Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw
their bodies in that primal heat. He would have helped her learn the ways of her own body, the pleasure she was capable of feeling, what she longed for most.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, but the words hitched in her throat and there was a breathless quality to them that spoke of her own desires and needs, and how he ached to indulge those!
And, despite the fact this was all new and different, and he didn’t know what they were doing, he reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her fingertips as his eyes held hers.
Her lashes fluttered closed, but not before he saw the desire swirling in their cornflower-blue depths. Not before her lips parted on a sharp intake of breath.
Sensual heat was in the air around them, and he had no intention of ignoring it this time.
* * *
Did he have any idea what he was doing to her?
She tried to focus on the page of her book, but with Antonio doing push-ups on the terrace just beyond her, wearing a pair of black bathing briefs, his broad, tanned chest on display, his powerful legs, his dark hair slicked against his head like a pelt after his early evening swim—she was lost, powerless, completely entranced. The words in her book swirled before her eyes and she valiantly made an effort to read the paragraph once more.
It was her own fault, she supposed, for picking up Anna Karenina. Having read it before and suffered through a more in-depth appraisal of nineteenth-century Russian agriculture than anyone truly needed, she wasn’t exactly sure why she’d felt compelled to pick it up once more.
It was hardly engrossing.
Not as engrossing as her husband, in any event. Their conversation over lunch had got deep under her skin. His insistence that he had come to her to buy shares but had then wanted her, not because of Prim’Aqua, not because of anything. Except desire. Lust. Need. Passion.
She hadn’t realised until lunch how desperately she’d needed his assurances on that score and, now that she had them, how empowering it was. Because it legitimised what she felt—it showed that, no matter what else they were, this desire was real. It was true. He hadn’t seduced her because he’d thought it would lead to her compliance. He’d been unable to resist her.
For the hundredth time in a handful of minutes, her eyes lifted towards the terrace. He wasn’t looking at her. She allowed herself a moment to stare, to savour the lines of his body, the sleek, smooth masculinity that was all hard edges and beautiful planes, and then turned back to her book.
Two sentences later and her eyes lifted and finally, with an exasperated sound, she dropped the book and stood.
Did he have any idea what he was doing to her? Surely he did.
And couldn’t two play at that game?
With a small smile on her lips, she slipped upstairs and strolled into the enormous walk-in wardrobe. He’d filled it with designer clothes, but she’d assiduously ignored them, preferring to wear clothes she felt most like herself in, to wear the clothes of her old life like a uniform.
Only she hadn’t brought a swimsuit with her, and she knew there were several stashed in one of the drawers. She opened the first—it was filled with jewels, so she snapped it shut and went lower. The next drawer revealed what she was looking for.
She pulled out a simple navy-blue bikini and dressed quickly, pulling her hair over one shoulder as she crossed the room on her way back downstairs. Only the sight of herself in the full-length mirror arrested her step for a moment.
She curled her hands over the hint of a curve, a smile stretching her lips from one ear to the other.
She began to walk once more, but the smile didn’t shift. So as she stepped out onto the terrace she’d almost forgotten that a small part of her had wanted to go and get into a swimsuit just to repay the sensual distraction Antonio had been subjecting her to for the past hour. He was doing sit-ups now and, as he pulled towards his knees, he stopped, holding himself there, his body sheened in a light layer of perspiration so that he glistened all over, his expression burning her with its intensity. He dragged his eyes from her face, down her body, over the soft curve of her breasts to her newly rounded stomach, her legs and then back up, until her skin was covered in goosebumps and her heart was racing.
He stood slowly and, with the same pace, she took a step towards him, her eyes unable to pull away from his.
‘You are...’ He spoke with a voice that was husky, words that were dredged from deep inside his soul.
She held her breath, waiting for him to finish the sentence, but he shook his head, as if to clear the thought.
‘Yes?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said finally and moved a hand to curve around her cheek, tilting her face towards his.
She could hardly swallow, so dry was her mouth. ‘Thank you.’
‘I cannot believe this.’ And he dropped his hands to her stomach, discovering the roundness there for himself.
‘I know; it’s kind of surreal,’ she said, trying to sound light and breezy.
But the look on his face rid her of any such notion. There was such an acute watchfulness in his expression, a sense of powerful, passionate possession, that she took a step closer, as close as she could get without touching him, and then he went the rest of the way, closing the gap and wrapping one arm around her waist. He held her, vice-like, to his body and she made a soft sound of surrender before his lips dropped to hers and he kissed her, his mouth demanding, as though everything was hinged on this kiss.
She tilted her head, giving him more access, and she lost herself in that moment but she found herself too.
Emotions surged inside her but Amelia couldn’t have described them—not happiness, not doubt. She was a mix of everything and nothing; she knew only that answers lay within this kiss, within this touch, within him.
He lifted her easily, cradling her to his chest and carrying her towards the pool. And, despite the fact he was moving in that direction, the feel of cool water against her sun-warmed and passion-heated body still made her gasp. He swallowed the gasp and kissed it right back to her, and she laughed softly as the water rose higher and higher.
She spun in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and then she kissed him with all the pent-up hormonal needs that were ravaging her common sense and making her need Antonio more in that moment than she’d ever needed anyone or anything.
‘Make love to me,’ she demanded, her hands weaving behind his back, interlocking and holding him tight.
He groaned, a guttural noise that was empowering to Amelia for it spoke of his desperation and slavery to this feeling, and she was so glad for that! Glad he was as lost to this as she. Glad he was as in her thrall as she was his.
‘Why?’ he asked, but his hands were curving around her rear, lifting her so she felt the strength of his arousal and tipped her head back. Her hair fell into the water, saturated, and he kissed the exposed column of her neck then found the tie for her bikini.
‘Because you’re my husband,’ she said as he stripped the bikini top from her, discarding it in the water. His eyes devoured her breasts before his lips took over, his mouth moving over one of her nipples and then the next.
It wasn’t a reason. At least, it wasn’t as simple as being her husband: there were so many other factors. Having known this pleasure only once, she wanted to feel it again. She wanted to feel everything he could show her. She ran her hands over his body, delighting in the feel of his skin beneath her touch and the way he responded to her inquisitive exploration.
‘Make love to me,’ she whispered again, like an incantation, a demand that needed fulfilling, dropping her lips to his shoulder and nipping the flesh there with her teeth.
And there was a look of intense understanding in his eyes,