“How do you get so hard?” she asked, amazement spicing her tone as she ran her hands along his sides.
“Exercise,” he said next to her skin. “It helps me to relax. Reduce tension.”
If he needed to exercise as much as his hard body suggested, he must carry a mountain-load of tension in him. There was exercise like she practiced it—four or five hours a week at the local gym—and then there was exercise like this, she realized as she touched a rock-hard, curving biceps. She looked down at what she stroked in her hand, focusing on the tattoo.
“What does it mean?’ she asked, her fingers brushing over the Asian characters.
“Twins,” he said hoarsely after a moment. “It’s Chinese for twins.”
Her fingers stilled and then resumed tracing the intricate markings.
“What was he like? Your brother?” she wondered cautiously. He had told her on the day of Cristina’s funeral that he didn’t want to talk more about Adrian, but that unknown little boy seemed so present at times. Or was that Emma’s overactive imagination?
He exhaled heavily. She waited, but she didn’t feel the tension leap back into his muscles that she’d half expected.
“He was dreamy. Sweet,” Vanni added after a pause, not lifting his head from her neck. “We looked alike, but Adrian was slighter. He was fragile. Physically. You’ve never seen two more different kids on the surface. I was fire and force. I didn’t walk anywhere, I ran. I could take apart an engine and put it back together by the time I was seven. Adrian wasn’t interested in cars or engines, but his brain was just as methodical once he focused on something. He’d get distracted by a hundred different things crossing the length of the yard. He’d stop and watch a bunch of ants or some other animal, and then draw them in amazing detail. If there were such a thing as fairies, Adrian would have seen them.” Emma felt his small smile against her skin. “He was strong, just in a different way than me. That was one thing my father never understood. He never realized how much I respected Adrian, or how much Adrian respected me. We were different, but we understood each other perfectly. We even had our own language,” he said with a dry laugh. “Nobody else could understand us.”
“Two sides of a whole,” Emma whispered, a sharp, cutting feeling rising in her chest, making drawing air difficult. What would it be like, to feel so connected to another human being, to even feel like part of oneself resided in another, only to have that elemental part cut away? Her hands caressed his biceps carefully. She sensed that those things that characterized Adrian were inside Vanni, too. They always h
ad been. Adrian had just been the embodiment of them, that part of Vanni made flesh. Vanni had been Adrian’s strength and fiery focus.
Now Vanni remained, believing himself to be only a part of what he was, existing in a severed state.
No child should have been left to feel so much. No man forced to feel so little.
Cristina’s remembered voice rose into her consciousness. The ache in her chest swelled. Cristina had been talking about Vanni—about his life since Adrian died.
He rose suddenly and flipped onto his back, effortlessly scooping her into his arms. Her head rolled onto his chest, her cheek pressing to a wall of dense muscle and springy hair. She pressed her lips to his warm flesh, trying to calm the upsweep of emotion she’d experienced. His open hand swept up her spine, making her shiver. He cradled her head in his hand, his fingertips rubbing her scalp.
“Vanni,” she said, her lips brushing his skin. “How much exactly did you hear Cristina say on the day she died?”
“Enough,” he said.
“But there was something she said—”
“I don’t want to discuss it. I told you. I heard enough,” he said, and she could tell by the cool, clipped finality of his tone that it wasn’t a topic they’d be broaching anytime soon.
* * *
He felt her tense slightly in his arms and frowned. He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp. She had no inkling of how raw he felt. How exposed. He needed distance.
He required it.
Yet he couldn’t bear to part from her at that moment.
“I told you that the next time we were together, I’d take you someplace nice,” he said, his fingertip running down the ridge of her pretty nose, caressing the sprinkle of freckles.
“That’s okay,” she murmured. “You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to.” He leaned down and kissed her. He’d meant it to be a brisk kiss, but he caught her flavor and scent, and lingered. She smelled like lemons and honey. Even the taste of her sweat was sweet. “I want to,” he said a moment later, looking into her sex-flushed face. His gaze ran down the length of her appreciatively. Unable to stop himself, he caressed a pale breast and delicate pink nipple. Desire flickered in him when he felt her bead beneath his touch. Five weeks? Would it be enough? he wondered idly. When she set the limit, it had initially annoyed him until he realized she’d given him a convenient out. Wasn’t she making it all easy for him, and for her as well? That was important in her case. He didn’t want to hurt her.
Emma made everything so easy. Certainly his desire had never been this sharp, ready to rear up and clutch at him with just a glance or a touch.
“Why are you frowning?” she asked softly, touching his furrowed forehead and splintering his thoughts.
“I took you very hard. I hadn’t intended to. Waiting all week for your answer . . . it made things very trying . . .” He faded off. “Are you all right?”
She gave him a half-shy, half-mischievous glance. “Yes. It was incredible.”