Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

saying? You were a child, too. And what’s even harder to take is that you were trying to be an adult—to make decisions that your parents should have been making for you.’

      He recoiled at that, but she didn’t stop.

      ‘I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. But I do understand that you’re adding to the pain of losing Lodo by hating yourself so much for something that wasn’t your fault.’

      He was still, his eyes level with her chest, not looking at her. The hair of his fringe had fallen down over his scar. She pushed it back and then gently lowered her head to kiss the reddened mark.

      ‘I wish you would leave the hate. There’s so much about you to love. Your body is covered in your history—even this crazy little scar. Fighting in the streets when you should have been learning Latin … I love it.’

      He didn’t move a muscle. She moved her lips to the flattened break in the bridge of his nose. Kissed it.

      ‘And this perfect imperfect nose. Getting a polo stick in your face because you wouldn’t give up …’

      She curled downward, holding on tightly, not daring to open her eyes, letting her body guide her, remembering all the things he’d told her about his injuries. The bones in his shoulder were all out of alignment from his falls and fights. She lowered her lips and ran them along each bump and ridge.

      Finally she placed her lips over his. Soft, firm, warm. The fires they had lit between them were always glowing, ready to flare into life.

      ‘I love these lips.’ She kissed him so softly. ‘The pleasure they have given me …’

      She felt something inside her contract as she spoke. Waves of emotion rolled and more words formed in her throat. She choked them back and used her mouth to show him how she felt. Softly pressing their mouths together, carefully sculpting and moulding and shaping. The familiar blaze was already taking hold, but this time something bigger, higher, sweeter sang out through the fire.

      ‘Oh, Rocco …’ she said as the waves began to break.

      He stood up in one smooth movement. She held on as he began to walk, as he repositioned her, cradled her and carried her forward. She held on to the thick column of his neck and pulled herself close as he walked slowly back to the bedroom.

      He opened the door and carried her in, walked right over to the bed and laid her down as if she were a silken cloth. He moved over her and stared down at her. She stared back. Up at his face, still intense—always intense—but softer now.

      ‘You sweet, sweet girl,’ he said as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt she’d thrown on.

      She sat up, threaded her hands through his hair and pulled him down to her. She kissed him. Over and over. That was all. Just kissed him. Feeling those lips that she’d come to cherish for the pleasure they gave. Kissing and holding and adoring him. Nursing him with her body. And her heart.

      Those words welled up in her throat again. But she swallowed them down.

      He touched her as if she was treasure, moved her carefully on the bed, began to stoke their sexual love with his mouth and his hands. She climbed higher and higher, beginning to lose track of where she ended and he began.

      ‘Frankie, carina …’

      He eased her legs open with his thighs and slid inside her. Huge and thick, he filled her completely, perfectly. Inches from her face she felt his warm breath. She ran her hands over the rough stubble of his jaw, felt the enveloping power of his body around her.

      She knew the crescendo was coming, but each honeyed beat of the prelude was immense. So perfectly, precisely slowly he eased himself in and out of her. Rocco … her wounded soldier … her love. The words choked her as she kissed him and he kissed her back, murmuring sounds about how he treasured her until she knew she could hold on no longer.

      Never, ever had she known the depths of such feeling for another human as their lovemaking throbbed to its final conclusion and she broke like a concerto of strings all around him and cried out the blissful joy from her heart.

      He collapsed onto her, crushing her, winding her in the most perfect way possible. His hair-roughened limbs and stubbled jaw were her satin sheets. Their breath and sweat mingled. Light from the neglected hall doorway seeped into the room and soothed the night’s edges with silvery strokes.

      And together they lay, weary, slipping into slumbers and dreams, knowing that they’d crossed some giant divide and there was no longer any way back.