He watched her in a way that made her feel precious and special and sexier than sin. He watched her in a way that she loved, like he wanted to understand everything about her so he could pleasure her over and over. The promise was delicious but she pushed it away. This wasn’t about promises. It was just this. Sex. No, not just sex. It was more. It was a healing, a balm, an undoing of Michael, overwriting the memories of how he’d treated her body with this: someone who was worshipping her, existing purely to pleasure her.
It was a physical act with an emotional resonance that she didn’t want to analyse in that moment.
And it was only just beginning.
Chapter 3
SANTA MADRE DI VIA. What was happening?
This was fast, even for him. Sure, he was no stranger to one-night stands but usually he took a woman for dinner and drinks first, and knew more about her than her first name. This had been like an avalanche. From the minute she’d stepped into his home he’d felt as though this had been pre-determined. He’d tried to fight it – briefly – to be noble and remember that she was there as a guest, sheltering during a storm, but then she’d put her hand on his chest and he’d exploded with a need that was feral and wild, unspeakably urgent.
Her body was so responsive. She burned up at the slightest touch, and he loved touching her. His fingertips stole across her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake for his lips to pursue all the way to her cupid’s bow of a mouth, which he claimed as though he’d been doing it all his life.
She tasted like strawberries and moonlight. She was soft beneath his hardness, her breasts crushed beneath his chest. He extended an arm without breaking their kiss, pulling a condom from his bedside table. He had to lift up from her then, to rip the foil square open with his teeth and guide the condom over his arousal.
Her eyes were locked to his and there was a question in them, a doubt that had him pausing, bracing himself over her. God, he wanted her, but he was mindful even then of the circumstances of this, of the fact he’d offered her sanctuary in his home, the knowledge that he didn’t want her to feel she’d been taken advantage of.
“You’re sure?” He lifted a hand and stroked the side of her face, marvelling at the softness of her skin – like a rose petal.
“Uh huh,” she nodded, but the doubt was still there, trapped in her eyes.
“We don’t have to…”
She shook her head urgently. “Don’t you dare stop. I want this. I want you.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.” Relief permeated his body and his arousal nudged between her legs. And for the briefest moment, he paused, pushing up to stare at her again. “You’re not a virgin?”
She burst out laughing. “Seriously?”
Okay. It was a stupid thing to ask. “You looked hesitant,” he explained.
“I’m not.” A slight frown touched her lips. “It’s just…this isn’t something I do often.”
“Sex?” He queried, pushing his arousal against her, so she gasped.
“With a stranger.”
“We’re not strangers,” he grinned. “You’re Maddie…”
“Gray,” she supplied, pushing up to kiss him, smiling against his mouth.
“Right. Maddie Gray. And I’m Niccolo Montebello.”
He pushed inside her as he said his name, and whatever she’d been about to think or say was lost in the groan that consumed her body. Gesú Christo, she was so tight. Her muscles squeezed him hard, her body lifting to meet his, her hands on his hips digging in so her nails scored deep marks in his flesh. “Perfection,” he grunted, once he was buried deep inside her.
She pushed up and bit his shoulder, her teeth hard against his muscles.
“Yes,” she agreed, simply, but the word was rushed, burning from her with heat and need. He pulled out of her and drove himself back in, deeper, harder, watching her face as she scrunched it with pleasure. He caught her hands in his and held them above her head so her body was his prisoner and he moved himself, possessing her completely, his body claiming hers, making it his, making her his until she was capable of saying only his name. And she said it again and again, spilling the word into the room, so he was sure when this was over he would never lie here again without hearing the ghosts of her voice chasing themselves around the space.
“Don’t stop,” she cried, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his waist, holding him deep inside her. “Please, whatever you do, don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he promised, kissing her, his tongue moving in time with his cock, his body instinctively understanding what she needed and doing everything he could to deliver it.
“Oh, God.” She was moaning over and over, pulling at her wrists, freeing her hands to run down his back, her nails digging so deep he was sure she was drawing blood. And he didn’t care. Battle scars. Proof of this – an earth-shattering coupling that was robbing him of breath and sense until she tipped over the edge, her muscles squeezing him so tight he stilled, propping on his elbows so he could watch this moment, watch the way she exploded, her features a mask of unbridled pleasure, her brow beaded with fine perspiration, her face pink and flushed. She slammed her palms into the mattress as though she couldn’t contain herself; he was transfixed. She was an image of sensual heat and he was wild with wanting her – more than he was already possessing her, he needed to explode with her, to chase her orgasm with his own, but he knew that when he surrendered to that bliss and euphoria, it would bring an end to this and he wasn’t ready for that. No, not yet.
He wanted to give her more, and he wanted to watch her explode.
“I could do this all day,” he groaned, moving again, slowly, letting her body come down from its high, so her sensitive flesh could recover as he gently brought her back to life.
“Okay,” she grinned, a feline smile that spread gold dust through his body. “If you say so.”
He laughed gruffly. “Be careful what you wish for.” And to demonstrate his meaning, he drove himself into her: deep, hard, purposeful, each stroke of his arousal and possession that flared her eyes and filled them with a matching degree of animalistic need.
“Is that a promise?” She panted, her eyes closing.
He swore under his breath. “Yeah.”
“Good.” A purr. It drove him wild, so he felt the first fragment of his control slipping completely away from him, but he knew that even once he’d climaxed, he’d do this again. Once wasn’t going to be enough.
Who the hell was this woman and what wild twist of fate had blown her into his life on this storm-filled afternoon? Was she real? Or one of the ancient sirene fabled to survey this landscape? It beggared belief that this could be happening.
“Nico, I’m…” but she didn’t need to finish the sentence. He could feel her reaching fever-pitch, her muscles clamping around his length, her body flushing, her cries of his name getting louder, higher in volume, until her body was squeezing his and he answered her this time, holding her tight to him as he pushed into her again and again, spilling his seed, his voice a guttural cry in his bedroom.
Their ragged breathing was a symphony, in, out, thick, throaty, spent. He held her as her breathing slowed, the madness that had overtaken them receding a little now that relief had been afforded.
She turned her face towards the window; he felt her move, he felt her everything. “It’s stopped raining.” The observation was slumberous. He pulled up a little, running his fingertips over her cheek so she blinked her eyes to him and smiled. A burst of relief filled him. There was no self-consciousness in her expression – just heady, intoxicated satiation.
He understood that. His limbs were heavy in that delicious way sex brought about. Not just sex – great sex, like this. Wild, uninhibited, passionate, completely fulfilling. He dropped his hand to her breast, his eyes on hers as he traced the outline of her nipple, circling it slowly until she shivered and he felt her muscles squeeze his length with renewed need.
It wasn’t over, and he was glad.
So glad. He rolled off her but didn’t leave the bed. On his back, he drew her against him, so her head was on his chest, and he lay like that, listening to her breathing, feeling it becoming more rhythmic, more slumberous, heavier. And he wondered again who she was and why she’d ended up in his home – and thanking Dio that she had.
“Ondechiara. Do you go there often?”
“I’ve only been once.” He lifted his broad shoulders, his body strong, his frame bulky. “With one of my closest friends.”
“Well, I think it sounds perfect. I’d love to see it.”
“I’ll take you there one day.”
“I’d like that.”
“My friend has a house high up on the hill. Then again, he has a house high up on every hill – that’s a billionaire’s prerogative I suppose.” Michael had always been a little jealous. When Maddie had met him, she’d put it down to the fact he’d attended one of the best schools in England as a scholarship student. He’d been surrounded by some of the wealthiest children in Europe but had grown up in abject poverty – a hard difference to accept as a teenager.
“Is that why you went there?”
“No, I went because of the seafood,” he rolled his eyes condescendingly. “Of course that’s why I went. Nico goes every summer – has done for as long as I can remember. He took me with him when we graduated school. On his private jet, no less,” Michael rolled his eyes.
“He has a private jet?” She laughed, because such a thing seemed utterly preposterous.
“He has several. But he is a Montebello, so that’s par for the course, right?” He stood up, digging his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got time to get changed into something nicer before we leave.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “I thought I’d wear this.”
“Sure, if you want to be mistaken for a hooker. Wear the black pants with the beaded top. That makes you look slimmer.”
Maddie woke with a start, a heavy sense of disorientation and panic making her push up into a sitting position. Her body was covered in a fine film of perspiration and it had nothing to do with the naked man beside her.
He was asleep. She stared at him, her heart pounding against her throat, her stomach swirling with acid and anxiety.
Holy crap.
Holy crap.
Fragments of his words came back to her, words she hadn’t thought of in a long time, words that had ceased to matter after they’d been spoken, puncturing her reality with sharp necessity. Nico Montebello.
Holy crap.
Holy crap.
She’d slept with one of Michael’s best friends. Michael: the man she’d spent six months hiding out from, the man she wanted to avoid seeing with her every last breath, and she’d found her way into the home of someone who could, with one phone call, ruin the safe cocoon she’d made for herself. Crap, crap, crap.
Nausea rose in her belly. She shot another look towards the window. It had stopped raining. She pushed up quickly but quietly, looking around the room in a panic. When she’d left Michael, fight or flight instincts had pushed her straight out the door and she’d never looked back. It had been an easy decision. Her life had been at stake, she had no doubt of that.
Except Nico wasn’t like that. The idea of leaving him like this was anathema.
But it had to be done. He was a connection to Michael, and she couldn’t risk that. God. How foolish she’d been to let her guard down so completely!
And with this man, of all people! Why hadn’t she realised sooner? Because the conversation had been brief, early on in their relationship. She hadn’t thought of it again since; she’d had no need to. Even when Nico had introduced himself fully, it hadn’t really registered. She’d been too caught up in what they were doing to give his last name any conscious thought. Even if it had been Rumpelstiltskin, his name wouldn’t have sparked her curiosity, in that moment.
But once it was over, her subconscious had done what brains are so good at doing, and thrown the details in her path so she couldn’t fail but remember.
A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of Michael now, and she wanted to scream and shout, to grab something and hurl it across the room. How dare he find a way to spill himself into this? The first thing she’d done since walking out on him, a gift to herself, an expression of her own femininity and freedom, and it was tarnished by Nico’s connection to Michael. Oh, God. What if he realised who she was and told Michael she was in Ondechiara? This place that had become a sanctuary to her would be ruined!
She tiptoed through the house, into the laundry, and pulled her wet clothes from the machine, stuffing them in a plastic bag she found in a drawer. A quick glance through the window showed that it still wasn’t raining, though the sky was leaden. She was so far from La Villetta, but not that far from town. If she hurried, she’d get there before sunset, and be able to get a cab to her place.
Hating herself and hating life’s twists and turns even more so, she pulled on a coat of Nico’s – it fell to her ankles and was far too big. She cinched it around the waist and moved quickly to the door. It was heavy. She remembered it slamming when she’d arrived in the midst of the storm so now she took great care to ease it closed softly behind her.
Panic filled her, speeding her steps. She walked carefully down to the beach, picking her way over the steps. Once her feet connected with the sand, she began to run, and she ran and she ran as though Michael were behind her, his ghost was, indeed, at the front of her mind. Panic, anger and outrage subsumed any satisfaction she’d enjoyed that afternoon so all she could feel as she reached town and hailed a cab was remorse.
What an absolute mistake. Not sleeping with Nico. Despite his connection to Michael, she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret that. But the risk she’d run in trusting a stranger with that intimacy. He knew her name, for goodness sake! All it would take was one phone conversation with Michael…
Except…
By the time the taxi pulled up in front of La Villetta, sanity had begun to settle around Maddie. Michael and Nico hadn’t spoken in a long time, so far as she knew. A fragment of another conversation came to her, from around the time he’d first lifted his hand and struck her. No one from school calls me anymore. They’re all too high and mighty for me. He’d been drunk, and he was a mean drunk, so Maddie had dismissed his statement as sour grapes. Except she’d been a big part of Michael’s life. She knew who he spoke to and who he didn’t, and Nico wasn’t someone he ever mentioned. Besides that one time, he didn’t discuss the Montebellos. What were the chances that Nico was going to call Michael out of the blue? Or vice versa? Being old friends didn’t make them confidantes. And even if they did speak, was it even remotely likely that Nico would volunteer the fact he’d slept with a woman named Maddie Gray to Michael? Of course not.
She breathed a little easier as she stepped out of the taxi and swiped her phone to pay. She locked the door to La Villetta behind her out of habit and pressed her back to it, breathing in deeply, closing her eyes and repeating her mantra. I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe. It helped to calm her racing heart but not the fire in her veins, a fire that had been sparked by Nico and which seemed to burn all the brighter with every moment that passed. Her skin smelled of Nico Montebello.
She stripped out of his jacket – she was naked beneath – and moved into the bathroom. She ignored the shower, turning the bath taps on instead. Michael had forbidden baths. It was a stupid rule, one of the insipid, ridiculous ways he exercised control over her. Now, free from him, she wondered at her obedience, at her supplication, at the gradual erosion of her free will. She wondered at the ways in which she’d subjugated her own wishes simply to keep the peace with him; appeasing him had been a full time job. Now? She revelled in all the activities he’d seen as indulgent or ‘bad’. She defied him mentally at every opportunity, though it was less about him and more about reclaiming the parts of herself she’d let fall away, the simple pleasures she’d taken for granted before she met Michael which she now unde
rstood the importance of.
There was an organic body lotion on the edge of the bath. She tipped a tablespoon in and swirled it with her hand until bubbles formed, then stepped into the bath and lay there, water lapping at flesh that was sensitive from Nico’s ministrations.
She forced her mind to be blank. She didn’t want to think about Michael. She didn’t even want to think about Nico. She needed to focus on the fact she was safe, that she was strong – so much stronger than she’d given herself credit for in the beginning. She’d felt afraid for so long and not known how to act, but now she was free and she knew that was a credit to her courage. She’d saved herself from a bad relationship that had been going to an even worse place.
She’d saved herself.
The fight or flight instincts were kicking in again now, and a part of her wanted to run. To pack her bag and leave Ondechiara. But that would be wrong. It would be like giving up baths or chocolate or champagne – subjugating a part of herself out of fear of Michael. She wouldn’t do that again.
By the time she stepped out of the bath, rain had begun to fall once more, softly now, though the night was warm and muggy. She dressed in a simple t-shirt and maxi skirt, poured herself a glass of wine and made her way to the little deck at the back of the house. It had views of rolling Tuscan hills, like something from a guide book, and as she sat there with her knees pulled to her chest, resting her chin on them, she watched the rain cut through the evening, the dark, inky sky blotting out the moonlight completely.
Billionaire Brides: An Anthology Page 49
