Ciao, amore - Jude Bellingham x Reader |
summary: once again dragged by your father to a prestigious wedding you had never wished to attend, you resign yourself to yet another interminable evening of tedious conversation, practised smiles and obligations you have spent a lifetime learning to endure, all beneath the gilded splendour of an ancient Tuscan villa, where candlelight glimmers against marble, expensive wine flows rather too freely, and the dying summer sun turns the hills beyond its windows to gold.
this time, however, escape presents itself in the rather unexpected form of a man. lingering glances exchanged across a crowded room, half-empty glasses and a mutual desire to disappear somewhere beyond the reach of curious eyes soon lend an evening you had been determined to despise an altogether different flavour. as stolen moments give way to secluded corridors and the attention of a stranger you were never supposed to want grows increasingly intoxicating, you discover just how readily temptation can unravel even the most carefully guarded restraint — particularly when it tastes this sweet.
warnings: smut, MDNI, fem!reader, strangers to hookup, teasing, flirting, supposed to be a one night stand, sexual tension, making out, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, pet names, dirty talk, slight dom!Jude, rich!reader, alcohol consumption, escapism, fluff, fluff and smut, aftercare, no use of Y/N, one-shot.
word count: 13k +
a/n: hiiii everyone!! ☆⌒(ゝ。∂) after so many months of being inactive, i’m finally back with a new fic that is VERY far outside my usual comfort zone… what can i say, i fell in love lol w Jude + i’m a gooner /// it ended up being really long and has an extremely elegant tone, so i hope you enjoy it;; i think it turned out quite unique! please let me know what you think, feedback is really important to me c: and thank you so much to anyone who decides to read it!! ♡
The sound of your high heels echoes through the vast, lavishly adorned corridor in a slow, steady rhythm, almost as though every step had been carefully calculated. You lower your gaze to the polished beige marble beneath your feet, so impeccably buffed that it reflects your own image with startling clarity. A little farther ahead are your father’s loafers, the back of his midnight-blue shirt slightly creased, his pace considerably quicker than yours — as if there were not a single second to spare. Clutched tightly in his fist is what appears to be a sleek black business card embossed with golden lettering, while his short, stocky frame hurries onward with increasing impatience. An exhausted huff escapes his lips, clearly provoked by your deliberate slowness — not an invitation to walk faster, but an order.
You roll your eyes the very next moment, silently cursing him for forcing you to attend this tedious, gaudy, unbearably baroque wedding. Then again, having a daughter to keep at his side and parade around whenever the future of his prestigious winery is brought up is rather convenient, isn’t it? It is so effortless for him to slip into the role of the kind-hearted, generous family man — a performance, perhaps, rehearsed long before you were ever born. As for how you feel, your dreams, your ambitions, your plans… selfish, wealthy people have little interest in such things.
And to think that the only thing you actually like about wine is drinking it.
The voices of the guests gathered inside the grand dining hall of the historic villa grow clearer with every step. Through the large arched windows embracing the walls, you catch sight of a breathtaking sunset gently caressing the Tuscan hills, painting the sky in a brilliant shade of orange that somehow feels both radiant and melancholic all at once. Almost instinctively, you glance down at your watch. It’s nearly nine in the evening, and your father is most certainly not pleased by this entirely avoidable delay. Still some distance away, you spot the magnificent double doors standing wide open, which you assume lead to your destination.
As you delicately smooth down your carefully styled, soft waves, a shrill voice — its accent unmistakably un-English — abruptly cuts through your thoughts, irritating you even more than you already are. “Hurry up, hurry up! We’re late! Do you want to make me look bad?” the man snaps, a thread of impatient urgency woven into his voice. Your long, slender legs allow you to close the distance between the two of you effortlessly, your expression steeped in unmistakable boredom as you murmur, “You’re the one who decided to bring me here.” Without another word — because you know perfectly well that you’re right and, more importantly, because your father needs you far too much to argue back — you flash him an ironic, thoroughly irritating little smile before finally quickening your pace. You walk past him and at last step into the dining hall, paying no mind whatsoever to his silent complaints.
The room is enormous, dressed to absolute perfection. Massive crystal chandeliers bathe the countless guests in warm light; the buffet tables already overflow with exquisite delicacies of every kind; the gentle melodies of the piano and violins drift gracefully through the air, accompanying the evening with flawless harmony; and beyond it all, an immense columned terrace offers a magnificent view over the landscape surrounding the villa. Nothing out of the ordinary for you. You’re more than accustomed to settings like these, despite the profound hatred you’ve always harboured for them.
Your elegant black dress flutters around you with every step, accentuating every curve as you make your way towards one of the grand buffet tables surrounded by people of every sort: dazzling smiles, glittering jewellery, even languages you fail to recognise. You hardly spare the bride more than a passing glance and, when your eyes finally settle on her, you can’t help but think that her extravagant white gown makes her look just like every other bride in the world. After all, you don’t even know her name. You shake your head a moment later and return to reality, reminding yourself why you had wandered over to the buffet in the first place — you have to find some way to entertain yourself at this wedding.
Your slender fingers gracefully curl around a glass of red wine, your long, simply adorned nails lazily tracing the stem of the glass. Then, as you bring it to your soft lips, you idly survey your surroundings with little more than boredom, your gaze drifting in search of familiar faces, famous ones. Then again, this is far from your first event of this kind, and you’ve long since grown accustomed to being surrounded by prominent public figures ever since you were a child. Politicians, artists, singers, models, actors, athletes. At first, you thought it was rather exciting, but now that you’re well into your twenties, it has become nothing more than tedious, no longer something capable of astonishing you. Repetitive. Yet, as you slowly sip your wine and lean your back against a towering cream-coloured column, your eyes, suddenly alert and brimming with curiosity, come to rest upon something that finally manages to capture your attention. A face that is not merely familiar. Now, you would describe it as… interesting.
It isn’t the first time you’ve had the opportunity to see Jude Bellingham up close. It happened during an important sporting gala your father had attended as a winemaker, but the two of you were much younger then, and although the footballer had already been undeniably handsome, he hadn’t particularly caught your interest. Today, however, the flower has finally bloomed. His features have matured, becoming sharper, more striking, unmistakably those of a man. For the first time in quite a while, you find yourself observing someone with genuine interest, and the thought draws the faintest smile to your lips. You furrow your brows as you take in his appearance; he’s dressed in a black tuxedo complete with a matching bow tie and a crisp white shirt, an ensemble that accentuates his athletic, toned physique to perfection. His hair and beard have evidently been trimmed and styled for the occasion, his smile is flawless, and his gaze is so piercing that, for the first time, you understand why every woman your age seems to lose her mind over him.
One of his powerful arms supports his weight against the table behind him, while with the other he casually lifts a glass filled with a drink you can’t quite identify until it reaches his lips, his attention entirely devoted to the man standing opposite him. Your father. And the very moment something clicks inside your mind, making you realise that the evening might suddenly become far more entertaining, the round little man glances around as though searching for someone. But Jude, on the other hand, has already found you. He notices that your eyes have been fixed on him long before he ever looked your way, and now his own slowly travels over every inch of your figure, almost as though he were savouring you with his eyes alone. For a single moment — just one — in that enormous, uncomfortable, deafening room, there is no one else but the two of you.
Then, a faint amused smile, a subtle nod in your direction, and a few words you fail to catch pull you back to reality just as you notice your father finally spotting you, gesturing for you to join them. Challenge accepted.
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“… and then I told him never to show his face again. After all, what would I ever need a fat bastard like him in my company for?”
Boisterous, overblown laughter — mostly from the men — shatters the silence and spills into the space surrounding you, yet not even the ghost of a smile touches your face. Your bored eyes wander across the scene before you: countless breathtakingly beautiful women, visibly uninterested, accompany their husbands while absent-mindedly helping themselves to colourful Italian delicacies and endless hors d’oeuvres, everyone leisurely sipping on different varieties of wine you’ve long since learned to recognise by heart. Crystal glasses chime softly against one another, silver cutlery glimmers beneath the chandeliers, and the rich aroma of aged wine mingles with expensive perfume until the air itself feels heavy.
Your father, seated in a posture that could hardly be called elegant despite the extravagantly baroque chair beneath him, welcomes every laugh and every insincere smile he has managed to provoke since the moment you all sat down, basking in the attention exactly as the protagonist of his own story would. A king. Conceited, insufferable, and hopelessly foolish. You find it almost unbelievable — in the worst possible way — that he still hasn’t realised how little anyone at this celebratory gathering genuinely cares about him. He is nothing more than a winemaker among many others, simply another guest, an ordinary man surrounded by an astonishing sea of celebrated faces.
One of them happens to be sitting right beside you: Jude leans back against his chair with an almost careless sort of ease, his long legs slightly spread beneath the table, a lazy smile occasionally finding its way onto his lips. As much as you’ve already decided he’s your only lifeline tonight — the only thing keeping this evening from becoming unbearably dull — after shaking your hand and quietly introducing himself with a simple, ‘Jude,’ while waiting for your name in return, he hasn’t spoken another word. Could it be that he isn’t interested? you wonder, though the thought strikes you as almost impossible after catching his eyes drifting back to you time and time again, as though he were studying you with quiet intent.
You are not an ordinary girl. You know your worth, and throughout your life you have scarcely ever found yourself taking an interest in a man before he had taken one in you. You have simply never needed to. Yet perhaps, with the pleasant warmth of alcohol coursing through your veins and the distinctly masculine scent of his cologne still lingering stubbornly in your senses, you are willing to make an exception. Crossing one leg elegantly over the other, your foot begins to sway absent-mindedly through the air and, as you gently set your wine glass back upon the table with a soft thump, you lean ever so slightly towards the footballer, closing the distance between the two of you. Then, lifting one hand to shield your lips whilst never once allowing your gaze to drift from his, you murmur in a voice so soft and low that it is meant for him alone, “What a bore…”
Jude’s reaction is almost instantaneous. Attempting to suppress a smile, he gives a small nod, one eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. “Mm. You can say that again.” The voices surrounding you, the music, even the laughter that has grated upon your nerves all evening long gradually dissolve into nothing more than distant background noise as you notice his lips move once again, still faintly damp from the wine. “I don’t even know why I came,” he murmurs, effortlessly commanding your full attention. Wearing an expression of exaggerated boredom, you roll your eyes before inclining your head ever so slightly towards your father, paying not the slightest attention to whether he has noticed the gesture or not. “That one forced me to come. I can’t exactly escape him, so I’m simply trying to find some way to distract myself.”
You notice that, whenever you speak, Jude never once allows his eyes to wander from yours, and you cannot deny the quiet satisfaction the realisation brings you. Before long, you find yourself returning the favour and, as your fingers reclaim the wine glass you had set aside only moments earlier, his deep voice reaches you once more. “So you’re drowning yourself in alcohol,” he remarks with the faintest hint of a smirk, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to suggest playful teasing rather than judgement, whilst his penetrating gaze falters for the briefest of moments, lowering almost absent-mindedly to your lips.
Unable to resist, a faint smile finds its way to your lips as you continue to sip your wine, one eyebrow arching delicately whilst your hand gestures towards his now almost empty glass. “Hm,” you murmur, resting your elbow upon the arm of your chair so as to cradle your chin in your hand whilst you study him, “I hardly seem to be the only one. And you’re a footballer — you really ought not to overindulge…” you continue, your voice lowering into something intentionally provocative, your index finger absent-mindedly winding one of your soft locks of hair around itself. The playful gesture does not escape him. His eyes linger upon the unhurried movement of your fingers for the briefest of moments before lifting once more to your face, patient, attentive, almost disarmingly so.
Jude remains silent for a moment, content simply to observe you, as though carefully considering each and every one of your words. At length, he inclines his head slightly to one side, narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly as his brows draw together. “Ah… so you know who I am.” His dark complexion seems almost to glow beneath the radiance of those glittering, magnificent chandeliers, whilst the unmistakable English accent colouring every word that falls from his lips renders him all the more captivating, the rich timbre of his voice lingering in the air between you long after the sound itself has faded, no less striking than the impeccably tailored tuxedo that stands in such marked contrast to the sporting attire in which you are so accustomed to seeing him. You simply cannot help yourself — there is something about this man that draws you in with a force you could never hope to describe.
A quiet laugh escapes you as you lower your head with modesty, your hands occupied with smoothing the fabric of your dress where it had ridden up ever so slightly. Almost at once, you become aware of his gaze following the movement, instinctive rather than intentional, lingering only long enough for a gentle warmth to blossom beneath your skin before returning to your face. “You’ve caught me. Besides…” You pause for no more than a heartbeat, noticing the way his eyes had traced the path of your hands before wandering down to your legs and, when at last they rise to meet yours once again, neither of you is the first to look away. A delicate flush colours your cheeks before your gaze finally slips from his. “I don’t know whether you remember, but… we’ve met before.”
As though your words had struck him with the precision of an arrow loosed by the finest of archers, Jude’s gaze abandons your legs at once in search of your eyes once more. The surprise so openly written across his expressive features, coupled with the smile he proves unable to suppress, instinctively draws one from you in return. “Oh, really? What are you talking about? When?” His voice softens further still, as though every word were intended for your ears alone, as though, within the vastness of that magnificent dining hall, you were the only person worthy of his attention. Almost without thinking, he leans in ever so slightly as well — not enough for anyone else to notice, yet more than enough for the scent of his cologne to envelop you once again. Warm, woody and unmistakably masculine, it mingles with the lingering taste of red wine upon your lips until you can no longer tell which of the two is truly affecting you.
The notion intrigues you, and you decide to indulge the game. Moistening your lips with another measured sip of wine, you subtly draw your chair a little closer to his, your body now turned entirely in his direction. Then, accompanying your words with a light gesture of your hand, you murmur, “Mm… it was quite a few years ago, at a sporting gala-” you begin, though you have neither the time nor the necessity to continue, for the sudden light that kindles in Jude’s eyes betrays the instant in which remembrance finally finds him. He nods, absent-mindedly cracking his fingers before continuing to toy with them. “Oooh. Right.”
His gaze drifts elsewhere, his expression softening into that unmistakable look of someone patiently piecing together an old memory, fragment by fragment. Yours, meanwhile, remains steadfastly fixed upon his hands, large and remarkably elegant, the prominent veins beneath his skin lending them an almost distracting beauty. You have to admit, they are exceedingly difficult to ignore. The way they flex as he interlaces his fingers, the absent-minded roll of his thumb across his knuckles… such an ordinary gesture, and yet you find yourself wondering what those very same hands might feel like were they ever to reach for you. You scarcely pause to question why you have been observing this man with such undisguised interest; you have already resigned yourself to the fact that, for this evening at least, thinking of anything other than him is likely to prove an impossible task. Yet the instant his lips part once more, you reluctantly return to reality, your gaze slipping from his again. “You were with your father… and you were wearing that little white dress…”
For the first time that evening, you find yourself utterly unable to suppress your laughter, drawing the attention of several guests seated nearby. Shaking your head, you lean a little closer towards him, whilst his broad, radiant smile becomes the undisputed centrepiece of his expression. “Oh, come now… you even remember what I was wearing?” Your back inclines ever so slightly, bringing your face nearer to his. The simple movement causes the neckline of your dress to dip by the smallest degree, the delicate necklaces resting against your skin shifting gracefully with it. From where he sits, his gaze lingers upon you for a moment longer than propriety might allow, wandering almost absent-mindedly from your eyes to the graceful, delicious curve of your neck before, unbidden, settling for the briefest instant upon the subtle glimpse of your décolletage revealed by your posture. The glance is fleeting, restrained, and yet it lingers just long enough for you to notice it. When at last his eyes rise to meet yours again, there is something altered within them; something quieter, heavier, as though he has only now become fully aware of just how little distance separates the two of you.
Then he settles back against the backrest of his chair once more, his expression effortlessly giving way to something altogether more knowing, more perilous. His long legs part again, though this time they come noticeably closer to yours, near enough that you can almost imagine the warmth radiating from him beneath the table. “Of course I do.” The faintest trace of a smirk touches the corner of his mouth, enough to tell you that he is perfectly aware you caught him looking. “You were already very beautiful.”
The smile that had so brightly illuminated your features disappears in an instant, replaced by undisguised astonishment and the unmistakable strawberry blush blooming across your cheeks. Almost instinctively, you straighten your posture, one hand rising to your face in a futile attempt to regain your composure, discreetly adjusting the neckline of your dress despite knowing perfectly well that it has not shifted in the slightest. Why? you ask yourself, your thoughts drawn to the sudden quickening of your heartbeat. You blame the wine, yet, in the quietest recesses of your mind, you know full well that it is not to blame. It is the way this man looks at you. Those dark, unfathomable eyes, in which it feels perilously easy to lose yourself, do not merely make you feel exposed — they make you feel desired. There exists an immeasurable difference between the two, and somehow he contrives to make you understand it without so much as laying a finger upon you. As though, amongst the hundreds of guests gathered within that magnificent room, his attention had settled upon you alone and had no intention whatsoever of wandering elsewhere. As though your name, your family, your standing in the world held no consequence in his eyes. As though all he desired… was you, if only for the span of a single evening.
Yet, just as you summon the courage to meet his gaze once more, a voice calling your name cleaves cleanly through the moment, dissolving the fragile enchantment that had settled between you and drawing you mercilessly back to the dreary reality you are obliged to endure each and every day. “Amore! Come here, come here!” he insists.
It has been a very long time indeed since you have experienced a frustration quite so profound. Your fingers clutch the wine glass in your hand with such force that you could almost shatter it into a thousand pieces, whilst, unable to bring yourself to grant Jude even the slightest glance on account of the embarrassment that has overtaken you, you lower your head and slowly rise from your chair to make your way towards your father’s. When you finally lift your gaze and offer him and his revolting companions the most insincere smile you can possibly muster, you notice that his face has by now assumed the colour of a ripe tomato, his eyes glazed and watery, and one hand repeatedly patting his knee as though summoning you to sit there. Besides producing it, your father takes considerable pleasure in drinking wine as well, and there would be nothing whatsoever objectionable about that were it not for the fact that, without fail, it renders him so utterly pathetic.
“Here is my precious little girl!” the man exclaims with an excessively theatrical flourish as he gathers you against his side with one arm, whilst your legs bear the entirety of your weight so that you need not lean fully against him. Then his voice lowers, becoming quiet enough that only you can hear him. “I’m glad you’re having fun with the lad. Good girl… I’m happy,” he murmurs, his words thickened by drink enough to draw an unmistakable expression of disgust across your features, whilst your eyes now search almost desperately for Jude’s, as though you wished to apologise for having fled from him without warning, severing so abruptly that heavy, palpable tension which had formed between you. Yet when, at last, your eyes find his, you realise that he had already been watching you long before you ever thought to look for him: half of his face concealed behind one hand, his posture entirely relaxed, and his gaze… curious. As though he were studying you. With his other hand, he drums his fingers insistently against the table, whilst your Adam’s apple becomes momentarily prominent as you swallow without meaning to, never once allowing your eyes to leave him. Hypnotic, is the only word that comes to mind. Your thighs draw instinctively together as your gaze travels slowly across the unmistakably sculpted breadth of his chest, before descending only slightly, just enough.
Yet when he indicates your father with the slightest inclination of his head and, without the faintest concern for being seen, rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, the gesture is so unexpectedly irreverent that it inevitably draws a smile from you, your cheeks taking on the faintest flush whilst your heart feels considerably lighter.
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“Amore? What does that mean?”
With reluctance bordering upon resignation, you have endured the same tiresome charade you know all too well, every speech delivered and concluded, every anecdote recounted with such tiresome familiarity that you have heard them so many times throughout your life that their repetition alone is enough to inspire a sense of nausea. Even tonight, each one has been performed with all the enthusiasm your father can muster before a long table of people who, in all likelihood, could scarcely care less. You have suppressed every booming peal of laughter, tolerated every tiresome jest, and answered each question directed towards you, assuming once more the role of the good and obedient daughter you have played for as long as you can remember. And when the conversation eventually wandered elsewhere, ceasing to include you and leaving you behind as though your presence had, all at once, become entirely inconsequential, you understood that your part in the evening had finally come to an end, and that even were you to rise from the table without offering a single word of explanation, your father would not think to reprimand you as he so often does. And so you did.
You took your leave in silence, your hands instinctively smoothing your hair as you made your way back towards him, and he, in turn, had waited for you without uttering a word. What followed was almost surreal in its immediacy, and almost absurd in its simplicity; scarcely had you returned to your chair and allowed your eyes to fall upon him when his hand was already closing gently around your knee, his thumb moving slowly over your skin with an almost torturous languor as he shifted towards you with an air of effortless nonchalance, his low, husky voice brushing against your ear, intimate and unmistakably meant for you alone, as he murmured for you to follow him to his guest suite. When, at last, you found the courage to meet his eyes, however, you discovered something entirely different from what you had anticipated — it was almost as though he had looked straight through you, discerning with a single glance that what you required was not conversation, nor explanation, but silence. Those eyes, so deep that one could lose oneself within them and wander there indefinitely without ever finding a way back, conveyed without the necessity of a single word that he was prepared to give you precisely that: everything you needed.
And so you followed him. His tall and commanding figure moves effortlessly through the myriad of people occupying the room, disregarding every curious murmur that follows in your wake until, at last, you reach a broad and almost imposing spiral staircase fashioned from pale marble, the irritating clamour of the gathering receding further and further with every step you take. Your hands glide gently along the smooth banister until you reach its end, and only then do you raise your eyes and allow yourself to take in your surroundings: the subdued lighting casts a faint glow across the expansive and atmospheric corridor, its walls adorned with innumerable doors, one of which is precisely the one through which you have fled without the slightest hesitation, placing your trust in him as though he were the sole person capable of rescuing you, some impossibly gallant prince upon a white horse. The comparison is almost embarrassingly naïve, and yet, beneath the muted lights of this secluded corridor, it does not seem quite so absurd as it ought to.
Upon entering the room, you scarcely spare a thought for your surroundings. The frantic beating of your heart is the only sound that reaches you, and your trembling legs carry you almost immediately towards the bed, where he quietly tells you to sit. Everything else appears to recede into an indistinct haze, as though the world beyond that threshold has been temporarily deprived of both sound and significance.
And now you are here, watching him as he lies upon the mattress beneath its immaculate white sheets, one hand caressing the leg you have raised until the heel of your shoe rests beside his chest, a faint, weary smile resting upon his features whilst his eyes remain fixed upon your lips, still glistening faintly with the remnants of wine. You incline your head to one side, one hand idly toying with the gleaming necklaces adorning your neck, and your voice finally rises now that the two of you are entirely alone. “It means ‘love.’ ‘Amore’, it’s Italian.” Since arriving in this room, filled with a fragrance both penetrating and exceedingly refined, all you have done is drink wine and explore one another’s minds and bodies, in a manner so intimate that you find yourself firmly persuaded that the understanding which has taken shape between you is something entirely unprecedented in your life. It is an intimacy of a peculiar sort, neither hurried nor demanding, but possessing instead the quiet certainty of something that has found its place without ever having been invited. And although you had anticipated an altogether different conclusion, having considered it almost inevitable that you would soon find yourself beneath him, the reality of what has unfolded pleases you far more than you could have expected. It is like a sudden breath of fresh air after having spent far too long in a room without windows, and you welcome it without hesitation.
The light cast by the various candles mounted upon the walls caresses Jude’s face, illuminating each of his magnificent features as though they had been fashioned for him alone. You watch as his brows draw together, and his expressive gaze returning to seek out your own. “And how do you know that?” He finishes the question with a quiet laugh, his fingers moving slowly across your skin at an even, unhurried rhythm, as though he wished to savour the sensation of you without yet sinking his teeth into the pale, delicate softness of your body. Your foot shifts faintly against his chest, still concealed beneath the black suit, almost as though you were answering his gentle, sensual caress in kind. “I’m half Italian. Didn’t you hear how terribly my father speaks English?” You return his laugh, your voice low and entirely spontaneous. There is something disarmingly intimate about the sound of the two of you laughing together in the quiet of the room, as though the world beyond its walls has ceased, for the moment, to exist.
“Indeed,” comes his immediate reply, accompanied by the faintest smile, his head now resting comfortably against the ornate and spectacular cream-coloured headboard of the bed, his neck left entirely exposed, where your eyes linger for a fleeting second. It is an almost absurdly inviting sight, made more so by the soft candlelight tracing the length of his throat and the relaxed elegance of his posture. Then, following the movement of his hand as he absent-mindedly adjusts the collar of his shirt, unbuttoned by two buttons, your gaze wanders lower, the alcohol and the intimacy that has taken shape between you granting you the courage to devour him with your eyes now without the slightest trace of shame. You allow your eyes to linger wherever they please, following the open line of his shirt, the suggestion of his chest beneath the loosened fabric, the broad contours of a body usually concealed beneath football kits and now, suddenly, within the private reach of your gaze. And when Jude notices, he grins, genuinely relishing every fragment of your attention. He decides to interrupt your feast by speaking once more, almost as though he means to provoke you, his deep voice breaking the silence, “So, are you here on holiday?”
The knowing, almost mischievous manner in which he interrupts you makes your eyes widen ever so slightly. You return your gaze to his and shrug. “More or less. We always come here during the summer.” You pause only long enough to finish the remainder of your wine, before leaning towards him and offering the glass to the dark-haired man, who accepts it without a word, your gaze never once leaving his as you settle back into your former position. It is such a spontaneous and natural gesture that it almost leaves you dizzy: this man seems capable of navigating every circumstance with effortless ease. “And you?” you continue, your foot, still encased within its heeled shoe, once again caressing his chest, though this time it gradually begins to drift lower, towards his stomach, your expression remaining perfectly impassive. You watch the prominent line of his Adam’s apple rise for a moment as he swallows, his fingers now still upon your leg, no longer dancing idly across your skin as they had only moments before, speaking more eloquently than any words could. When you finally invite him to answer with a sweet, almost angelic smile, he recovers himself, nodding his head whilst he bites thoughtfully at the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I’ve been here for almost a month.” His composure returns, but not entirely; something in the brief tension of his jaw betrays how closely he has been following your every movement.
“And I’ve only met you today?” you reply immediately, almost like a bullet, the expression of disappointment taking centre stage upon your features as your eyes wander elsewhere. You are not playing this time — you are genuinely, if only faintly, displeased, and that is because you have been trying for some time now to ignore the fact that this will be nothing more than a one-night affair, despite being perfectly aware of it. With your now free hand, you reach towards his leg and begin to caress it with the very tip of your index finger, your decorated nail barely grazing him as it moves slowly up and down whilst you murmur beneath your breath, “What a shame…”
Jude mirrors your change in demeanour, and every trace of the smirks that had dominated his features only moments before disappears from his face, his eyes following the slow movement of your fingers with unwavering attention and not the slightest hint of agitation, watching you as though you were some temptress so assured of herself that you might bring any man to the brink of losing his composure. The hand that had remained still upon your shin now closes around it almost involuntarily, his firm grasp making you feel, for the briefest moment, like a startled fawn caught in flight by its predator. “Yeah… it is a shame,” he murmurs, his voice having fallen a note lower, each syllable seeming almost to reverberate somewhere beneath your skin, and when his reluctant hand finally releases its hold only to turn its attention to your foot, delicately undoing the strap and removing the heel that encases it with a torturous slowness, you can feel the effect of it settle unmistakably between your thighs — you would never admit it aloud, but your heart has begun to beat just a little faster. As he slips the shoe from your foot with one hand, he continues, “But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve got to go back to playing.”
His almost puppy-like eyes seek yours once again, and the instant they do, you swallow, desperately attempting to gather yourself and return to your senses. It is not like you, anyone who knows you would tell you, to bend quite so readily to the wishes of a man. In this particular case, one might further add, a man who has scarcely done more than brush against you. Yet, eventually, you manage it, and consequently summon what might very well be described as the most spectacularly put-upon expression you have ever worn, your eyes rolling towards the ceiling whilst your beautiful lips part ever so slightly. There is something almost theatrically offended about the delicate curl of your features, an exaggerated display of indignation that does little to conceal the amusement quietly stirring beneath it. Your unabashed insolence draws an entirely natural little laugh from the man, who leans fractionally closer towards you with his upper body, though only after taking a moment to study you. “What? What did I say?” One eyebrow rises as he gives the slightest shake of his head, his expression carrying that unmistakable mixture of innocence and quiet amusement which makes it increasingly difficult for you to remain genuinely annoyed with him.
A small smile tugs at your lips, and, determined to conceal it from him, you choose instead to escape his gaze and rise abruptly to your feet. You turn your back to him as you settle upon the edge of the elegant, immense bed, hurriedly removing the other heel to which he had not yet had the opportunity to pay any attention, your soft, silken hair brushing delicately against your shoulders and concealing perfectly the amused expression adorning your face. The faint, lingering warmth in your cheeks betrays you far more readily than your hair ever could, but fortunately he cannot see it. When, at last, you toss the shoe towards some indeterminate corner of the floor, you allow yourself to fall back onto the bed beside him, your arms gathered loosely across your stomach as you close your eyes and simply sigh. For one moment — one solitary, fleeting moment — you convince yourself that this must be what peace feels like. A quiet, almost luxurious reprieve from the relentless noise of the evening, from expectations, from everyone who has demanded something of you. You decide to return your attention to him — his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon you are more than sufficient to persuade you. “No, I was only thinking that I could never be a footballer’s woman,” you whisper, shifting awkwardly and somewhat wearily onto your side so that you can look directly into his face. You notice the manner in which his gaze so often travels slowly over your entire body, his own figure naturally shifting nearer to yours and his hand seeking you out once again, settling delicately upon your inviting hip, where his fingers begin to toy with you, because he knows that he may. The touch is deceptively gentle, almost idle, yet there is something unmistakably possessive in its familiarity, as though he has already discovered a privilege neither of you has thought to name.
Then, quite suddenly, something subtly more challenging enters his gaze, whilst his voice finally fills the silence between you. “Not even mine?”
You, on the other hand, merely smile. “You’re a footballer… so, no.”
“True…” he begins, his hand moving with deliberate intelligence from your hip to the small of your back, drawing you perilously closer to him, “but I assure you, I would still know how to give you attention.” The words are deceptively simple, yet the quiet certainty with which he delivers them sends a delicate shiver through you. Your breathing begins to mingle, becoming almost indistinguishable from one another when you find yourselves face to face, his fingers grazing your fragile, pale body still concealed beneath the elegant fabric of your dress with such extraordinary tenderness that it is almost as though he fears you might fracture beneath his touch. Every movement is measured, almost reverent, the contrast between his considerable strength and the exquisite care with which he handles you making the intimacy all the more arresting. And yet the body does not lie: you can only presume that he truly has an immense desire to make you his from the way his jaw tightens, and from the manner in which his gaze has suddenly become sharper, darker, almost ravenous.
His strong, cool, unmistakably masculine fragrance invades your senses without so much as asking permission, mingling with the warmth radiating from his body which, together with the alcohol slowly coursing through your veins, would be more than enough to make you lose your senses entirely. Those eyes, fixed upon yours with such unwavering, almost arresting intensity that it seems as though he were silently pleading with you to surrender to every instinct you possess, suddenly leave you feeling stripped of every responsibility, every inhibition, and almost wickedly liberated for having finally managed to escape the role you have been condemned to play, the one you have despised with every fibre of your being. Unable to conceal the unmistakable flush spreading delicately across your face, you close your eyes and inhale, your breath coming out in a faint, trembling exhalation, like a beautifully contained time bomb on the verge of detonation, a subtle smile touching your lips when you realise that you have managed to coax one from Jude in return.
The manner in which you are slowly yielding to him, without even managing to summon the strength to contradict him, makes him look almost victorious, and it is perhaps precisely this knowledge that encourages him to move only the slightest distance closer, enough for your foreheads finally to brush against one another and for his fingers to travel more freely across your immaculate little body, descending slowly from the graceful arch of your back until they reach your buttocks, not yet gripping them or leaving their mark, merely caressing them with deliberate, maddening tenderness. Your expression changes in response, becoming almost pained, your sigh now somewhat more breathless as your eyes finally flutter open and lose themselves within his once again, and again. Then, once more, it is your voice that colours the room. “And I’m supposed to trust you?” you whisper, the characteristic confidence that has always belonged so firmly to you not yet entirely abandoned despite how astonishingly, almost helplessly vulnerable this man has managed to make you feel.
But your carefully constructed fortress of certainty collapses the instant Jude releases the most sensual, low little laugh in response, his warm, toned, imposing body shifting against yours, gradually invading every inch of your space until he can remain above you, whilst you instinctively move beneath him in turn, almost as though your body has begun obeying each unspoken command before your mind has even had the opportunity to object. His broad, powerful arms imprison you from either side, one knee slipping, with almost calculated cunning, between your shapely thighs, whilst his head soon finds refuge within the delicate hollow of your neck, breathing in your sweet fragrance as though he might memorise it. Your heartbeat begins to lose its steady rhythm, becoming erratic beneath your ribs, and the reason is painfully clear: you can feel the perfect curve of his smile pressing against the fragile skin of your neck, close to your exposed shoulder, whilst his hands descend to cradle your hips with a quiet, unmistakable possessiveness. The intimacy of the position is almost dizzying, his weight above you and his warmth surrounding you making the rest of the grand, elegant room seem impossibly distant, as though the world beyond the two of you had ceased to exist. “Come on… you’re already doing it…”
When his voice reverberates through your mind, everything suddenly becomes crystalline, your arms finally surrendering as they encircle his back and your bodies fitting together with an almost uncanny perfection, as though some invisible hand had designed you to occupy precisely this space beside one another. Almost as though you had silently whispered a yes to him, the man gradually moves his face in search of yours, and in his eyes you can now discern something perilously close to desperation, something that suddenly makes you want to yield to his wishes for as long as he might require. It is no longer merely confidence that you see there, but something darker and far more vulnerable, an urgency carefully restrained beneath that otherwise composed exterior, as though even he were beginning to lose his grip on the exquisite composure he had maintained until now. His head tilts to one side as he finally reaches your lips, one of his large hands travelling slowly across your body to caress one side of your pale, delicate face with such exquisite tenderness that, for the briefest moment, it almost seems as though he fears you might break beneath his touch before, at last, he joins his lips to yours.
Your fingers suddenly tighten within the fabric of his jacket as you taste his large, impossibly soft lips, his tongue immediately entering your mouth and gently coaxing it open before intertwining with yours slowly, without insistence, almost as though, contrary to everything his body is revealing to you, he were in no particular hurry at all. His taste, mingled with that of the wine, floods your body and your mind, your chests now pressed intimately together, and the contact draws a faint, involuntary murmur from you almost immediately when your already sensitive nipples brush against him, though they remain concealed beneath the fabric. Jude, for his part, swallows your sound entirely as he continues to slowly devour your mouth, his breathing growing heavier and his arms moving behind your back to lift you just enough for him to find the zip of your dress. There is something profoundly sensual in the effortless strength with which he moves you, in the quiet certainty with which your body seems to yield beneath his hands, and you find the sensation almost indecently gratifying, far more than you would ever willingly admit aloud.
You allow him to handle you precisely as he pleases, surrendering to the quiet authority of his touch, and only reluctantly draw away from him so that you may lend a hand to his already occupied fingers, helping him out of your dress with a certain haste whilst never once breaking the spell of his gaze. When you are left clad in nothing but the delicate black lace lingerie beneath it, your attention turns instead to divesting him of his own clothes, whilst his eyes roam leisurely over your body with a hunger so profound that you cannot imagine even a thousand nights such as this ever being enough to sate it. When he is finally stripped of his outer garments before you, you cannot help but pause for a moment, allowing yourself the luxury of simply looking at him: his sculpted chest rises and falls beneath the strain of his uneven breathing, whilst his broad, heavily veined thighs bear his weight as he settles over you once more, the unmistakable length of him, still confined beneath his boxers, pressing firmly against your thigh. His dark, troubled, almost unbearably handsome eyes find yours again, and there is something so nakedly expressive in them that words would be almost superfluous; they speak for him with an eloquence of their own, telling you, with disarming clarity, that he wants you.
And so, without granting yourself even the pretence of hesitation, you wind your arms around his broad back once more and draw him towards you, seeking him with the desperate hunger of someone who has been deprived for far too long, whilst your fingertips revel in the warm, unadorned strength of his muscles beneath them. When his mouth finds yours again, there is a different quality to the kiss this time, deeper and considerably more impassioned, almost feverish in its intensity, his large hands closing around your impossibly small waist with such possessive strength that your breath catches for a fleeting second. Your body aches for him, and his aches for you; your back arches almost imperceptibly as your bodies meet and brush against one another for the briefest of moments.
A muffled moan escapes him, swallowed immediately by your lips, whilst one of his hands slips from your waist and begins its unhurried descent along your leg, teasing you with exquisite, deliberate patience until it reaches precisely the place where you need his touch most. When he notices your thighs instinctively parting beneath his hand, he makes no attempt to resist the temptation, allowing a single finger to trace the delicate edge of your underwear, the gesture drawing a soft, involuntary whimper from you whilst your tongues continue their languorous, intimate dance. Then, without permitting you even another moment of anticipation, his hand slips beneath the lace with practised ease, and the moment he begins to touch you with such exquisite delicacy, he discovers just how thoroughly aroused you already are, despite the fact that he has barely begun. The discovery draws a quiet, almost wicked laugh from him against your lips and, although you would dearly like to retaliate, the faint irritation previously written across your features gives way to something perilously close to desperation, your nails sinking into his skin as his fingers move with assured precision in slow, measured circles over your aching centre.
Unable to follow the rhythm he has so effortlessly established, your tongue eventually falls still, leaving only your soft, breathless moans to betray precisely what he is doing to you. The extraordinary delicacy with which he grazes your skin almost convinces you that he has somehow deciphered the secret language of your body already — that he understands precisely how it responds, what it yearns for, and which fleeting sensations are capable of bringing you perilously close to losing yourself. He continues to tease you with nothing more than the tips of his fingers, whilst his other hand tightens still further, if such a thing is possible, around your hip, his palm fitting with almost unnerving perfection against the warmth of your skin.
When his fingers descend to attend to your aching, needy entrance, your back arches instinctively, your mouth breaking away from his only to disappear against the warmth of his neck, your lips damp with the remnants of his kiss and your eyes falling helplessly shut. Every movement is unhurried, deliberate, almost exquisitely torturous, as though he has decided that this moment ought to be drawn out for as long as either of you can possibly endure. Jude remains attentive throughout; he watches you, listens to the silent, involuntary language of your body, and registers just how desperately you crave him, how his touch is gradually dismantling the immaculate façade of the good girl you have been obliged to wear until now, peeling it away layer by layer until there is nothing left but the woman you have kept hidden beneath it.
He decides to experiment, slowly tracing one finger along your aching entrance before allowing it to travel back towards your clitoris. Your response is immediate: your body contracts instinctively around nothing, almost as though it were pleading for the emptiness to be filled, whilst your breathing grows increasingly uneven when you hear the low grunt that escapes Jude. The length of him, still imprisoned beneath his boxers, throbs insistently against your thigh. Then comes his voice, low and rough now, entirely stripped of the teasing amusement that had coloured it only moments before, so altered that it seems almost unfamiliar. “Fuck…”
The realisation that you have managed to bring him this perilously close to surrender, that you are the very reason he is now fighting desperately to maintain what little restraint remains to him despite needing you every bit as fiercely as you need him, pleases you far more than you could ever have anticipated. And so you decide to return the attention he has been lavishing upon you and, without even the faintest trace of embarrassment, one of your hands — still loosely curled around his neck — begins a slow descent, your fingertips travelling deliberately over the sculpted planes of his chest, feeling the taut muscles flex beneath your touch.
His head lifts by the slightest degree, granting you a fleeting glimpse of the way his eyes roll upwards when your fingers venture lower still, seeking the final remaining barrier between your hand and him. And when you are finally able to close your hand around him, feeling the considerable hardness beneath your palm as you stroke him and offer him the attention he so evidently craves, Jude releases a low, profoundly sensual moan that draws an involuntary arch from your back. His fingers begin to move with maddening slowness, deliberately denying you the very point of pleasure you crave whilst you, in turn, devote yourself entirely to him. You cannot endure the anticipation any longer: you need him with such aching desperation that you are beginning to fear you might simply lose your mind.
You can feel him throbbing within you, bare and impossibly deep, whilst every low, sensual sound that escapes him — never crude, never graceless — reaches your ears like some dark, intoxicating strain of music. Your gleaming silver and diamond necklaces rise and fall in an unwavering rhythm against your porcelain skin, whilst your manicured nails sinking desperately into the mattress beneath you offer Jude all the confirmation he could possibly require that he has succeeded in driving you entirely out of your mind. When his hold upon your jaw grows firmer still and his unoccupied hand ventures dangerously towards the inside of your thigh, he returns to tormenting you with his voice. “Couldn’t stop looking at me downstairs, could you?” His gaze remains unwaveringly fixed upon you, those deep, chocolate-brown eyes refusing to miss so much as a second of the magnificent spectacle unfolding beneath him. Without even granting you sufficient time to formulate an answer, his thumb finally finds your clitoris and begins lavishing it with relentless attention, his thrusts becoming deeper now, almost calculated in their precision. You cannot bear it any longer: instinctively, your head sinks backwards into the pillow, leaving the delicate column of your throat entirely exposed as your eyes roll helplessly upwards, his hand descending in response to settle lower against your neck, though never tightening around it. The command arrives only once he has taken a moment to admire the vulnerable line you have so thoughtlessly offered him. “Look at me.”
“F-fuck, Jude… don’t s-stop…” Broken cries of pleasure punctuate every curse that leaves your lips, your hand instinctively seeking out his arm, hard, powerful and almost indecently muscular beneath your fingertips, before beginning to caress it with the lightest touch. Your hips tilt towards him once again as you feel yourself drawing ever nearer to the gates of heaven, and your eyes obey his request, returning to seek his — this time carrying an expression of such complete surrender that scarcely anything remains of the woman who had so confidently challenged him only hours before. “That’s better,” he murmurs in response, his assured, composed façade wavering almost imperceptibly beneath your touch, so strikingly at odds with the control he continues to exercise over you, his jaw clenching whilst his rhythm falters for the briefest moment. And because you have spent the entire evening learning him just as diligently as he has learnt you, the tiny betrayal does not escape your notice. Absorbing this newfound knowledge, you decide you have no intention of remaining passive: your caresses become more deliberate, tracing the prominent veins along his arm, your nails scarcely grazing them as your voice rises only fractionally. His response, however, is impossible to mistake; the way his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls backwards tells you precisely how deeply your touch affects him. A groan, richer and deeper than those preceding it, escapes him before his voice does, his movements slowing considerably as he breathes through clenched teeth, “Should’ve found you… a few weeks earlier...”
Your legs return to encircle his back when, offering nothing further beyond a handful of fractured murmurs, he allows the considerable weight of his body to descend upon yours, his face seeking refuge once more within the hollow of your neck whilst your back arches and your lips fall open as he settles completely within you and remains perfectly still. His hands, languid and faintly trembling now, wander tenderly over your body, beginning at the sides of your thighs, where his grasp briefly tightens, his uneven breath feathering warmly against your ear and coaxing your eyes closed in response. The sudden stillness feels almost more intimate than the movement that preceded it, leaving you acutely conscious of every point at which his body meets yours. When your hand wanders upwards and finds his hair, your fingers beginning to stroke gently through it, his body gradually relaxes against you, making a visible effort not to move. “Thought you said you didn’t trust me,” he murmurs eventually, the words accompanied by a small, thoroughly self-satisfied smirk, his lips beginning to savour the skin of your shoulder whilst your fingers tighten faintly in his hair. “Shut up…” you answer, your toes curling involuntarily beneath the overwhelming sensation of him — of feeling so utterly full, so entirely his.
Since the moment the two of you surrendered to one another, your carefully maintained façade has fallen away; and yet, at precisely the same time, you have become unexpectedly more vulnerable, as though every touch of his both scorches your skin and sends you helplessly into rapture. And Jude adores it, the manner in which you have finally succumbed yourself to him completely, no longer even attempting to argue when resistance has so plainly become futile. Perhaps what pleases him most is the contradiction of you: the sharp-tongued, self-assured woman from downstairs reduced now to this softer, breathless version of herself without ever ceasing to be recognisably you. A quiet laugh leaves him before his next whisper does, whilst his hand finds yours and gently entwines your fingers, touching them with such extraordinary care that one might think they were fashioned from glass. “What happened to all that attitude, amore?”
A small, instinctively self-satisfied smile tugs at your lips, standing in almost wicked contrast to the way your cunt has begun to clench around him so insistently that a low, involuntary groan escapes Jude and disappears somewhere amongst your hair. Your legs tighten their hold around him, locking more securely across the broad, muscular expanse of his back whilst you make every possible effort to sound perfectly unaffected when you answer him, though the relentless pulse of his cock buried deep within you renders the endeavour almost laughable. You conceal your face against his, seeking refuge in that closeness as though it might somehow disguise just how thoroughly he has dismantled you, and when your voice finally reaches him it is low and soft, almost a caress in itself. “Sounded awful.”
His fingers close more firmly around yours, and you can feel the smile spreading against your skin before you can even see it. “Yeah?” he murmurs, the single syllable carrying an infuriating trace of amusement, his hips beginning once more to move with slow, deliberate purpose as he turns his head in search of your face.
“Terrible,” you insist, your devastated, almost imploring eyes wandering helplessly over him whilst your back arches fractionally beneath his body and your fingers bury themselves more deeply into his hair. The conviction of the word is rather spectacularly betrayed by everything else about you.
When he turns completely towards you and rests his faintly perspiring forehead against yours, his body presses deeply into you once again, stealing the breath from your lungs with the assistance of the knowing, mischievous grin now inhabiting his lips. “Worked, though, didn’t it?” Your entire body begins to tremble beneath the command of his, and your voice follows suit, increasingly unsteady and threaded with curses, his name slipping from your lips so many times that you swiftly lose count. You hear every delicious sound he makes, every fractured, misplaced breath, every precise instant in which, even if only for a heartbeat, he appears dangerously close to losing control altogether. Your bodies, now slick and inseparably pressed together, move against one another within passion’s feverish embrace as he continues to take you, driving himself into you with a rhythm that bears scarcely any resemblance to the careful restraint with which he began.
You feel almost weightless, as though heaven itself has descended sufficiently close for you to reach out and touch it, whilst your fingers travel feverishly over every part of him they can find; from his face to the strong line of his neck, and from the breadth of his back to his chest, which contracts beneath your touch and reminds you, deliciously, of precisely how much power you now possess over him, just as he possesses over you. The way he touches you, the way he moves with you, never feels crude — for perhaps the first time in your life, you have the overwhelming impression that the person with whom you are sharing a night genuinely desires your pleasure rather than merely his own, and the discovery is so intoxicating that you can already imagine becoming addicted to it. There is generosity even in his hunger, a strange tenderness woven through the very thing that ought to feel purely carnal, and perhaps that contradiction is what threatens to undo you most completely. The lingering fragrance of the wine you consumed earlier mingles with the warmth and scent of your bodies whilst sounds at once indecent and strangely beautiful replace the distant murmur of the thousands of guests scattered throughout the rooms surrounding you, every one of them blissfully ignorant of the exquisite little world you and this man have created behind a closed door.
His hips continue to move against yours whilst your own rise instinctively to meet him more perfectly, your body tangled with his and yielding however he requires in pursuit of pleasure as his movements grow quicker, almost wild now, your eyes locked together like precious stones set permanently into place. The sight of your parted lips and the naked lust written so unmistakably across your expression draws a rough sound from Jude, his eyes closing in response before his voice emerges every bit as unsteady as yours. “You close, baby?” His gaze returns to you immediately afterwards, plainly searching for an answer, and he finds one in the way you look at him: your brows drawn upwards almost painfully, your beautifully ruined face nodding again and again whilst your mouth proves incapable of producing anything resembling a word beyond helpless moans. His Adam’s apple shifts prominently as he swallows, keeping you open beneath him whilst he continues to fill you. “Where d’you want me?” he whispers a moment later, his fingers now crushing yours tightly enough to coax some semblance of an answer from you. “D-don’t pull out,” you breathe, the strength abandoning the thighs that had held him so securely only moments earlier as they begin to tremble. “You sure?” You simply nod, because little else remains within your power beyond whimpering and crying out, your face disappearing into the shelter of his neck whilst your heart seems determined to break free from your ribcage altogether.
As his own moans become increasingly frequent and disappear against your skin, your hips begin to move in perfect pursuit of each of his deep, rapid thrusts, your breath fracturing, your cunt milking him desperately whilst your arms tighten with almost desperate strength around his back as you finally reach your climax, preparing yourself to take everything he has to give you. “J-Jude…!”
The sheer desperation with which you come undone because of him proves the final thing capable of driving him beyond the limits of his remaining restraint, his thighs and hips working almost like pistons whilst one of his hands digs firmly into your side, holding you perfectly still exactly where he wants you. For the first time since he laid his hands upon you, every last vestige of that maddening self-possession finally deserts him. “Ah, fuck — f-fuck…” Without even stopping, he surrenders himself completely to every instinct consuming him and, with several deep, powerful thrusts, fills your tight cunt entirely with his hot, thick release, his cock twitching helplessly inside you as he continues fucking you through the lingering waves of your orgasm.
────୨ৎ────
His body begins to move with ever-diminishing urgency until, little by little, he falls completely still against you, remaining close as though scarcely possessing the strength to separate himself from the warmth of your body. Exhaustion and bliss seem to have reduced him to little more than uneven breaths and languid weight, his broad chest rising heavily with every attempt his lungs make to recover some semblance of composure. The formidable strength which had seemed so inexhaustible only moments before has deserted him almost entirely now, leaving behind something softer, quieter, strangely human. Silence reclaims dominion over the room, broken only by the erratic cadence of your hearts, neither of them apparently capable of remembering how one is supposed to beat with anything resembling order.
Somewhere beyond the tall, closed windows, Tuscany has long since surrendered the last remnants of its sunset to the night; the countryside beyond the villa lies invisible beneath a velvet darkness, whilst inside, the golden candlelight continues to tremble lazily across the ornate walls, catching upon carved mouldings, gilded details and the abandoned crystal glasses of wine as though nothing of any consequence has happened at all.
For several long seconds, neither of you seems to possess either the strength or the inclination to disturb that exquisite stillness. Jude remains surrendered against you, his face concealed within the hollow of your neck, his warm breath gradually becoming less laboured where it spills across your skin. The room smells faintly of extinguishing wax, expensive cologne, wine and the lingering warmth of two bodies that have spent far too long entwined beneath immaculate sheets now hopelessly disturbed. Even the distant wedding seems to have grown quieter, or perhaps, you have simply forgotten how to listen for it. It is almost amusing to consider that only a handful of hours ago you had scarcely heard the true sound of his voice, and that now the weight of his body against yours feels curiously, dangerously natural. As though he has occupied this place beside you for considerably longer than a single evening. As though your body, traitorous thing that it is, has already learnt the shape of his.
Your fingers, still resting against the nape of his neck, begin almost unconsciously to wander through his hair again, though this time there is no mischief whatsoever behind the gesture, no calculated provocation, and no desire to discover another weakness of his. It is merely tenderness, simple, absent-minded and perhaps therefore considerably more intimate than anything you had intended to give him tonight. And perhaps it is precisely that innocence which draws a low, satisfied hum from somewhere deep within his chest. You feel his smile against your neck before you ever see it, his languid fingers imitating your own as they resume their gentle exploration of your skin, tracing meaningless little paths as though touch has become a habit neither of you is quite prepared to relinquish. His thumb passes once over your side, then again, with no destination and no purpose beyond the quiet reassurance that you are still there. After another moment, Jude finally summons enough strength to lift his face, only sufficiently to look at you properly. His eyes travel over the ruin the evening has made of you: your hair now irretrievably disordered and scattered across the pristine pillow, your lips reddened and still bearing the lingering evidence of his kisses, your necklaces lying crooked against your chest, and that exhausted expression which must surely mirror his own. The candlelight catches upon the faint sheen of perspiration along his brow and the tired heaviness of his eyelids, softening features which had appeared almost arrogantly immaculate when you first noticed him downstairs. For the first time since meeting him, exhaustion appears to have robbed him of every trace of that amused, effortless confidence with which he has tormented you throughout the evening. “You alright?” he murmurs simply, his dark, tired eyes searching yours with an attentiveness that somehow feels more exposing than all his earlier staring.
An exhausted smile immediately creases your lips. “Mhm.”
“Sure?” His brows lift by the smallest degree, evidently unconvinced, and despite yourself you find the concern almost unbearably endearing.
“Ask me again when I can actually think.”
The laugh that escapes him is low and still faintly breathless, more vibration than sound where your bodies remain pressed together, and for reasons you cannot quite explain it succeeds in making your own smile broaden. “Fair enough.”
The candles continue their slow consumption against the walls, rivulets of ivory wax gathering beneath wavering flames, and without the feverish urgency which, until only minutes ago, had transformed this bedroom into a private universe entirely detached from everything beyond its doors, you suddenly become conscious of just how late the hour has grown. A draught you had failed to notice before disturbs one of the flames upon the opposite wall, sending shadows briefly dancing over the elaborate ceiling; somewhere far below, muffled beyond stone, marble and innumerable corridors, a piano is still being played for guests who presumably remain immaculate, composed and entirely unaware of you. Reality — the same reality Jude had so magnificently enabled you to forget for several precious hours — begins inevitably to creep back towards the margins of your thoughts, unwelcome, merciless and impossible to keep outside forever. Your father will still exist when you descend those marble stairs, and the wedding will still be taking place. Your surname, your obligations, the future everyone has so meticulously arranged on your behalf... all of it waits downstairs with the patience of something certain you must eventually return. You lower your gaze towards Jude’s hand, resting with such unthinking familiarity upon your waist that the sight of it produces a peculiar little ache somewhere beneath your ribs. And, without entirely understanding why you care to know the answer quite so much, a question escapes your lips before pride has the opportunity to prevent it. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
For several seconds, Jude says nothing. The question seems to settle between you, unexpectedly heavier than its few harmless words have any right to be. Then, almost as though determined to reclaim your wandering attention, his fingers tighten gently against your skin.
“I’m not.”
Your heart misses a beat, whilst your breath catches despite yourself for one fleeting, humiliating second. Something dangerously close to relief blooms inside you before common sense can intervene, so immediate that you resent yourself for it almost at once. Your brows draw together and you immediately turn your face towards him, searching his expression with considerably more urgency than you would ever willingly confess to. “What?”
But then, mercifully dragging you back to reality, that damned shadow of a smile finally returns to his lips, wicked, magnificent, and achingly familiar now. “Day after tomorrow. Remember?”
“Oh.”
“Sound disappointed.”
You roll your eyes and return with stubborn determination to studying the ornate ceiling, as though he has already exhausted every last measure of your patience. One particularly elaborate gilded flourish suddenly becomes fascinating enough to warrant your undivided attention. “I was hoping I’d only have to put up with you once.”
“Yeah, course you were.”
And there it is again. That same insufferably self-assured, thoroughly amused tone which had made you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure only a few hours earlier. Strangely enough, hearing it again feels almost like the restoration of some natural order between you. You desperately attempt to prevent the smile threatening to betray you, pressing your lips together with an effort that fools precisely no one. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Bit late for that.”
“Insufferable.”
Jude chuckles, drawing you fractionally closer as though the possibility that you might genuinely wish to go anywhere has not so much as occurred to him, before pressing one final, lazy kiss into your dishevelled hair. Outside the bedroom, the wedding carries on without you: another distant swell of music, the muted clink of crystal, footsteps disappearing along some faraway corridor. Inside, nothing moves with any urgency at all. The candles burn lower, your abandoned heels remain exactly where they fell and his hand remains comfortably intertwined with yours upon the ruined white sheets.
In the morning, perhaps, all of this will acquire consequences. You will remember who you are supposed to be; he will remember the life waiting for him beyond these hills, and the enchanted little interval you have stolen from the world will become something finite, something with an ending. But morning has not arrived yet. And, for once in your life, you find no reason whatsoever to hurry towards it. “You’ve got another day to get used to it, love.”
