Damaso Claims His Heir. Annie West
his name and a shiver of anticipation raced under his skin. Would she sound so cool and composed when he held her naked beneath him? He didn’t know which he’d prefer, that or the sound of her voice husky with pleasure. ‘I haven’t visited many of the cities.’ She reached out and picked a leaf off his open collar. The back of her fingers brushed his neck and his breath stalled.
A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes told him the lingering touch had been deliberate. Siren!
‘My birthplace isn’t on anyone’s must-see list.’ Now there was an understatement.
‘You surprise me. I hear you’re something of a legend in business circles. Surely they’ll be putting up a sign saying “Damaso Pires was born here”?’
He plucked a twig from her hair and twirled it between his fingers. No need to tell her no one had any idea where exactly he’d been born, or whether there’d even been a roof for protection.
‘Ah, but I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.’
She blinked, her mouth thinning for an infinitesimal moment, so that he wondered if he’d blundered in some way. Then she shrugged and smiled and he lost his train of thought when she took the twig from his fingers, her hand deliberately caressing his. That light touch drew his skin tight across his bones as lust flared.
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she smiled from under veiled eyes as if sharing a salacious secret. ‘But silver spoons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’
With a quick twist of the wrist he captured her hand in his. Silence throbbed between them, a silence heavy with unspoken promise. Something kindled in her eyes. She returned his hungry look, not resorting to coyness.
‘I like the way you face challenges head-on,’ he found himself admitting, then frowned. Usually he measured his words carefully. They didn’t just shoot out.
‘I like the fact you don’t care about my social status.’
Her hand shifted in his hold, her thumb stroking his. It pleased him that she didn’t pretend disinterest, or lunge at him desperately. The sense of a delicate balance between them added a delicious tension to the moment.
‘It’s not your title I’m interested in, Marisa.’ Her name tasted even better the second time. Damaso leaned forward, eager for the taste of her on his tongue, then stopped himself. This wasn’t the place.
‘You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.’ She planted her palm on his shirt and his heart leapt into overdrive. It felt as if she’d branded him.
Tension screwed his body tight. He wanted her now and, given the way her fingers splayed possessively on him, her lips parting with her quickened breathing, she felt the same.
He wanted to take her here, hard and fast and triumphantly. Except instinct told him he’d need more than one quick taste to satisfy this craving.
How had he resisted her for a whole week?
‘Perhaps you could tell me on the way back down exactly what you are interested in, Damaso.’
He snagged her hand in his again and turned her towards the rough track leading away from the cliff. Her fingers linked with his, shooting erotic pleasure through him that felt in some strange way almost innocent. How long since he’d simply held a woman’s hand?
* * *
Marisa towel-dried her hair while looking out at her private courtyard in the luxurious eco-resort. A bevy of butterflies danced through the lush leaves.
She tried to focus on how she’d capture them on film but all she could think about was Damaso Pires. The feel of his hand enclosing hers as they’d clambered down the track. The wrench of loss when he’d let her go as they’d approached the others. The way his burning gaze had stripped her bare.
No wonder she’d avoided him.
But now she craved him. She, who’d learned to distrust desire!
Yet this was something new. With Damaso Pires she sensed a link, a feeling almost of recognition, that she’d never experienced. It reminded her a little of the very different bond she’d shared with Stefan.
Marisa shook her head. Was grief clouding her thoughts?
Physical exertion, even danger, didn’t ease her pain. Since Stefan’s death she’d been shrouded in grey nothingness, till Damaso had reached out to her. Could she do it? Give herself to a stranger? Excitement and fear shivered through her. Despite what the world believed, Marisa wasn’t the voracious sexpot the press portrayed.
Then she remembered how she’d felt trading words with him, their bodies communicating in subtle hints and responses as ancient as sex itself.
She’d felt happy. Excited. That aching feeling of isolation had fled. She’d felt alive.
A knock sounded on her door, reverberating through her hollow stomach. Second thoughts crowded in, old hurts. Marisa glanced in the mirror. Barefoot, damp hair slicked back from a face devoid of make-up, she looked as far from a princess as you could get.
Did he want the real woman, not the royal? She wavered on the brink of cowardice, of wanting to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She’d taken chances on men before and been disappointed. More, she’d been eviscerated by their callous selfishness.
The knock came again and she jumped.
She had to face this.
With Damaso, for the first time in years, she dared risk herself again. That tantalising link between them was so intense, so profound. She wanted to trust him. She wanted desperately not to be alone anymore.
Her heart pounded as she opened the door. He filled the space before her, leaning against one raised arm. His eyes looked black and hungry in the early-evening light. Her stomach swooped.
With a single stride he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him, eyes holding hers.
‘Querida.’ The word caressed her as his gaze ate her up. If he was disappointed she hadn’t dressed up, he didn’t show it. If anything his eyes glowed warm with approval. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘Have you?’ She stood straighter.
‘How could I?’ His smile was lop-sided, the most devastating thing she’d ever seen. Then one large palm cupped her cheek and he stepped close. His head lowered and the world faded away.
‘MALDIÇÃO! WHAT YOU do to me.’ Damaso’s voice rumbled through her bones, his hands gripping tight at her hips as his mouth moved against her ear. Marisa shivered as her hyper-aware nerve endings protested at the sensory overload.
She’d never felt so vulnerable, so naked. As if their love-making had stripped her bare of every shield she’d erected between herself and a hostile world.
Yet, strangely that didn’t scare her. Not with Damaso.
Marisa clutched his bare back, sleek and damp, heaving slightly as he fought for breath. His chest pushed her down into the wide mattress and she revelled in the hard, hot weight of him, even the feel of his hairy legs imprisoning hers.
All night Damaso had stayed, taking his time to seduce her, not just with his body but with the fierce intensity he’d devoted to pleasing her. He was a generous lover, patient when unexpected nerves had made her momentarily stiff and wooden in his arms. She’d been mortified, sure he’d interpret her body’s reaction as rejection. Instead he’d looked into her eyes for an endless moment, then smiled before beginning a leisurely exploration of every erogenous zone on her body.
Marisa shivered and held him tight. Holding him in her arms felt...
‘I’m too heavy. Sorry.’
Before she could protest,