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He’s leaning forward, hands splayed on the oak table as Cosimo was unsure why he called out for his wife in the first place. Her name left his lips like a plea for something he didn’t know yet, a wish to make her stay even though he knew he’d crossed the line with that reply of his.
‘Don’t let things with her end the way they ended with your father’
‘You can tell her that if she’s concerned about dying without my affections that she can beg her forgiveness whenever she chooses’
It was a sequence of events, to be fair. The removal of her hand from his face, the harshness that soon washed him over and then how easily he seemed to forget how his mother had driven a wedge in their marriage when it had barely initiated.
They made a wordless promise, didn’t they? That they wouldn’t let her come in between them, that he wouldn’t make it harder than it already was and she would trust him, not the vile sentences spilled against him. Surely the woman stuck to that agreement, yet he forgot his own part more often than either would care to openly admit.
Had this been the beginning of their marriage, perhaps, the younger brunette would insist, would try and find an immediate fix for things as she’d never been one to leave a thread untied. But then the time had passed between then and now, so she had learned quite well the best way to deal with his demons.
Thus, it was no surprise when the father of one retreated from the table and moved after her — after she’d become a ghost in the room and he was left with the emptiness that he brought on them once again.
Not today, no.
Thuds of his boots were on the stones of the ground as he moved down the corridor, only to take in how she was reaching the spiral of the staircase that would lead her back to their family. Sapphires reflected the gentle shade of her dress, the curve of her hands as she gripped the material in order not to trip on the steps.
Then he reached her. Only found that he had closed the gap between them because his hand burned on her forearm and the blues of her dress turned into the emeralds of her sight — a confused expression that soon morphed into a hint of elation for he had followed her instead of simply letting go of her.
“I—”, the man tried out, tongue dampening his lips immediately as he tried to make sense of the words.
To speak in front of a thousand men, to make the Signoria hear him or to seal a good deal for the prosperity of the Medici bank, Cosimo could be considered a master of those arts. When it came to his wife, though, it appeared to him that all things faltered and he either would be stuck on her name or a few vowels or unfinished sentences or even unnecessary vernicles.
Contessina had learned how to acknowledge that, how to stand in silence with a pulse of encouragement in her delicate features. Did not save him from the sudden dry quality of his throat, from the manner he would hold onto her forearm for longer until he cupped her cheek and swept her in a kiss.
To have her melt in his arms, fall perfectly in place as she gasped into his mouth and maybe whimpered too. Her petite touch on his strong arm as they held onto each other in that moment of sincerity — so this posed to be his apology for the fury lashed out on her, no?
They were not ones to indulge in further than a simple exchange in public, but as the corridor remained silent and all others were downstairs, the banker pulled her frame up to him and closer. Relished in the dainty sound of pleasure in the back of her throat when his fingers slid to grip onto the back of her neck ( which surely would leave her hair in disarray, or so he though when she pulled away from him ).
Chests heaved in search to recollect their breaths; distance still minimal despite how they stood on different grounds of the stair set.
“Contessina—”, he tried again, only to fail better this time when she shook her head in advance.
“I know, Cosimo”, because she did, as a matter of facts, despite how it still somewhat unsettled him that someone knew him well-enough to grasp the nuances of his difficult persona. “What’s in the past, is in the past. . . haven’t we decided that?”
A nod of his head, a quiet assent as he moved the hand on the back of her neck to brush her bottom lip and remove the smudge of tint that remained from their moment of heat. If his family was not waiting downstairs for one of them to return, he might have tugged his wife along to that near corridor on top of the staircase ( might have taken her right then and there, hoping none would find them intertwined as lovers ).
“In case your mind finds less trouble and you prefer to listen, I’m sure that would lift the weight from your back”, so on it was her turn to rub the sore spot in the junction between neck and shoulder, slide a hand inside his top and chemise in order to reach his proper skin.
“You are not making it easier to listen, woman”, and for a moment her sight darted up to find a barely there smirk and a blaze to his sight that she hadn’t caught until then.
Hence, she grew taller — a darkness to her that met his and she wondered if the corridor was indeed empty as their thoughts echoed like one. That lingering grip on each other’s arm, that stare contest which seemed to last for as long as they were tempted to give into the licks of fire, sizzling between them at the moment.
Her breath grew in shakiness, and he held his air back because it certainly made things harder. Contessina had a certain scent that he found intoxicating, a particular wrap to her that was unique and reminded him of the manner he had pressed his face to her flesh a while ago now, savored the sweetness of her femininity.
If anything, with the passage of the years, he’d grown accustomed to the idea that one of the sins he found no salvation from was the all-consuming lust whenever they were to share the bed as man and wife. That was why he let his mind wander, why he begged for forgiveness in a silent and physical approach instead of seeking useless concoctions.
“I make all things easier on you, my love”, a playful roll of eyes, momentarily grounding the situation regardless of how her hands clasped his forearms as though her balance depended on it. “Should I willingly choose to make them harder, you wouldn’t survive a day”.
A whiff of chuckle on his part, amusement at her boldness and her perspicacity. Those were common themes that he could tell of the noblewoman, from the moment they first met and up until this date.
But before he could break that sheer instant of understanding, it was Marco Bello’s voice to thunder on the pillars and walls until the brunette pair looked down and towards him. Greens sought his blues again, almost as if according that she should tag along, and so on their basking turned back into the thuds of his boots and the grip on her dress from the beginning.
As if it had never been.