Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary. Cathy Williams
them off and flung them aside, his tongue trailing a moist path wherever her flesh was laid bare.
She gasped when he reached her belly, holding her breath as if scarcely able to believe that he was going to continue his erotic journey. And now he had buried his face in the soft fuzz of hair at the juncture of her thighs and she was shivering with what should have been embarrassment—that her boss should be performing such an intimate act on her. But Angie felt nothing except a wild and delirious excitement as he pushed her back onto the bed. Wasn’t this what she’d spent the last four years dreaming about? She clawed at his shirt buttons, scrabbling to try to pop them open—and was it her imagination, or did she hear one bouncing to the ground?
‘Ah, cara. Lentamente…slowly…’ He was laughing softly now. Surprised—but very turned on by her impatience as he put his wallet, phone and keys on the bedside table. ‘You must wait a little.’
But Angie didn’t want to wait. She felt like someone who had just seen a rainbow—dazzled by its fragile beauty but aware that it could disappear in a moment. Because she loved this man. Hadn’t she loved him for years—and wasn’t this the natural conclusion to all those feelings? And the last thing she wanted was Riccardo having second thoughts and changing his mind about making love to her. If she was destined to spend her life alone—then at least she would have this one, glorious night to cherish in the lonely years ahead.
With a boldness she’d never before experienced she reached out and began to tug at the belt of his trousers and he groaned before removing her fingers.
‘No!’ he bit out.
‘But—’
‘I am too hot and hard to trust anyone but myself with my undressing,’ he groaned as the zip rasped down and he kicked away the trousers before swiftly divesting himself of the rest of his clothes.
Then suddenly he was as naked as she and had joined her on the bed. The thin mattress dipped to the weight of an unaccustomed man beside her and Angie was glowingly aware of the long limbs which enfolded her and the dormant strength which shimmered beneath the muscular frame.
‘Riccardo,’ she whispered. Riccardo was in her bed and in her arms. She wanted to ask him whether this could really be happening to her. To him. To them. But she could find no words to frame such a question.
‘Are you protected?’ he demanded.
She shook her head and he said something terse in his native tongue before reaching for his wallet and withdrawing a condom.
‘You want to put this on for me?’ he questioned.
‘No. You…you do it,’ she said, suddenly shy—terrified that she wouldn’t be able to do it. That her fingernails would snag it and he might think…But all her reservations dissolved as he started kissing her again—his beautiful mouth seeming to be on a mission to cover every centimetre of her skin.
She relaxed into it while the hunger built again—caught her up like a feather whirled into the eye of a storm—so that by the time Riccardo moved over her and into her, she gave a little cry.
Immediately, he stilled—his face suddenly a harsh mask of query. ‘Please tell me,’ he shuddered out, with an almighty effort, ‘that you are not a virgin?’
Angie sensed some unknown emotion hovering in the atmosphere—something dark which threatened to destroy this fragile beauty. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Of course I’m not.’
It was the of course which reminded him that all they were doing was taking their pleasure and Riccardo’s lips twisted briefly as he began to move again. Tantalising her. Tormenting her. Driving her to the brink and then stopping. Demonstrating the control and technique for which he was renowned, until she begged him not to stop. And it was with that breathless little plea reverberating in his ears that at last Riccardo let go.
He felt her begin to shudder around him, collapsing against his chest with a little whimpering sound. And only then did he follow her—loving the sensation of spilling his seed into her, even while part of him resented it. Because that moment of letting go was the closest his powerful body ever came to weakness.
For a moment he lay there as sleep crept over him—the way it always did, no matter how much he tried to fight it. And this time he really was trying to fight it because there was no way he wanted to find himself in Angie’s bed when the morning came. But his limbs felt heavy and lethargic and Riccardo knew that he was losing the battle as his eyelids became weighted down. Was this nature’s way of keeping you close to the woman you’d made love to? he wondered drowsily.
Beside him, Angie held her breath until the steady rhythmical sound of his own breathing told her that he had fallen asleep—but still she didn’t dare move, afraid of waking him, of shattering the spell. For surely some strange kind of magic had entered her life this evening? How else could she explain the fact that her beloved Riccardo was lying next to her, naked and contented after making love to her like…like…?
She swallowed. It had been the most wonderful experience of her life. Like everything she’d always known it could be. Like all the books said it could be—only she’d never really believed it before. She’d believed herself to be in love with him for years but the intimacy of actually making love with him had made that feeling increase a thousandfold. Her heart gave another skip—because she was daring to hope that it wasn’t all one-sided. Because Riccardo couldn’t have made love that way unless she actually meant something to him. Could he?
Carefully, she turned her head to look at him. Illuminated by the pale orange glow from the streetlight directly outside her window, he looked as if he had been fashioned in some precious metal—like those amazing statues you sometimes saw in museums. In this light his hair looked intensely black—as deep a colour as a moonless night—and the lush lashes which usually shaded the ebony eyes were now reposing in two dark feathered semi-circles on his cheeks. Never had she been given such a perfect opportunity to study him so closely and she drank in his beauty, noting how the high slash of his cheekbones cast perfect shadows on the golden skin.
Angie’s heart missed a beat. So now what? She longed to reach out and touch him. To stroke his hair. To run her fingertips lovingly along the sculpted outline of his jaw. Perhaps to daringly continue their journey by tiptoeing them down the hard torso and further still—to his own dark tangle of hair. Should she…should she waken him erotically, as she had read that men liked to be awakened?
Or better to let him sleep? He had been under so much strain recently—quite apart from the ructions about his sister’s wedding, he had been involved in several high-powered takeovers. And he was still probably jet-lagged. Wouldn’t it be better to let him sleep—and in the morning, well, who knew?
She smiled. It was Saturday and neither of them had to work. Then she could wake him up with tiny kisses—as many as she liked—and after that she could make them coffee. Why, she might even be able to persuade him to stay in bed while she nipped down to the corner shop at the end of the road. They didn’t sell the kind of high-end range of the market stuff he was used to—but they did stock croissants which tasted pretty good when you heated them up in the oven and served them with a dollop of cherry jam.
Angie gave a little sigh of contentment as she nestled down into the pillow. This morning she had been feeling close to despair and ready to start looking for a new job to get her away from the influence of her boss, and now…
Now?
She snuggled down even further. Now she felt as if the world had come alive with a powerful kind of magic.
What a difference a few hours could make.
A MOTTLED ceiling swam into view and Riccardo quickly shut his eyes. But when he opened them again the ceiling was still there. And so was…so was…
So was he.
He