Mistress To a Latin Lover: The Sicilian's Defiant Mistress / The Italian's Pregnant Mistress / The Italian's Mistress. Jane Porter
still he’d cast her off.
She had to get over him, had to get rid of him. If she were smart she’d take his heart out.
But first she’d have to rip out her own.
The bitterest of emotions filled her and she looked away, precariously close to losing control.
Either he needed to go or she did, but this couldn’t continue, not a minute longer. She missed him—Maximos—the man she loved and that was the man she wanted, not this hard distant stranger.
Silence filled the room, and then the sound of footsteps, Maximos’s footsteps and then came the firm but distinct closing of the bedroom door.
Cass jerked around, turning swiftly toward the door, tears flooding her eyes.
But Maximos wasn’t gone. He was there, at the door, and he was turning the antiquated dead bolt, locking them in.
“What now?” he asked, watching her.
She shook her head, nervous. Overwhelmed. Even scared. She was defenseless when it came to Maximos and she bit her lip, biting so hard she tasted blood. Don’t get emotional, she told herself, don’t fall apart now. “You’re not making this easy,” she said.
His laugh was low, mocking. “You were the one that came to me.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“No?”
“No.” Her lips trembled and she struggled to smile. “I don’t think I’ve had a choice since I met you. I knew…knew from the first time I saw you.” Her shoulders lifted, a slight shiver of cold and nerves. “I’ve always known when something big happens, I know it in my bones. Call it instinct. But I knew from the first moment I saw you, and when I saw you, I fell.”
“Fell.”
“Hard.” She wanted to laugh at herself but she couldn’t, not after spending the last six months caught somewhere between hell and purgatory. “I knew then you were it. Everything. You were what I wanted. Heart, body and soul.”
“And now?”
The tears filled her eyes, burning hotter than before but she fought to hold them back. “You’re the last thing I need, but I suppose I had to come here this weekend to see it for myself. Had to come and say goodbye my way.”
“You have a funny way of saying goodbye,” he said, walking slowly, deliberately toward her.
“Horrible, isn’t it?”
“Very.” Clasping the back of her neck, he brought her to him, drawing her close, so close that there was no space between them, just contact, sensation, from head to toe.
“Goodbyes like this are dangerous,” he added, tilting her head back with the pressure of his hand. His lips touched the wild pulse beating at the base of her throat. “They’re like fire.”
She shuddered, feeling feverish. “So I’m learning.”
She felt his lips return to the pulse, the sensation razor hot. Incredible. Excruciating.
“You’re usually a quick study, bella,” he said, his mouth moving with tormenting slowness across her throat. “Makes me think you want to be burned.”
Yes, she answered silently, shuddering at the feel of his body against hers.
Yes, she wanted fire, she wanted the burn if only to remember—relive—what it had once been like, how amazing it had felt to be taken by him.
He had to know she craved the feel of him, the weight of him on her, the hard, heavy pressure, the way he filled her, the way he stormed her world and made it his. She’d never known anything like the glorious sensation of being touched, possessed, and maybe it wasn’t love but it was heady, seductive, intoxicating.
And then his mouth covered hers and it was so fierce, so demanding that something inside her snapped and she felt close to breaking, felt as though she needed to throw a white flag, cry surrender.
His hands were wrapping around her arms, sliding up to her shoulders and then down, molding her through the thin white slipdress with his palms, shaping her breasts, her rib cage, her torso before one palm returned to her breast.
His kiss sucked the hiss of pleasure from between her lips, and as his fingers worked her breast, cupping, pressing hard against her nipple. The rhythmic kneading, squeezing, rippled through her, bringing memory and desire to life. She shifted, brushing her hips against his, her body blindly seeking what it had so desperately missed.
Sex.
Dominance.
Surrender.
Surrender, she silently repeated as one of his hands slipped the strap of her gown down over her shoulder and he impatiently pushed the delicate fabric down to expose her skin.
She gasped at the heat of his hand against her skin, gasped again as he seemed to count and measure her ribs, a reclaiming of her body, a reminder of all that he’d given her, all that they’d experienced together.
And as his bare palm slid across her chest, his palm capturing her breast, squeezing her taut nipple, his control slipped, and he, too, cracked, and something primitive and wild took over.
He split the gown open down the back with one fierce tug of his hand, the zipper giving way, the fabric ripping wide-open. He stroked the length of her bare back until he came to the ivory satin garter belt hooked around her waist.
She felt his quick breath as his examination slowed, his fingers tracing the satin around her waist and the narrow satin stays that held her silk stockings high on her thighs.
He’d always loved her lingerie, loved the exquisite laces and silks, the satin panties, the delicate bras and bustiers.
He stroked the length of her, from the back of her neck all the way down to the small of her spine, stroking each skin, inflaming the nerves, stirring all the senses.
When she trembled against him he cupped her bottom, his palm so warm on her bare cheek, the tiny satin thong panty covering next to nothing.
How she loved the feel of his hands on her, loved the way he touched her, his fingers burning, kneading, branding her.
Branding her his.
Aggressively he moved her, lifting her off her feet to place her back down on the edge of the Florentine chair. She felt awkward perched nearly naked on the chair’s edge with her torn gown bunched loosely around her but it was the way he wanted her, the way he intended her to sit for him.
He parted her thighs wider, his large hands on each of her knees, and he looked down at her and smiled faintly. “I’ve always loved to look at you,” he said, holding her still and drinking his fill.
Then he knelt at her feet and moved between her thighs.
She jerked as his mouth touched her between her legs on the satin thong, the flimsy fabric already damp and clinging tightly to her heated body.
She wanted him. But she’d always want him. He knew it, too.
His mouth moved across the damp satin, teasing her, shaping it even closer to her body. She gasped, squirmed, legs trembling as the tip of his pointed tongue pressed hard at the apex of her thighs, finding the small rigid nub where all her nerve endings came together in intense, erotic pleasure.
Her hips shifted on their own accord, her hips grinding in a helpless dance, wanting more than just the tip of his tongue against the satin, wanting his tongue on her skin, wanting the feel of his damp tongue against her slick flesh.
“Maximos,” she groaned as his palms slid across the inside of her thighs, slow, torturous caresses that stirred her senses but brought no relief.
But he ignored her hoarse plea, his thumbs instead skimming close to the edge of her thong, finding the hollows where her thighs joined her body,