Kept it under Mature because it’s far less smutty than I expected it to be!
“Rose, please,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he nimble fingers reached into his pants.
“Please what?” she smiled at his reflection through the mirror. “Stop, or don’t stop?”
“Stop,” he answered before she gave his erection a squeeze and kissed the side of his neck. “Okay, maybe don’t. But I won’t be blamed if we’re, ah, late.”
“Fine with me,” she giggled as she withdrew her hand just to take his and lead him back to the bedroom. “Now lie down and let me do my thing, handsome.”
“Handsome,” he snorted, plopping down on the mattress as asked, shuffling back to nestle his head in a pillow. “As if you believed that. Seriously, Rose, this is all pointless. I’m a fat wrinkled apple. You won’t change my mind.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t try,” she grinned, toeing off her heels and getting rid of her tight skirt. “Now shut it, old fart, and let your wife prove you wrong.”
He wanted to roll his eyes, but couldn’t detach them from her. She still had this power to hypnotize him at all times, but more specifically when she was undressing. He had trouble accepting the epitome of perfection that she was could already be forty-six years of age, because to him, she was as beautiful as the day he had fallen in love with her for the first time. He watched, enthralled, her deft fingers unbutton her blouse, pull it down her arms, drop it to the side, that one insolent smile tugging at her lips.
“Since when does my wife wear red lace?” he asked, eying the underwear ensemble he had never seen before.
“It’s your birthday next week,” she explained as she joined him on the bed and straddled his waist with an elegant throw of her leg - her flexibility, among many other things, was still something he particularly enjoyed. “Wanted this to be a surprise, but you know how much I hate brand new underwear. Wanted to wear it once to get used to it for the big day. Guess I’ll have to find another surprise. So, Doctor, shall I begin with my… Presentation?”
“Like I have a choice,” he sighed, his hands finding their way to her hips out of habits.
“No you don’t, indeed. Part one. Me.”
“You? What do you mean, you?”
Her only answer was a soft smile. She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, shrugged it off her shoulders and discarded it to the side, glad to see his sweet chocolate eyes darken almost imperceptibly. She laced her fingers with his and brought his hands to her breasts, splaying his them over the mounds of creamy flesh. Without really thinking about it, he did what he usually did. He caressed their swell, weighed them in his palms, brushed the pads of his thumbs over her nipples. She breathed out a groan and momentarily shut her eyes to enjoy his touch, but remembered she had to carry on with her presentation. She caught his wrists and pulled them down so his fingers trailed down her abdomen to settle on her lower belly.
“See?” she said softly, ignoring the gooseflesh that spread to her skin under his warm hands.
“See what?” he raised an eyebrow as he caressed her body he knew by heart, trying to spot something out of the ordinary.
“Forty-six, four kids, Doctor,” she smiled, mirroring the patterns of his gentle strokes over his chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not as fit as I used to be either. Saggy boobs, little fat belly, a few stretch marks.”
“Nonsense,” he protested with a vehement shake of the head as he rose into a sitting position to hug her body close to his. “You’re as beautiful as ever, love, just as gorgeous.”
“Then why can’t you accept that I still think you’re as handsome as ever, Doctor?”
“Because I’m vain?”
“Well, at least we’re getting somewhere,” she giggled, giving his jaw a playful bite. “Now, part two. You.”
She pushed him back on the bed and shifted higher up his waist, smirking at the gasp that fled past his lips when she ground over his lap in retaliation for his sigh of defeat. She buried her fingers through his mane of brown spikes that felt just a tad stickier than usual, thank the many layers of gel he had used, but the result was the same. She knew he husband, and she knew he loved it when she played with his hair, pulled on his strands and scratched her nails on his scalp. Sure enough, at the first tug he closed his eyes, and at the first scrape he bit into his lip. She found the grey spot he had tried to bury among the brown - how he had even believed he would have been able to hide it, she didn’t know. The tuft stood out almost comically, like a single white petunia planted in a large bed of red ones. But only the colour was different. It felt the same under her fingers, just as soft and thick as the rest, just as rewarding when she pulled on it and he answered with a moan.
She could see all the years they had spent together in that grey hair, all that time she had been blessed with with this beautiful man on her side. Twenty years into their marriage, four beautiful children, and when she looked at him she still saw the man she had fallen in love all those years ago. She loved the grey hair because it reminded her time was a precious thing and should not be wasted.
“Don’t touch that horror,” he whined, shaking his head to divert her fingers away from the patch of silver hair. “I’ll have it dyed tomorrow.”
“I like it,” she said as she clenched her fingers tighter around his spikes, using her hold to pull his head back and lick her way up his throat to suck the soft patch of skin under his jaw into her mouth. “I think it’s important. When I look at it, I remember the chance I’ve been given to spend my life with you. I remember I love you more than life itself, and I remember you love me. I want to see it everyday. I want to see it and remember. Don’t dye it, please. I like it.”
She pulled on his hair again to turn the objection she felt coming into another one of his throaty moans and kept going. She trailed her fingers down his sternum, traced the edges of his pectorals that had softened over the years, teased his nipples with her fingertips and watched his face. Like she expected, his eyelids fluttered shut and his mouth pinched, the tendons in his neck straining under the skin. She kept a hand over his chest to continue with her ministrations, and brought the other back to his face. She ran her index over the crinkles at the corner of his eyes that spread out to his temples, followed the curve of the hollow of his cheek, swept over the prominent dimple dug into his skin, pressed against the wrinkle that fell from the edge of his mouth. As far as she could remember, the corners of his mouth had always had a tendency to be pulled down by a mysterious gravity. The years had only made it more visible. Deeper, longer. She replaced her finger with her lips and tweaked a hardened nipple between her knuckles.
“I like to think I contributed to those wrinkles,” she murmured against his skin, shifting down his body to rub her center against the erection she still felt under the layers of clothes. “When I pleasure you, you always make the same face.”
“What face?” he grunted, prying an eye open to see her smirk at him.
“That one,” she said just as she slid her hand down his body to grab his length through his trousers - the face he made that came with his groan perfectly illustrated what she meant, and it seemed he realized. “But I also like to think… Those wrinkles show just how much you’ve smiled for the past twenty years. When I see those wrinkles, I see your happiness. I remember all those times we’ve laughed and smiled and shared our love. The day we got married and you couldn’t keep that stupid grin away from your face. The day I told you I was pregnant for the first time and you couldn’t stop laughing like a loony. The day our first daughter was born and you couldn’t stop crying. I love your face, because when I look a you, I see my handsome husband, and I remember why I’m happy.”
She knew that, after this, he would never dare to think his wrinkles made him ugly again, lest he’d hurt her feelings. She knew he was vain, but she also knew he was vain mostly because he didn’t want he to think he was growing unattractive. She hoped that was enough to convince him she still thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen - the lack of protest was already a good sign.
She heard him suck in a gasp when she shuffled down his leg, grinding down hard on his crotch before she did, and she stole one last deep kiss from him before she went on a journey south. Her mouth followed the shallow line between his pectorals, planting wet, open-kisses on the way down, until she reached the soft curve of his belly.
“Hm, not much to say about this,” she smiled, cushioning her cheek against the flesh, drawing little heart shapes with a fingertip over his side. “But I like it. And you can’t do anything about that, darling, because you can’t judge what I like. There’s plenty of things I love that you hate.”
“You love sappy novels and pear pies,” he huffed as she scraped her teeth over the underside of his bellybutton. “Not very reassuring, given your more than questionable tastes, love.”
“‘Kay, let’s put it that way, then,” she nodded, cradling her chin in the palm of her hand as she lazily rubbed his hardness. “You love me and you trust me, yes? So, if I say I like it, you have to believe me. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“I…” he started, but had to swallow when she finally tugged on his trousers and underwear to gather them around his knees. “I suppose.”
“Sorry?” she teased, kneeling between his thighs before she wrapped her fingers around his hard base and squeezed hard, just to steal to the last thread of his coherence and win the fight.
“Yeah, ‘kay, I believe you,” he whimpered as his hips jerked up to follow her movements. “I mean, ah, it’s just a bit a fat, right? And it’s kinda, God, your fault, so…”
“Exactly.”
She didn’t wait for another reaction on his part and bowed her head to take him into her mouth - the only efficient way she had ever found to keep his gob under control. It didn’t stop him from moaning and cursing and growling his pleasure, but at least that hadn’t changed. She knew exactly how to get him there, knew every little thing he loved and every little sound he made depending on how she touched him. It was comforting, in a way. To know her husband was exactly the same as he’d ever been, no matter how much he thought he’d morphed into something he loathed. She could only hope he understood she still loved him just as much. Hope he accepted she did.
It didn’t take long before she heard the low groan he usually made at the pinnacle of his pleasure and felt his fingers tangle in her hair as his back arched from the bed and his toes curled into the sheet. She brought him down from his high with gentle caresses and a few kisses pressed on the swell of the belly he didn’t like, then plopped down next to him to wrap her arms around his chest heaving with the remnants of his pants. She nuzzled his cheek with the tip of her nose, dropping a few more kisses on his jaw, brushing a hand through his hair.
“You’re beautiful, my Doctor,” she murmured, watching his softening features, a glint of adoration and a gleam of affection in the depth of her eyes. “You’ll always be.”
“You’ll always be, too, my Rose,” he answered softly, content to bask in the love and the warmth of his perfect wife. “I love you.”
“I know, darling. I love you, too. And I love your belly.”
“Don’t push it,” he grinned, poking the soft spot above her hip where he knew she was ticklish.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist. Now, get your old ass up, we really need to go. And you have quite the belly to drag behind.”
“I take back what I said, I hate you.”
His hearts only soared with more love when she patted the soft lump with a cheeky grin and climbed off the bed.
Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price Chapter: 4/? Rating:Explicit Word count: 3700 Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Mutual Pining, Masturbation
Summary:
When he decided to come to England, it was for the women. It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make. It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like. It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.
He sighed at the feel of his cane getting stuck between two slabs of the rough pavement, a murky paste of mud and rotten grass following their curves down the road that led to his destination. It had rained pebbles, that night, and the street was but a vast canvas of grey and dull colours, thankfully counterbalanced by the deep blue sky free of any clouds. He wanted this day to be a success, and the downpour had already imperilled part of the escapade he had planned. Hopefully, the sun would shine bright enough over the hill sticking from behind the landscape of this horrible city to dry the green slopes, at least partially.
It was a lively city, but much too different from the Venice he knew like the back of his hand. Back in his hometown, it was always busy, buzzing with movements and crowded with people. Portsmouth was similar, but it lacked the organization Italian people had mastered over the years. Here, everything happened in a general hubbub of confusion and chaos, everyone going in and out of small shops as if they didn’t really know what they were doing, brawls blowing up between groups of drunken sailors in front of the pubs, mothers who couldn’t handle their handfuls of kids and sought for help with the kind of desperate look that made him feel uneasy. In Venice, everyone knew where and when they needed to go, people only got drunk on expensive wine in the comfort of their homes, mothers left their kid attended by servants and went about their businesses without having to worry about one of their progeniture falling into a canal. He realized he was starting to miss his country, already.
He shoved his cane under his arm and avoided an old fisherman running down the street with a cart full of cods, sowing a few of his fish in his wake that were quickly picked up by the passers-by. His nose scrunched up at the smell - had had always loathed fish and seafood in general - and he unconsciously brushed his sleeve as if it would chase the strong and sickening fragrance. That was his last clean costume, he had left all the others to the caretaker of the inn he stayed in so he wouldn’t have to survive on one jacket and two pants for the next two weeks, and he very much intended to keep his ruby tailcoat free of any fish or mud or any other filthy treasure this dreadful city seemed to hold. Especially since he had to meet her again. She had accepted his invitation.
A shiver coursed through him at that thought and he grinned to himself when he finally spotted the sign dangling in the breeze at the corner of the street. And there she was. He wished he had noticed how much effort she had put into brushing her rebellious hair first. Or noticed she had gone through the trouble of fitting into a dress that was more elaborate than the one she had worn the day before, but was just a breadth too small for her supple forms. Or noticed, for the first time again, how beautiful she looked and how odd a feeling she made him feel. But he only noticed the way she dabbed the underside of her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and anxiously fiddled with the pair of white gloved she held in her hand.
His pace grew just a bit faster, the heels of his boots clicking against the wet pavement and his pigtail jumping over the nape of his neck. He wanted to be spotted before he would let his presence known - he didn’t want to provoke her embarrassment and give her enough time to dry her tears and pretend he had been oblivious to them, should she refuse to show them. So, he let his cane fall on the hard tiles of the pavement, let the fake silver lionhead bounce and roll, all while loudly cursing in Italian at his clumsiness. He stole a glance at her, and it was only when she had managed to hide her small square of white precisely where he didn’t want to look that he picked his cane up and walked to her with a smile.
“Squisita Fanny,” he greeted with a small smile, gently cupping her fingers to brush his lips over the back of her hand - and he was glad to feel the ghost of a shiver course through her skin. “Should the sun not have woken up beside you this morning, your face would have been enough to enlighten my day. You look splendid.”
She fought the urge she had to surrender to his touch and his beautiful words - she had promised she wouldn’t let herself be tricked into believing something more could happen. Smile. Laugh. That was all that would happen, not matter where he would decide to take her. And with her face she was sure was still stained with the tears she had missed on her cheeks and her red eyes, she had trouble believing she could truly enlighten his day at all. Still, a woman could not refuse such a compliment, and she thanked him with a courtesy bow and a smile.
“Giacomo, you do look spruce yourself today,” she noted, daring to trail a finger over a golden pattern sewn into the crimson velvet. “The red suits you.”
“Italian blood, mia cara, red is our colour,” he winked as smoothed the seams of his lapels. “How are you feeling today, dolcezza? Is that sadness in your eyes, or are you disappointed to see me?”
“I am most definitely not disappointed to see you, Giacomo,” she was quick to reassure him, unwilling to let him think he had come all this way for nothing. “I am… Things at home haven’t been at their best for the past few days, my brother has just been sent away on mission with my father, and my mother… Well, she thinks I do not exist. I am left with brothers who will never consider me as a sister and sisters who blame me for leaving them behind. So… I am very pleased to see you. I was hoping you would be the one to lift my spirits now that William is gone, and I do apologize if this sounds very presumptuous of me.”
“I will do what must be done,” he sighed with a dismissive shrug - and hurried to smile and lock his elbow around her at her obvious discomfiture. “Italian humour, dispiace molto. I will do my assoluto best to please my Signora today. I have planned what I hope to be an agreeable adventure, but if at any point you are bored, annoyed or tired, per favore let me know and we’ll operate a change of course. The first stop is not far from here, if you wish to follow me, amata Fanny.”
“I should tell you, Giacomo, I do not have much money, and…”
“Everything is already paid for,” he interrupted as tried to find a comfortable position for his arm holding hers, the difference of height making it awkward and energy-consuming to keep it at the right level. “No talks of dues, reimbursements, sharing bills. Well, let’s make it simple. Forget about money. Money doesn’t exist when you’re with me, chiaro? Right now, all you should think about is a colour. Your favorite colour, mia cara, think hard, think fast, we’re almost there.”
“Rosso,” she answered without thinking about it, biting her lip when he stopped walking and looked down at her with a dazed squint of his eyes.
The word had come out naturally, and she feared he had heard way too much more in that simple word than she had intended him to. He seemed pleased to hear his own language, but there also was a flash that brightened his deep chocolate orbs that died so fast she would have missed it if she had but blinked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
He hoped she hadn’t felt his arm momentarily tighten around hers under the warm trickle of delight that had rolled down his spine. He didn’t know if the tension came from her sudden timidity, or his sudden realization he had kept this particular costume for this day, this moment, by chance or by accident. Red. Her favourite colour. Rosso. An almost flawless Italian carried by her melodious voice, a single word that was enough to wish she could hold a whole conversation and twist his loins into a tangle of lust and passion. It was just a language. Just a word. But it fell into his ears like thick honey and echoed down his abdomen louder than the bang of a gong.
“Parla italiano?” he asked after swallowing a compliment he knew she wouldn’t appreciate, let alone understand. “Perché mi piacerebbe tanto. Hai una bellissima voce.”
She drank his words, but of course, apart from the feeling of amazement and enchantment she could translate from his expression, she didn’t understand much. She giggled and playfully tugged on his arm to spur his long legs forward again, ignoring the odd looks they were given as they ambled down the street - she guessed they did form an unconventional couple, but if she could decide Giacomo would be her friend, she could also decide she needn’t care about what the others thought.
“I am very sorry, Giacomo, that was the extent of my Italian,” she apologized with a small smile, following the lead he had picked up again. “Rosso and pollo.”
“Do I want to know where you learnt those words?” he raised an eyebrow, a half grin putting his dimple on prominent display.
“The neighbours have an Italian grandmother who lives with them,” she explained as they stepped into a less frequented street that smelled of heavy perfume and rough leather. “I might have visited her yesterday evening and borrowed a dictionary designed for children. I wanted to learn more, but… You see, a big sister has to do her chores in a family like ours, even if she’s not regarded as such. I promise I will try to learn more.”
“You don’t need to learn more, dolcezza. One word is enough to…”
“To?”
“To make me happy,” he answered - it wasn’t a lie, more an innocent euphemism she wouldn’t see through, a euphemism that would keep his dignity intact. “Ah, there we are. Rosso it is, then.”
They stopped in front of one of the few luxurious shops that could be found in the otherwise impoverished city, the kind of shop only visited by the Ladies and Sirs who lived in the neighbouring countryside. A few dresses that were worth more than her whole wardrobe were on theatrical display, next to suits so expensive she was sure Giacomo would be offended by the ridiculous number written on the tag.
“I cannot go in there,” she said lowly, smiling at a wealthy woman stepping through the doors with heavy bags. “Giacomo, whatever your plan is, I cannot go in there.”
“Why?” he frowned, genuinely dumbfounded and worried he had made a horrendous mistake. “This is a shop, Fanny.”
“Yes, but there are shops and… Shops,” she emphasized, purposefully glancing at the cardinal dress she didn’t dare admit had been the subject of her wildest fantasies ever since she’d seen it for the first time during one of her many errands in town. “Look at this, Giacomo, this is not for me.”
“Oh,” he simply said - and she felt like a horrible person for bringing the disappointment and embarrassment to his features. “I thought you liked dresses of this kind. I must have misunderstood, please accept my apologies.”
“No, Giacomo, I adore these dresses, I almost sold my grandfather’s engagement ring to buy one of them,” she said with a sad smile, waving one of her gloves at the vitrine. “But they are not made for girls like me, and I don’t wish to go in this shop and look at things I can never have.”
“Primo, these dresses are meant to be worn by women like you,” he started, tapping his thumb on his index, then kept going and tapped his middle finger. “Secondo, any of these can be yours. I have already paid for it, we just need to have it tailored. This is a gift, mia Fanny, and I would very much like it if you accepted it. Per favore. Just this one time. Just this one gift. Just this one dress.”
“Giacomo, I don’t deserve such a gift, I…”
“Please, dolcezza. Please.”
He took a tentative step towards the door of the little shop, gently pulled on her elbow, looked at her with an encouraging smile, and she finally surrendered to his hopeful eyes. The little bell chimed as they stepped onto the shiny wooden floor that creaked under their feet, and the tailor greeted them with a bow.
“Sir Casanova, Lady,” he smiled - more by professional consciousness than true kindness, she noticed. “I will be done with Lady Howards in twenty minutes, if you would please take a look around and see what dress you would like.”
“I think the choice is already made,” he grinned, asking her for confirmation as he pointed to the crimson dress she had spotted in the vitrine. “Feel free to correct me should I be wrong, mia cara.”
“You’re not,” she breathed out, eyes wide in wonderment as she observed the velvet shine under the light. “It looks… Beautiful.”
“And you’re not wearing it, yet,” Giacomo whispered in her ear, glad to see his gift was not left underappreciated. “Kind gentleman, may we help you with your work and put the dress on already? We will leave the adjustments and couture to you.”
“Of course, sir, second wardrobe to the right, if you please. The changing room is through here.”
She followed him to one of the tall wardrobes, watched as he gauged her for long seconds, then picked up the dress which was pinned with a size that should roughly fit her body. He smiled and twirled around with the dress splayed over his chest, obviously delighted she had given in and was about to don the wealthy garment. She still wasn’t quite convinced she was worthy of such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, but she refused to cause him any more unwanted feelings. If this masquerade pleased him, she wasn’t about to let the wonderful occasion slip under her nose without seizing it. For the first time in her life, she would wear a dress that would make all the women in her family swoon with jealousy.
“Holler if you require any assistance,” Giacomo said with a broad grin, hooking the hanger to the screen painted with exotic flowers. “These can be tricky when you’re not used to them.”
“I’m just scared I’ll tear it,” she shrugged, unlacing the ribbon of her shoulder shawl. “Are you sure you haven’t underestimated my size? I’m rather… Shapely, you see, and the corset looks rather small.”
“It is not too small and your silhouette is divina,” he told her, brushing the back of his knuckles on her hip. “I can stay, should that make you feel better, but we will have to tell the tailor we’re married. I’m not entirely convinced he would fancy the idea of a woman showing that much skin to a gentleman behind his curtains.”
“I would rather… You stayed,” she confessed, nervously clasping her fingers across her chest.
Giacomo was a friend, she repeated firmly at the back of her head, and now that she knew that, she couldn’t see any problem with him seeing her in her underslip. It wasn’t as if she was about to completely reveal herself to him - if that had been the case, she would have refused his help without thinking about it twice. And she would really hate to spoil such a beautiful dress because of a lace pulled to tight or a seam tugged too hard, especially since he was the one spending a small fortune on it. A fortune, yes. So much money she could have opened her own shop and built an entire dynasty for the centuries to come over it. To him, it might have been but a snowflake in a blizzard or a particle of quartz in a sandstorm, a coin fished in a sea of gold and jewels, a blade of grass picked in his hanging gardens of Venezia. A little nothing in his world of so much.
He disappeared for a moment, just long enough for her to fold her shawl and smooth it down on a chair, then reappeared with a pleased clap of his hands.
“Bene, now that we won’t be arrested for indecency,” he started, leaning his cane against the wall and pushing his sleeves up his wrists, “shall we begin, mia cara. I promise my eyes will not wander anywhere they are not required and my hands know how to behave. Do you need help taking that one off?”
“No, thank you,” she said as she reached behind her neck to untie a knot. “The servants at Mansfield Park never helped me, I had to learn fairly quickly how to do it myself. The first time I put a dress with a ribbon in the middle of my back, I had to sleep in it. My best friend set me free the morning later and I was chastised by my aunt because it got wrinkled.”
“I hope you know that whatever happens to that dress, even the worst case scenario, I will always play your friend and never your aunt,” he laughed - a laugh that quickly died down when the knot was released and the nek of the dress curtained over her shoulder blades.
“Don’t cast evil spells like this, Giacomo. You know you only need talk about worst case scenarios for them to happen.”
“Scenari. But I do get your point, no more maledizioni.”
He might have crossed his fingers behind his back when he had promised his eyes wouldn’t travel a forbidden path, or he might not have. Either way, he found himself betraying her trust. Just for a second, he abused the faith she had put in hands. The pale blue dress she had donned finally pooled at her feet, her silk underslip kissed the skin of the round hills of flesh and flapped around her thighs, hidden under the thin nylon stockings. He didn’t look, merely watched it from the corner of a fluttering eyelid. He looked when she bent down to take off her shoes and stepped out of the cage of blue fabric to shove it to the side. Just for a second. A second to imagine how the crevices in the small of her back, defined under the shiny, clinging surface, would feel like against his lips. How the full cheeks of her glorious bottom would react when touched by his fingers. How the strong, curvaceous legs would feel, wrapped around his hips or around his neck, as he slowly, deeply, passionately…
“Giacomo, I know what you’re thinking,” she suddenly said, blood rushing to her cheeks as she covered herself with her brand new dress.
He swallowed a gasp and hurried to pull on his jacket to hide the proud illustration of his rampant imagination, briefly squeezing his eyes shut when his fingers inadvertently brushed against the hardened flesh. No, she couldn’t know. If she had been any other woman, he would already have his pants down his knees, her body bent over the chair and his throbbing erection ramming into her heat. This wasn’t any other woman. This was Fanny. He only had stolen one look, one quick look, not even long enough to remember if the images reeling through his mind were what he had seen or what he had invented. One look, that was enough for his desire to spark, and just enough to taste the bitter guilt at the back of his throat. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t have noticed his arousal, because he was convinced she was too pure to even consider the possibility. She couldn’t realize he was aroused, because that would mean he’d have to tell her about all those things he wasn’t ready to tell her about yet.
He desired her. Only, not like any other woman. Because this was Fanny. She was attractive. Simply, so simply, not like any other woman. She had a beautiful face, an exquisite physique, and he desired her body.
But more than that, and most certainly not like any other woman, he desired who she was. He knew that, because, though that was a foreign and oddly satisfying feeling, he wanted to protect her. To respect her. To care, to please. To make her laugh and smile. To make her happy. To lo….
“Scusi?” he asked after a particularly hard gulp of fear and culpability, chasing the unfamiliar word away from his train of thoughts. “What am I thinking about, dolcezza?”
“About my body,” she continued, unaware that her shy statement brought him to the steep verge of spontaneously combusting. “About my fat body and how it will never fit inside this dress. You really should have picked a bigger size, Giacomo, you underestimated…”
“Your body is perfect as it is, magnifica Fanny,” he hurried to reassure her, keeping his eyes firmly locked on her face. “And the dress is the perfect size, I promise. Should we try it on?”
She nodded her assent with a sheepish quiver of her lips, and his nervous fingers closed around the dress she handed him.
