sleep?”
“Follow me.”
He led her to a door at one end of the room. She followed him through it and she saw that it was a big bathroom, complete with two sinks and a wide, deep tub with claw feet and bronze fittings. A walk in shower stood on one side of the room. Next to it, the water closet was visible behind a half-open door. He walked past it to another door. When he opened it, she saw that it led into another bedroom.
“I thought you'd like to be near Lily,” Farrell said. “The bedrooms connect through the bathroom. Of course, if you’d prefer a more private arrangement, I can have you moved. There are more than enough rooms here.”
She shook her head around a twinge of disappointment. Did this mean Farrell wouldn’t try to make love to her? Did she want him to make love to her?
She was being stupid. She’d spent the last three months enforcing self-imposed rules of distance from Farrell. Now, at the first sign of crisis, she was ready to throw it all away? Jump back in his bed?
The idea sent a rush of heat between her legs. She walked farther into the room to take her mind off the idea of being back in his bed. Of feeling his mouth on her breasts, her belly, between her thighs. Of opening her legs wide to him, allowing him to drive into her with the kind of force that stole her breath.
She wrapped one hand around the carved wood of a thick four-poster bed in the middle of the room. The wood looked old, and not the kind of old she was used to seeing in faux antiques. This looked like it had been in the villa for centuries, with the kind of worn patina that couldn't be faked. The bed was covered in thick linens. She knew if she ran her hands over them, they would be cool and soft. Satin sheets peeked out from the coverlet, and she had to fight against an image of Farrell kneeling between her legs, his mouth closing around her clit while she clutched at the deep red satin.
She moved beyond the bed, avoiding his eyes. The room was painted in the same soft yellow as Lily’s room. She ran her hands along them, enjoying the rough feel of plaster, so different from the drywall in her flat. These walls were solid. Permanent. She could almost believe nothing could touch them here.
“There’s a television here,” Farrell said, opening the doors to a massive armoire at the center of a small sitting area complete with a sofa and two chairs. “We don’t have channels, but I’ve had the cabinet stocked with movies for you and Lily.”
She caught a glimpse of the titles as he shut the doors — Finding Nemo, About Time, The Notebook, Snow White. All favorites of either her or Lily. Had he arranged it all in the few hours since they were attacked in the alley? Or had he always known they would end up here? That their arrival in Tuscany was as inevitable as her return to his bed?
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
Lamps cast a soft yellow glow over the room, and she walked to the arched windows that stretched almost all the way to the ceiling, the wood soft and glowing in the faint light. Thick curtains hung from rods near the ceiling, the luxurious fabric hanging a good twenty feet from top to bottom and pooling on the aged wood floors. Beyond the glass was only blackness. She wondered what it would be like in a couple of hours when the sun came up.
She was still staring at the darkness when she felt his presence behind her, so close she could tip her head back and rest it against his chest. She had to struggle to breathe around the desire slowly boiling in her veins. His presence was a tornado, threatening to suck her into its center where she would be lost for good, thrown far from where she stood. Then she would only be able to wonder how she got there, wishing she had held tight to something while she’d still had the chance.
She held her breath as he bent his head to the exposed skin at her neck. His breath was a whisper, and she pressed her legs together, trying to ignore the
“Follow me.”
He led her to a door at one end of the room. She followed him through it and she saw that it was a big bathroom, complete with two sinks and a wide, deep tub with claw feet and bronze fittings. A walk in shower stood on one side of the room. Next to it, the water closet was visible behind a half-open door. He walked past it to another door. When he opened it, she saw that it led into another bedroom.
“I thought you'd like to be near Lily,” Farrell said. “The bedrooms connect through the bathroom. Of course, if you’d prefer a more private arrangement, I can have you moved. There are more than enough rooms here.”
She shook her head around a twinge of disappointment. Did this mean Farrell wouldn’t try to make love to her? Did she want him to make love to her?
She was being stupid. She’d spent the last three months enforcing self-imposed rules of distance from Farrell. Now, at the first sign of crisis, she was ready to throw it all away? Jump back in his bed?
The idea sent a rush of heat between her legs. She walked farther into the room to take her mind off the idea of being back in his bed. Of feeling his mouth on her breasts, her belly, between her thighs. Of opening her legs wide to him, allowing him to drive into her with the kind of force that stole her breath.
She wrapped one hand around the carved wood of a thick four-poster bed in the middle of the room. The wood looked old, and not the kind of old she was used to seeing in faux antiques. This looked like it had been in the villa for centuries, with the kind of worn patina that couldn't be faked. The bed was covered in thick linens. She knew if she ran her hands over them, they would be cool and soft. Satin sheets peeked out from the coverlet, and she had to fight against an image of Farrell kneeling between her legs, his mouth closing around her clit while she clutched at the deep red satin.
She moved beyond the bed, avoiding his eyes. The room was painted in the same soft yellow as Lily’s room. She ran her hands along them, enjoying the rough feel of plaster, so different from the drywall in her flat. These walls were solid. Permanent. She could almost believe nothing could touch them here.
“There’s a television here,” Farrell said, opening the doors to a massive armoire at the center of a small sitting area complete with a sofa and two chairs. “We don’t have channels, but I’ve had the cabinet stocked with movies for you and Lily.”
She caught a glimpse of the titles as he shut the doors — Finding Nemo, About Time, The Notebook, Snow White. All favorites of either her or Lily. Had he arranged it all in the few hours since they were attacked in the alley? Or had he always known they would end up here? That their arrival in Tuscany was as inevitable as her return to his bed?
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
Lamps cast a soft yellow glow over the room, and she walked to the arched windows that stretched almost all the way to the ceiling, the wood soft and glowing in the faint light. Thick curtains hung from rods near the ceiling, the luxurious fabric hanging a good twenty feet from top to bottom and pooling on the aged wood floors. Beyond the glass was only blackness. She wondered what it would be like in a couple of hours when the sun came up.
She was still staring at the darkness when she felt his presence behind her, so close she could tip her head back and rest it against his chest. She had to struggle to breathe around the desire slowly boiling in her veins. His presence was a tornado, threatening to suck her into its center where she would be lost for good, thrown far from where she stood. Then she would only be able to wonder how she got there, wishing she had held tight to something while she’d still had the chance.
She held her breath as he bent his head to the exposed skin at her neck. His breath was a whisper, and she pressed her legs together, trying to ignore the
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