A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Jennifer Hayward

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Isn’t kissing the universal language? Maybe it will work for us, too.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him she was still angry with him. He lowered his head and caught her lips with his before she could get the words out. She set her palms on his shoulders to reject him, to tell him absolutely not. But his soft, seductive kisses seduced, persuaded. He nipped her bottom lip, sucking gently on her top one, sliding under her defenses like warm, sweet honey.

  Melting from the inside out, she dug her nails into his muscular, sinewy shoulders. Hard.

  “What?”

  “I’m still mad at you. You can’t avoid the baby issue by kissing me. I need time, Lorenzo. You have to give me that.”

  “Okay.” He brushed his thumb over the pulse pounding at the base of her neck. “I’ll give you time.”

  She blinked. “You will?”

  “Sì.”

  Not expecting such an easy capitulation, she was momentarily silenced. He tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear, dark eyes on hers. “What else is going on in that beautiful head of yours? It’s like smoke coming out of your ears.”

  She shook her head.

  “Angelina.” His low, sensual tone promised retribution if she didn’t spill.

  “I’m scared,” she said finally. “Terrified.”

  “Of what?”

  Of letting herself want him again, need him again. Of letting herself feel the things she hadn’t let herself feel since she’d left him because she could get hurt, because he would see beneath her skin as he always had. Of letting him make her whole again, then shatter her apart, because this time she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pick up the pieces.

  She closed her eyes. Pulled in a breath. “We were so good together. Then it all fell apart. I’m afraid of letting myself go there again only to have you shut down.”

  He shook his head. “I am not perfect. I have my moods, you know that. But I promise you it will not be the same. We will talk through our stumbles, work through them together. This is not about what was, Angelina, it is about what we are building together.”

  She swallowed past the fear bubbling up inside of her. The trust they’d built over these last emotional weeks together made her think they might be able to do it.

  He tilted her chin up with his fingers. “We decide where this goes. But you have to commit. You have to trust. You have to believe we can do this.”

  “I do,” she said quietly. “But we need to take it slow.”

  That wicked gleam in his eyes reappeared. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  She didn’t protest when he slid his palm to the nape of her neck and brought her back to him, his beautiful mouth claiming hers. Delivered on the leisurely, sensual make-out session he’d promised until her toes curled with pleasure. Full of heat and oh, so much promise, sweetness and play devolved into a deeper, fiery need.

  She opened to his demand, his tongue stroking and licking while his hands kept her in place for his delectation. She curled her fingers in his hair, sighed his name and pulled him closer still. It had been too long, far too long since he’d touched her like this. It was like returning to heaven—a most dangerous paradise, she knew, but she couldn’t deny she wanted it...wanted to revel in it.

  Her husband shifted beneath her, his highly aroused body brushing against her thighs. Shock waves coursed through her nerve endings, lighting her on fire.

  He lifted his mouth from hers, a wry smile curving his mouth. “This would be where the make-out session ends and something else entirely begins. Unless,” he drawled, “you’ve changed your mind?”

  Heat claimed her cheeks. All it would take was one more kiss, one sign from her she was ready and she could have him. But unleashing that kind of intimacy with her husband would bring all her walls tumbling down—it always had. And she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  “I can wait,” he murmured, tracing a knuckle down her cheek. “But be prepared, Angelina. When this does happen, one tame roll in that bed in there will not be enough.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ANGIE SPENT THE following week immersed in a flurry of activity leading up to Alexander’s show. Likely a good thing given the confusing mixture of anticipation and apprehension engulfing her at the evolution of her and Lorenzo’s relationship.

  Their sizzling encounter in the hot tub had proven she was still as susceptible as ever to his expertly executed seductions, but had done nothing to illustrate they could make their marriage work. That they were going to have to prove in the days ahead.

  Her husband, true to his word, was giving her the time she’d asked for. Not that he hadn’t kept up a slow and steady campaign to put his hands on her whenever he could find an excuse to do so. She’d been so distracted at yesterday’s rehearsal thinking about it, Alexander had had to ask her a question three times.

  Determined to keep her focus, she’d buried herself in a couple of last-minute fixes to tailor her pieces for a model being substituted into the original lineup, keeping her mind firmly off her husband. Before she knew it, it was 7:00 p.m. on the night of the show, the lights had dimmed in the high-ceilinged Skylight Modern space, one of the premium, architecturally perfect Fashion Week venues, and Alexander’s first model had begun her walk down the spotlit runway.

  Anticipation built as one model after the next, with a few supermodels thrown in for good measure, strutted their stuff, showcasing the collection the critics said would catapult Alexander to the top of the design world this season. The buzz and applause was electric as her friend’s brilliance shone, his pieces the perfect backdrop for her jewelry.

  It seemed like only a few minutes had passed instead of an hour before the show was drawing to an end.

  Her blood fizzled in her veins as Astrid Johansson, the world’s current it girl, stood spotlighted at the end of the runway to wrap the show, Angie’s ruby necklace glittering against her alabaster skin. A shiver chased up her spine. It was perfect, a marriage made in heaven the way the necklace framed the square neckline of the sleek, avant-garde dress.

  Lorenzo leaned down from his position beside her in the front row, bringing his mouth to her ear. “The highest paid model in the world wearing your jewelry. How does it feel?”

  “Amazing.” And her husband looked equally stunning in a charcoal-gray Faggini suit, his swarthy coloring set off perfectly by the light blue shirt he wore beneath it. She’d seen more than one of the models eye him as they’d walked by, eating him up with their confident gazes.

  Astrid made her final pass down the runway, returning hand in hand with Alexander as the music died away and the lights came up, her fellow models falling into place behind them. Cheers and applause greeted the designer, who took it all in with a big smile on his expressive face.

  She was shocked when he beckoned to her, motioning for her to join him. Oh, no, she couldn’t.

  Lorenzo gave her a gentle shove. “Go. Have your moment.”

  She found herself moving forward on legs that felt like jelly. Taking Alexander’s hand, she followed him into the spotlight. The designer turned to her, gave a little bow and clapped his hands. Her chest swelled with happiness, a hot warmth stinging the backs of her eyes as the audience applauded. Her jewelry had been her light in the darkness when everything else had been falling apart. She would never be able to express what it meant to her. She only knew in that moment, it felt as if a piece of her was sliding into place.

  She gave Alexander a kiss on the cheek, stood back and returned the applause. The lights went down. Alexander pulled her backstage for interviews with the media while Lorenzo and his mother went to enjoy a cocktail. She had expected only a smattering of media would be interested in speaking to her in the shadow of Alexander’s presence. She was shocked when a handful of them ch
ose to interview her, too.

  She did a couple of broadcast interviews for television, then something with a leading newspaper’s style section. Surprisingly, the media’s focus remained mostly on her jewelry rather than on her lineage, the critics giving her collection an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  She was pretty much floating on air by the time Alexander hooked an arm through hers, propelled her into the crowd at the after-party and introduced her to the designers, fashion editors, models and actors starring in his next spring ad campaign, forging so many valuable connections it made her head spin.

  An impenetrable glow filled her. Her career was skyrocketing, her marriage on the mend. It felt as if anything was possible.

  * * *

  Lorenzo watched his wife shine, her bubbly, animated demeanor taking him back to that night in Nassau when she’d transfixed him like the brightest star in the sky. The haunting, mysterious Northern Lights had had nothing on his wife that night as she’d flashed those baby blues at him, silky long lashes brushing her cheeks in a coquettish look she hadn’t quite mastered, and asked him if he was going to brood all night or dance with her instead.

  But even then, he realized, underneath all that sultry confidence and gutsy bravado, there had been a vulnerability to the woman in his arms, a sadness he hadn’t quite been able to put a finger on—a knowledge beyond her years.

  He had connected to that, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. They had both been looking to escape their pain that night, he from his memories, Angelina from the inexplicably complex relationships that had formed her world. What they had found had been so powerful that for a while they had.

  She caught him staring. Smiled. It was a blindingly bright smile that did something crazy to his heart. He had denied her this, the chance to be this shining light. To prove she was more than the sum of her parts. It was a mistake he refused to let haunt him.

  He saw her say something to Alexander, nod at the woman they were speaking to and slip away, her long strides eating up the distance between them.

  “Did your mother leave?”

  “Yes.” He swiped two glasses of champagne off a tray and handed her one. “She said to say thank you. To tell you your collection was impressive. And, yes,” he added, a wry smile twisting his mouth, “she meant it.”

  Angie blinked. “Well, that’s...nice. Did she have a good time?”

  “She was in her element. Who knows,” he murmured, lifting a brow, “there might be hope for the two of you yet.”

  “Don’t get too hopeful.”

  He brushed a thumb across the delicate line of her jaw. “Positivity, cara. That’s what we need here.”

  Her lashes lowered. “We should circulate if you don’t mind.”

  He nodded. Kept a possessive hand at the small of her back as they made a couple of passes of the room. By the time the lights came down and the apparently wildly popular band Lorenzo had never heard of took the stage, he could feel his wife’s energy level fading, her reservoir of small talk emptied out.

  Tugging her into one of the intimate lounge areas, he plucked the wineglass out of her hand and pulled her onto his lap.

  “Lorenzo,” she murmured, “we are in public.”

  “At a party in full gear where no one is paying any attention to us.” Setting a palm on her thigh, he pulled her closer, absorbing the tantalizing feel of her lush curves plastered against him. She looked insanely beautiful in Alexander’s black dress with no back to it. Had turned every male head in the room. The need to have his hands on her was like a fire in his blood.

  Bending his head, he traced the shell of her ear with his lips in a feather-light caress. His wife shivered. He moved lower, capturing her lobe between his teeth, scoring it lightly. “You are lit up tonight, mia cara. This is the woman I appreciate. The woman I was looking for.”

  She pulled back, eyes on his. “I needed this. For you to understand how important my work is to me.”

  “I do now.” His voice was sandpaper-rough. “I am listening now, Angelina. Better late than never.”

  Needing to protect, to possess her in a way he couldn’t even begin to articulate, he cupped the back of her head and kissed her. Passionate, infinite, it was a connection between them on an entirely different level than before, as if they were finally beginning to understand each other.

  She slid her palm to his nape and kissed him back, the kiss turning hot and fiery. Needy. He moved his hand higher on her thigh, fingers tightening around the sleek, satiny skin he discovered. A primal heat consumed him, his body pulsing to life beneath her bottom. She shifted against him, a low moan leaving her throat.

  “I want inside you,” he whispered. “Inside this sweet, hot body of yours. Until you feel nothing but me, cara.”

  * * *

  Blood roared in Angie’s head. Light exploded in her eyes. She blinked against the sudden onslaught. It took her several seconds to realize it was a photographer’s flash.

  Lorenzo brushed a knuckle against her cheek, a wry twist to his mouth. “That must be our cue to leave.”

  Her legs felt like spaghetti as he set her on her feet. He kept a firm hand on her waist as he guided her through the thick crowd, stopping to say good-night to Alexander before they exited into the cool night air.

  Wrapped in a sensual haze, she curled her arms around herself as Lorenzo retrieved the car. The sports car was deposited purring at the sidewalk moments later. Lorenzo tucked her into the passenger seat, then took the wheel to drive them home.

  Her pulse hummed, her blood fizzled amidst the cacophony of sirens and honking horns that was New York, all of it blanking in her head as her senses focused on the man beside her. His quiet intensity as he controlled the powerful car and the hand he kept on her bare thigh were all she could register.

  When this does happen, one tame roll in that bed will not be enough.

  Her pulse jolted faster, her cheeks heated with anticipation. Her head might be wary about them, but her body was not. It wanted to experience the hunger he had promised. To feel alive again in the way only Lorenzo could make her feel.

  Finally they were home. Parking the car in the garage, he helped her out, ushered her into the lift that arrived in a whir of expensive machinery. Up they went to the penthouse, where she threw her purse on a chair, legs shaking. Walking to the bank of windows that looked out on the roughly drawn skyline of Manhattan, she took a deep breath, attempted to center herself.

  The soft thud of her husband’s jacket hitting the chair reverberated through the room. The tread of his footsteps across the hardwood floor sent a quiver up her spine.

  “You are so damn beautiful,” he murmured, setting his hands on her hips. “You make my heart stop in my chest.”

  Her breath caught in her lungs. Frozen, paralyzed, she couldn’t move, her fears, her anticipation, blanketing her in a cloud of emotion. But this wasn’t about the past, she reminded herself, it was about the future. And right now, it felt like they had one. A bright, shining light she was terrified to touch.

  She did it anyway. Twisting around in his arms, she took in the dark, sometimes brooding man who’d stolen her heart once and threatened to do it again. His eyes tracked her, hot and focused. Her stomach contracted. Lifting her hand, she traced the sexy stubble shadowing his jaw. It was too tempting not to touch. She pressed a kiss to the abrasive canvas, sliding over the hard line of his jaw, knowing him again.

  He let her play, drink her fill. Then impatience won out as he slid his fingers into her hair, tilted her head back and closed his mouth over hers. Greedy, laced with sensual purpose, his carnal kiss telegraphed his intent to know all of her tonight. To erase the pain.

  She curled her fingers into the thick muscles of his shoulders, opened to his stark demand. The slow, erotic strokes of his tongue against hers coiled the muscles in her abd
omen tight, his dark, sensual taste filling her senses, seducing her with its rich male flavor.

  Fingers digging into his shoulders, she hung on tight. Lorenzo slipped a hand lower to her bottom, shaping her against him. The hard thrust of his desire, a thick, pulsing heat beneath his trousers, pulled a low sound from the back of her throat. She pressed closer, drunk on the feel of him. He rocked against her, slid his steely heat against her most sensitive flesh, scoring her through the thin material of her dress. “Feel how much I want you,” he murmured against her mouth. “You make me crazy, Angelina.”

  A shudder went through her, her knees nearly buckling beneath her. He backed her up against the windowsill, kneed her legs apart so he could stand between them. Supported by the wall, she welcomed the hot press of his flesh. Allowed him to tease her, play with her until she thought she might go up in flames.

  Her hands moved to his belt, greedy, desperate for him. Yanking the leather free of the buckle, she undid it, unbuttoned his trousers and slid down the zipper. Pushing her hands inside his pants, she cupped the thick length of him in her palms.

  Lorenzo cursed low and hard. Removed her hands from him. “Mi bellissima. You need warming up or I will hurt you.”

  “No,” she said, trying to free her hands. “I need you inside me.”

  “Sì.” Hard, uncompromising. He captured her hands, placed them palms-down on the sill. “Keep them there.”

  Eyes on hers, he sank his fingers into the knot of his tie, pulled it loose and stripped it off. Tossing it on the floor, he reached for the top buttons of his shirt and pulled them free. Her heart thrummed the frantic beat of a bird trapped in a cage as he dropped to his knees in front of her.

  Reaching for her foot, he worked the delicate clasp of her shoe open, slid her foot out and tossed the stiletto aside. He did the same with the other. Setting his hands on her ankles, he trailed them up her calves to her knees. Pushed them apart with a deliberate, firm motion that had her sucking in a breath. “Lorenzo,” she breathed, feeling far too exposed.