Page 65 of Just for a Taste

And then he was on top of me, feverishly kissing the spot he had drunk from me. His lips traveled along my collarbone, and his hands were everywhere, tearing off the rest of my blouse, pulling at my skirt, unbuttoning his pants.

Then he placed his arm just above my head, hovering above me so closely, I could feel the warmth emanating from his chest.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Zeno whispered, cupping my face with his other hand, trailing his thumb across my lips. “Those eyes will undo me. Those lips will be the death of me.”

The soft movement of his fingertips along my jaw sent a wave of shivers through my body. My breath caught in my throat when we locked eyes. Were mine just as dark and desirous as his? Was I looking at a reflection of my want?

But then, beneath the wanting, I caught a moment of hesitance in his movements. He loosened from me, and something stormed between us—some unseen dilemma within him.

“Please,” I whimpered, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Don’t stop.”

There was a moment of silence. I bit my lip, and something in him unraveled.

Zeno pulled my hands off his neck and pinned them above my head. “How can I resist such pretty pleas when I’ve already waited so long?”

I let out a gasp, and he smothered my cries with his lips. I arched my back, pulling him into me.

Indeed, how had we waited so long?

∞∞∞

I woke up the next morning in his bed, his arms wrapped around me. His skin felt real, his breath on the top of my head felt real, and the soft beating of his heart in my ears felt real. But I had dreamed of being in Zeno’s bed so many times, I dared not move, or even breathe. I held my breath as long as I could until finally, I couldn’t help but nestle into him. If this was a dream, I should savor it. And on the off chance that this was reality, I needed to savor it even more.

He planted a soft kiss on top of my head and pulled me in tightly. “Good morning,passerotta.”

My face grew hot.Passerotta—“little sparrow.” Being given a pet name seared what happened last night into reality.

“G-Good morning, er, Zen—Duca de’—” I stammered desperately, then admitted defeat by burying my head into him.

Zeno laughed and caressed my hair. “No need to get flustered. You don’t have to call me anything but my name.”

“That’s probably for the better.” I giggled. “I don’t think you’d want the kind of nicknames from where I grew up. Unless Tater, Squirt, or Sugar Pie make your heart skip a beat.”

He feigned a contemplative look. “I could get used to Sugar, I think. Especially if you used that pretty Southern accent of yours.”

I rolled my eyes but still smiled. “It’s either Zeno or Q-tip. That’s definitely what you would have been called. Take your pick.”

The vampire scoffed and gently pinched my face. “Cheeky, aren’t you? Zeno it is, then.”

He sat up in bed, taking me with him. The change in position shifted the feeling in the room, and I wondered if our banter was a prelude to something a bit more serious. The events of last night had been unexpected, and so many questions were still unresolved that talking through them was clearly warranted. What were we now? Were we supposed to tell anyone, or was this meant to be a secret? Where would we go from here?

But when Zeno looked down at me, every question was answered with a single known truth—I was hisbeniamina, in every sense of the word.

We still needed to talk, I decided, but it could wait a bit. We could just enjoy simplicity and one another’s presence.

Unfortunately, my counterpart had other ideas.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for a trip to Puglia for a few weeks,” he said plainly. “I plan on bringing you with me.”

Yet another curveball. The sheets rustled as I shifted away from him to make eye contact.

“Tomorrow?” I asked, brows raised. “What? Why? What’s wrong with the abbey?”

“Who said you were allowed to get out of bed yet?” Zeno grumbled playfully. In a motion equal parts gentle and swift, he pulled me back into his chest. “I have no qualms with the abbey,” he added after nuzzling his head back onto mine. “Rather, the Puglia residence is one of the oldest Medici properties, and it rarely sees any guests. I went there only once as a child, when my family went to visit Sforza’s villa. Seeing him was why I remembered that place. He’s been quite . . . amicable, despite it all. Regardless, there have to be countless untouched documents there, ones which hold many secrets.”

I remembered my bags. I felt cold despite the warmth pressed along my back. I moved my hands, which had been wrapped around his forearm, to my side.

“You were going to have me go there, weren’t you?” I demanded. “And send me off under the guise of ‘temporary research.’”

---