Italian Mavericks: Forbidden Nights With The Italian: The Forbidden Ferrara / Surrendering to the Italian's Command / The Unwanted Conti Bride. Sarah Morgan
we share is about … about …’ her breathing stuttered ‘… rose petals.’
‘Cristo, will you stop obsessing about rose petals?’
‘I just don’t need rose petals in my life, OK?’ She was right on the edge and the thought of losing it horrified her. ‘It doesn’t matter how many rose petals you arrange to have strewn on the floor, our marriage is still a sham. And now I’m going to bed. And if you have any sensitivity you’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘I have it on good authority I’m an insensitive bastard, so I guess that clears up any questions over where I’ll be sleeping,’ he drawled. ‘And don’t even think about making a run for it because I’ll just drag you back. Look at me.’
She looked, and if breathing had seemed hard before it was doubly hard now. As she looked into those dark sexy eyes a part of her she’d buried sprang to life. She was used to controlling her feelings. She’d learned the skill as a child. Only once in her life had she truly let herself go, and it had been with this man. That night in the darkness, the night they’d made Luca, it had been all about touch and taste, soft sounds and a wild, maddening desire. It had unnerved her then. And it unnerved her now.
Because she’d put on the lights, there was no missing the purposeful glitter in his eyes or his obvious arousal. And there was no disguising the instant response of her own body.
It had been brewing, of course, since that night he’d walked into her restaurant, but they’d both held it in check.
Now, there was nothing to snap that frighteningly powerful connection. It wasn’t about candles or rose petals, but an elemental force that was stronger than both of them.
He stood absolutely still and the stillness simply raised the tension because she knew now how this was going to end.
They moved at the same time, coming together with a violence that came close to desperation. His hands cupped her face as he kissed her hard. Her hands were on the front of his shirt, ripping. And then her fingers were on his flesh and he groaned against her mouth and grabbed the hem of her dress and yanked it upwards. They stopped kissing just long enough for him to strip it over her head and then his mouth crushed hers again, his hands buried in the thickness of her hair, his powerful body pressed hard against hers as the two of them staggered backwards into the wall. Still they kissed, his tongue hot in her mouth, her hands fumbling frantically with the zip of his trousers. She yanked it down and closed her hand over the thickness of him. He gave a savage groan, his hands bold and sure as he stripped her naked.
Desire was an elemental savage rush of fire. It poured through her veins, heated her skin and weakened her limbs. It blasted all thought from her head until her most basic instincts were screaming. She was naked in front of him but she didn’t even care. Her only thought was that now he could get on and do what they both needed him to do.
And he did.
His mouth found the pulse at the base of her throat and her head fell back, the excitement almost excruciating.
‘Cristo, I want you—’ His hand was between her legs and his skilled fingers slid into her, exploring her so intimately that she sobbed his name on each ragged breath.
‘Please—’
‘Yes—’ Without hesitating, he lifted her so that she was forced to wrap her thighs around him and then he was kissing her again, his mouth feasting on hers as they yielded to the madness.
Her hands were on his bare shoulders and she felt the rippling power of his body and the strength of him as he positioned her. Like this she was helpless, but she didn’t care. She was wild with the feelings they unleashed together, utterly lost in the mind-blowing excitement of his touch. He kissed her as if this moment would never, ever come again, as if the crazy collision of their mouths was the breath of life.
They dispensed with foreplay, the wild urgency of it stampeding over thoughts of taking it slow. There was no slow. Just hard, fast and desperate.
His fingers dug into her thighs and she felt the smooth tip of his penis against her and then he was inside her, hot, hard and all male. She cried out and arched, taking him deep, her body yielding to the demands of his. And he demanded everything, took everything, until her orgasm came screaming down on her and took him with her, soft, sensitive tissue clamping down on each erotic juddering thrust until the experience became one wild, mad rush of exquisite pleasure.
Fia clung to him, eyes closed, struggling for breath.
He supported her with one arm while he planted his other hand on the wall behind her in an attempt to steady himself. Muttering something in Italian, he rested his forehead on his arm and struggled for breath.
‘Madre de Dio, that wasn’t how I planned it.’ He lifted his head and looked at her, those impossibly sexy eyes darkened to near black. ‘Did I hurt you? You fell against the wall—’
‘Don’t remember that.’ She felt dazed. Weak. ‘I’m all in one piece.’
Except for her heart. Did that count?
But she wasn’t going to think about that now. Didn’t have time to think of it because he was lowering her to the floor and the moment he released her, her knees buckled. He caught her easily and dragged her against him, but that meant that they were touching again and what began as support quickly moved into seduction. They couldn’t help themselves. He buried his mouth in her neck. She slid her arms around his shoulders and pressed closer. Even after that explosive climax he was still hard and she gave a soft gasp as she felt the heaviness of his erection brush against her.
‘Santo—’
‘You’re driving me crazy—’ He slid a hand behind her neck and brought his mouth down to hers. Kissed her with raw hunger. Then his other hand slid between her thighs and she stumbled against him.
‘The bed—’
‘Too far—’ His mouth devouring hers, he tipped her off her feet, down onto the floor.
She was dimly aware of her neat pile of rose petals scattering and then he rolled onto his back so that she was the one straddling him. Strands of her hair brushed his chest and she leaned forward to kiss him, unwilling to relinquish that pleasure even for a moment. His hands sank into her hair and he crushed her mouth with his. His tongue played with hers. Teased. Tormented. Her hands grew bold and greedy, tracing his flat, muscled abdomen and moving lower to close around the thickness of his shaft. If he needed recovery time then there was no sign of it and when his hands locked on her hips and he lifted her onto him, she paused for a moment, teasing him and herself by delaying the moment. She felt the smooth probing heat of him against her and he watched her through eyes that glittered dark with barely restrained desire. There was something about that sexy, smouldering look that snapped her control and she moved her hips gracefully and took him deep.
‘Cristo—’ His jaw tightened and the muscles in his shoulders bulged as he drove himself into her. The power should have been hers but she felt the hard throb of him inside her and the bite of his fingers on her thighs and realised that all the power still lay with him. He controlled her. He controlled every second of the whole erotic experience and this time when her senses exploded she collapsed onto his chest and felt his arms come round her tightly.
They lay for a moment and then he winced.
‘Cristo, this is uncomfortable. We should move.’
She didn’t think she was capable of moving but he slowly eased himself onto one elbow and then frowned down at her.
‘You’re bleeding!’
She glanced down at her arm. ‘It’s a rose petal. They’re stuck to you, too.’
He shifted her gently away from him and sat up, removing rose petals with an impatient hand. ‘Why are rose petals considered romantic?’
‘They just are—in certain circumstances.’ But not these, of course. The petals had been part of the image he wanted to