Redemption Of The Untamed Italian. Clare Connelly
‘What do you base that on?’ His hand lifted to the flimsy strap of her dress, sliding beneath it, running it down her shoulder slowly, his eyes holding hers.
‘Am I wrong?’
His eyes flared. ‘No, uccellina.’ His fingers ran lower, tracing her arm lightly, his gaze not shifting.
It was the second time he’d used that word. ‘What does that mean?’
His hand moved to the other strap, gliding it over her flesh so her breath snagged in her throat.
‘Little bird.’ His words were gravelled. The straps slipped lower until the dress began to fall. She bit down on her lower lip to stop a sigh escaping. The fabric was silk, and it moved like water over her breasts, her nipples puckering at the slight touch. His hands guided the dress lower still, over her hips, until it fell to the floor, leaving her standing in front of him in only a pair of heels and a lace thong.
Her breathing was ragged, her body covered in goose bumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.
‘You are beautiful,’ he murmured seriously, the words factual rather than said as a compliment. ‘But this you already know.’
It was a statement that came close to implying she was vain, and Jemima resented it, but before she could respond he’d stepped closer so that his body was hard against hers and urgency made it difficult to think, much less speak. She could feel every inch of him, every expansive muscle, his arousal pressed to her belly.
Her hands lifted to his chest, pushing against his shirt, his pectoral muscles firm beneath her curious grip. She undid his buttons one by one, starting at his neck and working down, pausing at the waistband of his trousers so she could lift his shirt out completely. The tip of her tongue darted from the corner of her lips as she concentrated on what she was doing, but before she could push the shirt from his body he’d swooped his head down and sought her mouth with his, his lips mashing to hers, the kiss driven by a mutual, desperate passion.
He took another step forward, so her back connected with the glass window, and he rolled his hips, leaving her in little doubt as to how much he wanted her.
Lust was a new feeling for Jemima. Never had she felt so attracted to a man that she wanted to act on it like this. Her brain had ceased to function; she was operating purely on instinct and her instincts were telling her to enjoy this.
‘I need to...’ What? See him? Touch him? Feel him? Frustrated by her lack of experience, her total inability to put into words what she was feeling and to explain the fever in her blood, she shook her head.
But he understood, of course he did, because the same fever was raging through him. He scooped her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, carrying her easily through the house, kissing her the entire way, and by the time they reached a bedroom and he dropped her onto the mattress she was ready to catch fire completely.
‘I want...’
‘Yes?’ His own voice was roughened by desire. ‘What do you want, Jemima?’
There it was again—the mental block, a complete inability to say what she was thinking. She groaned, reaching for him, sitting up and pulling at his sides, but he didn’t move. He kicked out of his shoes, watching her, his chest rising and falling with each of his deep breaths as he shrugged out of his shirt.
He had a tattoo that ran just beneath his heart: ‘come sono’. Her Italian was limited to industry terms and social niceties. ‘“I am me”?’ she said aloud, her eyes chasing the cursive ink.
‘“As I am”.’ He stepped out of his trousers and now a kick of fear hit her gut. Not fear of what was to come, but fear at how out of her depth she was. Her pulse lurched wildly through her body and she knew she should say something. But ancient feminine instincts gave her confidence and had her pushing to the end of the bed so that his legs straddled hers, his body so big, his presence overpowering. His fingers curved through her hair, and then her lips sought his flat chest, pressing to the ridges there as she scrambled onto her knees on the edge of the bed so she could trace one of his nipples with her tongue, flicking it curiously before transferring her attention to the next one.
In the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware of how new this was, and yet she didn’t feel anything except pleasurable anticipation and relief. She wanted this. She wanted it so badly. Soon, her virginity would be gone, and she’d know the pleasure of a man’s body... She couldn’t wait.
His chest moved rapidly with each curious little exploration of her tongue. Power trilled in her veins—the knowledge that she was driving him as wild as she was set her pulse skittering.
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