Page 51 of Blood Orange Christmas
We sit like that and talk low and plainly. We talk about seating and plates and the little knives that disappear if you don’t count them. We talk about the saints in the hallway and which one looks like he wants to set down his hand and pick up a spoon. We talk about the chapel and whether Gabriella will kill him if he tries to reassign her to the pass. We talk about the dog who has learned which doors deserve a bark. We talk about Marco’s lungs and the way they opened when he ran from the fountain to the kitchen and told me the stars were cold and he said goodnight to each of them so they could sleep.
“Will this ever be safe?” I ask, because the fire is honest and I have to be, too. “Truly safe?”
“No,” he says. “Not the way you want. Not the way I wanted when I thought I could build a room and close a door and pretend the men I was once didn’t know where to knock. But it can be ours. It can be safer than what the world expects for boys like Marco. It can be a house that knows the difference between a guest and a threat.”
“And when he asks me again why he didn’t have a papa?”
“You tell him he did,” he says. “He just took a little longer to take his shoes off at the door.”
I laugh into his shirt and taste smoke. He tips my chin up and kisses me again, gentler now, no drowning, just breathing the same air. When we part, the room feels different. Not fixed. Not forgiven. Just less like a tunnel and more like a path.
“Drink it,” I say, tilting my head toward the limoncello. “You poured it for a reason.”
He reaches for the glass and holds it in the firelight, the pale yellow catching the glow like a promise. He offers it to me first. I take a sip and it slides sweet and sharp and clean down my throat, lemon singing in the back of my mouth like a hymn I learned as a child and forgot I liked. I hand it back. He finishes it and sets the glass down with care.
We stand. He straightens my blouse, fingers deft, expression focused like this is the step that decides whether the plate leaves the pass. I smooth his collar and button the second button because there are old men who will call him ill-mannered if he doesn’t pretend he cares. He turns his bruised hand over and looks at it like a man measuring the cost of not punching a wall next time. I take it and press it to my mouth. We don’t say anything at all.
“Come to bed,” I say finally, because there are only two answers to a day like this. Fight or sleep. “He will wake early and demand toast. You will bring it. And I will decide whether I let you pretend you buttered it right.”
“Yes, Chef,” he says, and for the first time since this house opened its doors to my ghosts, I believe him.
We leave the tasting room together. The fire lowers to coals that will be honest in the morning. The corridor holds its breath and then lets it out. The guards at Marco’s door come to attention without moving their eyes. Signora Teresa looks up and nods once, a satisfied general in soft shoes. I kiss my son’s forehead again and taste sleep and milk and safety built out of time and decisions.
In the dark between our room and the rest of the house, Dante catches my hand. His bruised knuckles brush my palm. His voice is low, all gravel and vow. “Tomorrow we feed them,” he says. “And then we learn who is hungry for the wrong things.”
“Tomorrow,” I answer. “Tonight, we rest.”
He takes off his shoes at the door without being told. I watch him as he moves to the edge of the bed, his back to me for a moment, shoulders rolling as he shrugs off his shirt, the fabric pooling on the floor in a careless heap. The bruises on his knuckles catch the light, purple blooms against his skin, and something in my chest tightens, not anger, not anymore, but a fierce tenderness that makes me want to trace every mark he's earned tonight.
I step closer, my bare feet silent on the woven rug, and place my hands on his shoulders from behind, feeling the taut muscles shift under my palms, warm and alive. He stills, his breath deepening, and I lean in, pressing my lips to the nape of his neck where his hair curls slightly, damp from the evening's exertions. The taste of him is salt and smoke, a flavor that's become as familiar as the herbs in my kitchen, grounding me even as it stirs the embers low in my belly. "Dante," I murmur against his skin, my voice a thread of sound in the quiet room, "turn around. Let me see you."
He does, slowly, his eyes finding mine in the low light, dark and searching, like he's mapping the contours of my face for any sign of retreat. There's no pretense here, no walls of the tasting room or the guarded glances in the kitchen; just us, stripped down to the raw edges we've both been hiding behind. I reach for the hem of my blouse, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion, letting it join his shirt on the floor. The air kisses my skin, cool against the flush rising in my chest, my nipples tightening under his gaze. He watches, unblinking, his hands flexing at his sides as if fighting the urge to touch, to claim, but he waits—always that careful hunger in him, the one that knows I've been burned before.
My skirt follows, sliding down my hips with a whisper of fabric, pooling at my feet like surrendered territory. I stand before him in nothing but my skin, the faint scars from Marco's birth a silver map across my abdomen, and I don't hide them; I let him see all of me, the strength and the fragility woven together. His breath catches, a low sound that vibrates through the space between us, and he steps forward, closing the distance until his chest brushes mine, the heat of him seeping into me like sunlight through olive leaves.
"Serena," he says, my name a reverence on his lips, roughened by the emotion he rarely lets surface. His hands come up, cupping my face, thumbs tracing the line of my jaw, and then he kisses me.
Our mouths move together, tongues tangling in a dance that's equal parts exploration and homecoming, tasting the limoncello's sweet bite still lingering on him, mingling with the faint herbal trace of my own breath. I pour into it, my hands sliding up his chest, fingers splaying over the firm planes of muscle, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath, syncingwith mine in a rhythm that's been waiting years to resume. He groans softly into my mouth, the sound vibrating against my lips, and his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against him, his erection pressing hot and insistent against my belly, a promise of the fire we both crave.
We sink onto the bed together, the mattress yielding under our weight like fertile earth, sheets cool and crisp against my back as he eases me down. He hovers over me for a moment, propped on his elbows, eyes roaming my body with a reverence that makes my skin hum, every inch of me awakening under that gaze. "You're beautiful," he whispers, voice thick with awe, and it's not flattery—it's truth, spoken like a man who's seen too much ugliness to waste words on lies. His mouth follows his eyes, trailing kisses down my throat, lingering at the hollow of my collarbone where my pulse flutters like a captured bird. I arch into him, my fingers threading through his hair, guiding him lower, needing the warmth of his lips on my breasts.
He obliges, taking one nipple into his mouth with a gentle suck that sends sparks racing through me, his tongue swirling slow and deliberate, teasing the peak until it's aching and hard. "Yes," I breathe, the word escaping on a sigh, my body responding with a rush of heat between my thighs, slickness gathering as arousal builds like dough rising in a warm oven. His hand cups the other breast, kneading softly, thumb flicking the nipple in time with his mouth, the dual sensation pulling a moan from deep in my chest—low and throaty, echoing softly in the room. He switches sides, lavishing the same attention, his stubble grazing my skin like fine sand, a delicious rasp that heightens every touch.
My legs part instinctively, inviting him closer, and he settles between them, his hips nestling against mine, the hard length of his cock sliding against my folds, not entering yet but teasingwith friction that makes me gasp. I rock up against him, seeking more, the slick glide of us both easing the way, building that exquisite pressure. "Dante, please," I murmur, my voice laced with need, hands roaming his back, nails lightly scoring the skin there, urging him on. He lifts his head, eyes locking with mine, and there's a question there, a silent check-in born of the trust we're rebuilding, but I nod, pulling him down for another kiss, fierce and affirming.
He reaches between us, guiding himself to my entrance, and pushes in slowly, inch by inch, the stretch a perfect fullness that makes my breath hitch, my walls fluttering around him as he fills me completely. We both still for a heartbeat, savoring the connection, the way he fits me like he was made for this, the heat of him pulsing inside me, our bodies remembering each other after too long apart. Then he begins to move, a gentle thrust at first, deep and measured, his hips rolling in a rhythm that's passionate without rush, each stroke drawing out sighs and whispers from us both.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts with my own, our bodies finding that seamless sync where pleasure builds in layers, like flavors melding in a slow-simmered sauce. His mouth finds mine again, kisses turning sloppy and heated as the pace quickens, breaths mingling in hot pants. "You feel incredible," he groans against my lips, his hand sliding down to grip my thigh, hitching my leg higher to change the angle, hitting that spot inside that makes stars bloom behind my eyelids. The sensation is electric, coiling tight in my core, every nerve alight with the slide of him.
I cling to him, my hands everywhere—tangling in his hair, tracing the ridges of his spine, cupping his ass to urge himfaster. "Don't stop," I gasp, the words breaking on a moan as he drives deeper, the bed creaking softly under us, a counterpoint to the wet sounds of our joining. He buries his face in my neck, lips brushing my ear, whispering my name like a prayer—"Serena, Serena"—each utterance sending shivers down my spine, pushing me closer to the edge. His hand slips between us again, fingers finding my clit, circling with just the right pressure, firm and insistent, amplifying the building wave until I'm trembling beneath him.
The orgasm crests slowly at first, then crashes over me in a rush of heat and light, my pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, drawing a guttural groan from his throat as I cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Waves of pleasure ripple through me, my body arching off the bed, nails digging into his back as I ride it out, every thrust prolonging the bliss. He follows soon after, thrusts growing erratic, deeper, his breath ragged against my skin. "I'm yours," he murmurs, the confession spilling out as he comes, hot and flooding inside me, his cock throbbing with each spurt, our bodies locked together in that perfect, shuddering release.
We collapse in a tangle of limbs, sweat-slick and spent, his weight a welcome anchor on top of me as our breathing evens out, hearts pounding in unison. He rolls to the side after a moment, pulling me with him, our legs entwined, his hand stroking lazy patterns on my back. The room settles around us, the lamp casting golden shadows on the walls, the distant hum of the villa fading into a lullaby. I press my forehead to his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths, and for the first time in years, the anger feels distant, replaced by this quiet certainty.
But passion lingers, a spark not fully extinguished; as our touches turn exploratory again, softer now, I shift against him, feeling him harden once more within me, the intimacy reigniting with a gentle rock of my hips. He chuckles low, the sound rumbling through his chest, and captures my mouth in a kiss that's all warmth and promise. "Again?" he asks, eyes twinkling with that rare playfulness, and I nod, smiling against his lips, ready to lose ourselves in the night.
We move together slower this time, faces inches apart, eyes locked as he thrusts lazily, deeply, each motion drawing out sighs and whispers of affection. My hands explore him—the curve of his biceps, the dip of his waist—while his lips trail kisses along my jaw, my throat, murmuring words in Italian that I half-understand but feel in my bones: amore, mia, sempre. The build is languid, pleasure unfurling like petals in morning light, my clit grinding against his pubic bone with every roll, his fingers teasing my nipples until they're pebbled and sensitive.
