The Italian by Lisa Marie Rice Page B

but just sex. But it wasn’t that. He was a talented lover, no question, and he knew what he was doing, no question about that either. But it was her feelings for him that pushed the sex they had into the stratosphere. Admiration laced with bittersweet longing, because of course he wasn’t hers, and he couldn’t be. He was locked in a struggle she had no part in and he was given over completely to it.
    Her hand was flying over the page, a completely right-hemisphere effort. Untethered to her extensive knowledge of balance and perspective and chiaroscuro and proportion. It was as if her hand were a separate entity, doing everything in its power to give her Stefano, for when he’d be gone.
    Because there he was, on the page. The very essence of him. The slight but permanent frown between his black eyebrows, that firm mouth stern, cheeks already dark with beard. He’d shaved this morning but he already had a five o’clock shadow, even if it was only three p.m.
    All of a sudden her hand stopped as a shock of electricity shot through her. The memory of the tiny black bristles of his heavy beard against the inside of her thighs and against the tender tissues of her sex, as he’d loved her with his mouth late last night. It was more than a memory—for a second she could feel him, feel his tongue deep inside her, kissing her there, his beard abrading her flesh. She’d arched her back and yelled with the strength of her orgasm.
    That had never happened to her before. When she came, it was always quiet and polite—a couple of spasms of her vagina, a slight flush, very pleasant but nothing more. With Stefano it was as if she’d entered a new country, the country of climaxes, and it was big and broad and never-ending.
    Oh God, the flashback sent bolts of heat to her sex and she shifted, uncomfortable at the sudden stab of arousal, deep and almost painful.
    The pencil shook so much in her hand she had to set it aside. The portrait was complete anyway. She kept the drawing on her lap while looking at the original.
    So powerful, so vulnerable in sleep.
    She’d enjoyed sketching his penis. Except at times in the water, it was the first time she’d been able to study it non-erect. Whenever she looked at him naked it would inevitably swell and rise.
    As penises went, it was a champ. Thick and full even in repose, it rested on his thigh, nestling in a dense bed of dark body hair. She’d drawn it well, she saw. Faithfully and truly.
    Maybe in the months and years to come, she’d pull this sketch out and remember. Maybe it would fill her days and nights, because right now she couldn’t even imagine allowing another man to make love to her. Because what other man could possibly measure up?
    The men she knew were shallow creatures, obsessed with themselves, their careers and material well-being. It was impossible to think of finding another man of substance who was also worldly and sophisticated and, well…hot.
    And kind. He’d shown her a thousand unnecessary courtesies, well beyond the ones a well-mannered man would show. The last bite off a plate was hers, he insisted on it. He always made sure she was never hot or cold or hungry or thirsty, and at the end of a marathon bout of lovemaking, he always inquired whether he’d tired her out.
    He had, of course, but she’d rather bite her tongue off than admit it, because she knew very well she was storing up memories that might have to last her a long, long time.
    Maybe the rest of her life.
    So she studied him almost greedily, committing every long line to memory, studying the shape of his hands, the arch of his foot, the thick pad of muscles along his side…
    His eyes opened. Suddenly, with no warning.
    Their gazes met. The connection between them was so strong she was surprised the air didn’t shimmer.
    Her breath stopped in her lungs. She was frozen.
    Stefano’s gaze was dark, compelling. She couldn’t look away. In her peripheral vision, she could see his penis swell, fill