?” I ask, pulling her tighter against me as I look around at the few other villa balconies. They’re all empty, the French doors shut, the curtains drawn. “Someone could easily look out and see us.”

As a spot of moisture is forming on my boxer briefs, I’m praying she’ll say she doesn’t give a shit and beg me to take her right here, right now.

Her pause is so brief I might’ve imagined it. “I don’t care if you don’t care.”

That’s all the permission I need. With my thighs pressing against the backs of hers, I nudge her upper body forward until she’s resting her forearms along the cap of the railing. I lean back only long enough to jerk her panties down over the curve of her perfectly rounded cheeks. I take out my cock and rub it through her slick folds before I drag up between those cheeks to coat the crease with her own juices. I dip back down and ease into her slowly, inch by inch, until my shaft is buried all the way to the balls in the silky fist of her body. I close my eyes and revel in the feel of being so deep inside her. I open them again to watch as I pull out. “Ah hell,” I groan when the light hits the wet sheen on my cock.

That’s when my intentions of giving her an easy morning ride leap off the balcony and fly away with the exotic birds.

“Remind me to thank Rogan for this trip,” she murmurs between quiet, breathy moans.

That’s the last time either of us speaks until I carry her limp body inside a few bone-melting minutes later. But as I lie beside her, stretched out behind her as she sleeps, the guilt returns tenfold. What the hell am I doing to this incredible woman? And will she hate me when she finds out?





TWENTY-THREE


Weatherly

Some part of me is very nervous on our return to Chiara. The way we were during the time we spent here, and even when we left two weeks ago for our honeymoon, was quite different than the way we are now. We are married. Husband and wife. Looking out at an eternity together. An eternity of normal life. What worries me is the fear that Tag might find that “normal” is actually “boring.”

One of the part-time Chiara workers, Sam Wyman, drops us off at the bottom of the front steps. He was kind enough to pick us up from the airport and bring us home.

“You two go get settled. I’ll get your bags.”

“Are you sure, Sam?” Tag asks.

He nods, his smile genuine. “I’m sure. Go on, now.”

Tag startles a squeak out of me when he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me up the steps. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Carrying you over the threshold.”

“I’m pretty sure the steps aren’t part of the threshold.”

“I’m hedging my bets,” he responds, bending to push open the heavy front door. “Besides, I like any excuse to have you in my arms.”

He carries me through the door then kicks it shut behind us and stands, holding me, in the foyer. “Welcome home, Mrs. Barton.”

His eyes flash with a happy affection that warms me all the way to my toes. My heart soars with hope and optimism. Maybe this can work. Maybe this can really, really work.