From the Baroness’s Diary III

Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

He tastes like leather and coffee. All my senses begin to hum. A breathtaking warmth fills my body and I can’t get enough of him.

His kiss is electrifying. Desire heats my blood as one of his hands slides down the length of my back, then up under my hair, cupping my head, kissing me fiercely, while the other undoes the buttons of my blouse, seeking my breasts.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I say breathlessly as he drags his lips across my cheek and down my neck while I cling to him, my arms tight about his shoulders. “I can’t lose you again.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he says.

Holding me snug in his embrace, he kneels and backs me up against the ground and over the lacy bra, takes my n****e in his mouth. He sucks until I am weak and trembling with a need so powerful I push him back and divest myself of all my clothing.

“I like this.” Without warning he gives my pubic hair a little tug, causing me to gasp in shock. I haven’t shaved in months since the baron is not at home “I want you, Chloé.”

“Oh, oui, f**k me, Salvatore,” I plead.

“Watch that dirty mouth. That’s not how good girls talk,” he says, as he shoves his pants down and takes his glorious c**k in his hand, stroking it twice.

I start to rise, thinking he wants me to give him some…ah…tender loving care, but he pushes me back flat over my own clothes. “Now be still and let me enjoy this.”

“Pardon. I just…it’s been such…oh!” My rambling ends in a moan, I am not able to find words or even make a complete sentence as his fingers part my folds and caress me.

“I know. I’ve got you. Lay back and spread your thighs wider for me and let me take care of this little cunt.”

Shamelessly, I open them as wide as I can, and Salvatore dives into his task with relish, dragging his tongue back and forth and then sucking my c**t, in quick, sharp pulls.

The orgasm builds and builds and builds, doubling over on itself until I feel infinite. Until I feel like I’ll die if I come or die if I don’t.

His tongue slides around my c**t. Never going where I need it. Never touching the sharpness of my desire.

And then he is sucking me.

When I begin to tremble my way to my orgasm, he stops, pulls back, and the wave of heat races away in a shuddering riptide of loss. “Please.”

Then he flips me over, pulling my ass toward him.

His fingers swoop down to gather more of my juices. My cream. And then spreads it around my slit, not that I need it. I am so wet.

“Steady yourself, Cara.”

It is my only warning. When the tip of his erect c**k rests against my p***y, he plunges into me in a single, powerful thrust.

I have to grit my teeth to avoid shouting loud and long as he pierces me. It has been so long since my inner walls have accommodated his long thickness and it is so good.

When he is in me to the hilt, he starts to move with a slow rhythm. But I don’t want slow. I want fast, furious.

I start jutting my ass back, moving my hips with a ferocity I didn’t know I had in me.

“Harder…fuck me harder. Spank me,” I say, not even capable of filtering my own words. “Now, Salvatore.”

One of the hands that is gripping my hip lets loose to smack the side of my ass, causing me to scream from the shock of the pain

“Bossy…” he hisses between clenched teeth and then he is f*****g me hard, as I like, keeping me still with his hands on my hips, and plunging into me fast.

The blood in my veins sizzles as his rhythm grows into a mind-numbing crescendo, his c**k pounding my p***y without a single hint of mercy, each stroke igniting the desire I’d never stopped feeling for him into an inferno of need and want.

I moan, loud and long, and his hand comes down hard on my ass again. And again, because I am screaming already.

He pushes my upper torso down and fingers my asshole, pressing a finger inside me.

The pressure increases and mounts. The walls of my p***y contract sharply around him, making him finally say my name the way I like it. “My Chloé.”

And then my crisis is upon me and I close my eyes as all existence fades away. I can’t speak or hear.

I can only feel as wave after wave of pleasure washes up and down my spine, as Salvatore shouts my name—among what probably are Italian curses—and he comes, as our fluids mix, flooding me with our essences.

The whole universe—my whole universe—is focused on the place where our bodies meet and fuse.

I rest my forehead against my skirt, raging joy coursing through me.

I’ve never been quite as religious as I should have been. Granted, the nuns tried and tried, but religion seemed always so…harsh, difficult.

Now, this? Ah, Dieu.

This is surely heaven.

I’m not exaggerating. I might be a bit…hmm…stunned, but that’s just a side effect of being f****d like this. A very, very good side effect, n’est ce pas?

I shiver as he pulls back and brushes his lips over my spine, sending a familiar spark coursing down my body before flipping me back.

I have forgotten how much I love what he does to my body. Nobody knows it like Salvatore.

“Ah, Cara,” he whispers against my lips when we are face-to-face. “I had forgotten how good it is.”

It’s always been more than s*x and orgasms between the two of us.

It’s about pure animal desire and the true feeling of being with the person made just for you.

About being owned and owning in return.

“Salvatore,” I whisper back, my hands sliding up to his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift there. I just hope he doesn’t push me away, and he doesn’t. Now, it’s another step. “I’ve been lost without you.”

He tenses before moving out of my reach, running a hand through his hair.

After putting his pants back on, he holds his hand out to me. “Come. I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

I give him a tentative smile, my mind still reeling with the fact that he has reacted so suddenly.

A soft sadness comes over me. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Maybe I thought he would invite me to stay with him, in his house.

Is he going to send me away?

“I’m staying at a friend’s house.” I explain to him that Mario is a friend of Jean and he immediately tells me Mario is one of his best friends, which makes me fear now what this Mario might tell him about me and Enzo. “If you want to be with me tonight…I can move into a hotel.”

“I would love to.” He takes my hand in his and leads me through the vineyard. “All of this is mine and my brothers’ now, Cara. When my father died, we turned his small business into a world-wide, renowned winery and vineyard and my brothers and I find ourselves very wealthy men.”

I can see the pride on his face as we move toward the villa. The notion that my Italian gardener, the employee of my husband, is gone starts to seep into my thoughts. I realize now that the man next to me is not the same man that left me years ago and I have no notion of how to start anew with a man I do not know anymore.

He tells me how his grandfather came to inherit this vast piece of land none of his grand-uncles wanted at the wild, bucolic north slope of Etna, which stretches as far as the eye can see. This property, and a few others, including the famous villa Di Luca by the sea.

And how his father’s radical vino-making techniques and outside-the-box ideas—which include the aging of wines in terracotta vessels buried underground in volcanic rock—were a testament to his fastidious desire to create wines that reflect Etna’s natural environment as purely and honestly as possible, came to create a rare award-winning Sicilian excellent wine.

“Sicilian wine is cheap, mass-produced, and primarily sold off in vats for blending. But my father would have none of that in his land,” he tells me proudly as we walk along the grapevines. He also tells me how his father died of a sudden heart attack. I can hear the anger in the rasp of his voice as he explains to me it was due to a mistake made by a bank manager, who called in a promissory note, with three more zeros than the original debt, bankrupting my father.

I can see the tick on his jaw and the hard set of his jaw. “I’m so sorry for your loss, mon amour.”

I can see how much he admired his father when he only nods, his lips still flattened in a line, as if letting out words would be too costly.

As we reach the end of the grapevines and the house looms in the distance, Salvatore turns to me. “Here, Sicily, is the home of my ancestors. My home.”

He lets go of my hand to open his arms to encompass the land and does not take it again.

But I am not hurt. This is very new to both of us and he is processing this reunion as much as I am.

Will I stay if he asks me to? I would be giving up everything in England: my title, the manor, the wealth. I haven’t thought so far, but now that I am here, I don’t want to leave.

All I can think as we make our way to an old truck is that I have to show him I will be…what? His mistress? Because I can’t be his wife.

I am still married.

We are not in Verona, but this is the kind of Shakespearean imbroglio which could only end in death.

I awaken the following morning to the novel sensation of a warm, solid man pressed along my back. In all the years of my marriage, I have woken up alone. Non, I have slept and awoke alone every single day of my married life.

Vive la difference!

Thin yet bright light filters through the windows, giving the white room an otherworldly feel.

At some point, Salvatore must have turned on the fan. The last thing I remember was him tucking me in his arms and ordering me to sleep, then adding, “You know you sealed your fate coming here, certo, Cara? No way am I letting you go. I’ll be f*****g sleeping and waking up to you wrapped around my cock.”

He is still sleepy, so I disengage myself from his arms and tiptoe to the bathroom.

There is a large claw-foot tub there, big enough for more than one. As I run the water, I marvel at the bright sunlight filtering through the plantation shutters. The air smells flowery and sweet. It is certainly a nice change from rainy, dreary England.

Leaning back in the bathtub, relaxing in the hot water—my body is starting to feel the effects of Salvatore’s vigorous lovemaking, the delicious soreness between my thighs—I look up at the ceiling, thinking of my exciting Italian gardener.

Salvatore has grown into another man since we were crudely separated, yet I can still find my gardener in him, as well. It is strange to see him like this now, comfortable and happy in his place of birth.

And wealthy. Very, very wealthy. Not that it will make any difference but it means more security for us to build a future together.

After my bath, Salvatore takes me to breakfast at the hotel, and tells me that he is excited for me to meet his family. I feel so very welcome here. I can imagine building a life here with him and can almost see our brood of children running about the vineyard under the setting sun.

Children! That’s a nice thought.

And although I can’t have them, we could always adopt.

Ah. But I must not put the cart before the horse, non?

For now, I am eager to spend every waking moment with my Salvatore, and he is intent on spending time with me. I do not know how much time I have with him—hopefully forever—and I do not intend on wasting any of it.

I feel so happy, as if my heart will truly burst, unable to contain my joy!