She angled her face, to look up at him. “Do you do this often?”
He’d never done this before. “You mean meet women at parties and bring them back to my home?”
“Uh huh.”
He frowned. “No.” He’d never found himself lacking for female company. But he was notoriously, famously private. Usually, he took women to one of the apartments owned by his company. Never to his home. Strange that it hadn’t even occurred to him to take Rosie anywhere else.
He felt her body weaken with relief. And the last string of his will-power went with it. He lowered his hands, so that he could cup her perfectly rounded rear end. She fit so beautifully in his hands. He pressed his lips against the top of her head, then rubbed his cheek over the pale hair. “You’re different to any woman I’ve ever met.”
A little voice in her head was minding her to be careful. After all, they had just met. And he was clearly a player. So good looking, so wealthy, so suave. Was he capable of saying whatever she needed to hear simply to make her feel at ease? And did she care?
He scooped down and lifted her easily. She was very petite compared to him. Petite compared to anyone. He held her tight against his chest and walked through the enormous apartment, to the only other room, besides his office, he really used.
Rosie barely noticed the scale of the bedroom. Nor the views from the floor to ceiling windows. What she noticed was the bed that he dropped her onto. Huge and comfortable, with what seemed like acres of white linen.
Lying on his bed, her pale hair fluffed about her face like a halo, he wondered if he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight.
He kneeled at the foot of the bed, and gently unhooked her shoes. Now that she was here, he felt he had all the time in the world. He ran his hands over her calves, delighting in the softness and smoothness of her skin. “What were you ever doing with an idiot like Connor?” He muttered, pulling himself onto the bed and straddling her waist.
Her desire was making breathing difficult. She dragged in a deep, slow breath, but her lungs felt full to bursting. She lifted her hands and tentatively touched his stomach. It was an embarrassment of muscles. Flat and rock hard, it matched his biceps and strongly, muscled thighs.
“He’s a friend,” she said with a shrug. “And I really don’t want to talk about him right now.”
Luca’s smile was amused. “Nor do I, Rosie.” He kissed her properly now, knowing no one would interrupt them. That no one would see them. His mouth waged war with hers, punishing, needing, taking and demanding.
His hands drove over her body, feeling every tiny tremble beneath her skin, every little curve and detail. She was so sweet. So angelic.
Except for her underpants. They were sinful rather than sweet, and he thoroughly approved. With a smile, he hooked his fingers in the fabric and lowered it, exposing her to him fully. And he felt his body contract with longing at the sight of her.
“Heaven,” he whispered, locking his gaze to hers as he slid the pants down the length of her legs and cast them aside. “Pure heaven.”
He came to kneel over her once more, but he brought his mouth back to the breasts he’d adored only an hour earlier. As he lowered his mouth over her sensitive flesh, she arched her back, and moved her legs wider apart. She dragged her feet back towards her buttocks, pushing her knees into the air, and inviting him, wordlessly, to move within her.
He wanted to. God, he’d never wanted a woman with such a total desperation.
Rosie groaned, surprising herself with just how devastatingly strong her need was. She pushed her hands onto his chest, and though she was weak compared to him, he allowed her to push him backwards onto the bed. He lay on his back, and she moved to straddle him, delighting in the feel of his powerful body beneath hers.
“You are tormenting me,” she said in a shaky whisper. “And I want to torment you back.”
He was about to ask for clarification, when she brought her mouth down to his nipple and clipped it with her teeth. His laugh was a low rumble. His whole body tightened in response. “Witch,” he murmured, watching in silent fascination as she moved her mouth over his torso, tasting him and enjoying him, as he had her. She planted her hands on his shoulders, then ran them up the length of his arms, finally latching her fingers in his and lifting his arms above his head. She was so slight that she had to wriggle the length of his body, to pin his hands to the pillow. She was too close. It was too tempting. With her womanhood only inches from his face, he gave in to what he’d wanted to do from almost the first moment he’d seen her. He pulled a hand free and brought his fingers to her entrance, watching as her face froze in surprise.
He eased one finger towards her core, then gently moved it inside her slick moistness. “Oh, Rosie,” he murmured, with a slow spreading smile. “You are ready, aren’t you?”
Rosie arched her back and lifted her hands to run through her hair. “God,” she cried, as his finger moved against the most sensitive skin of her body and promised untold pleasures. “I really am. Please, Luca.”
His laugh was a low rumble in his throat. He pulled away from her and returned her to the mattress. “So responsive,” he whispered into the night air. “Excellent.”
Her blood was a raging torrent in her body, pulsing furiously through her veins, beating like a drum in her ears. He came to lean over her, and when he kissed her now, she almost fell apart. Her whole body was tingling; her nerve endings were quivering.
When he entered her, it was gentle, at first. Her whole body screamed out with relief and pleasure. She moaned into the room, thrashing her head from side to side in impassioned response.
Luca’s face seemed to register shock. Surprise. And pleasure. As for Rosie, she could register nothing beyond her own soul-destroying delight at how his body filled hers. Like two pieces of a perfectly broken plate, they just matched. And out of nowhere, that image stuck in her brain. That they were like two fragments of the same thing; broken as one and perfect combined. It was impossibly silly and over-dramatic, but the image was lodged in her subconscious.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him tight, running her fingers down his back with the same rhythm as he moved within her. She called his name over and over, as she got closer and closer to tipping over into a world of utter, desolate pleasure. So pleasurable it was almost painful. She dug her nails into his shoulders and cried out one last time as her whole body dove into another realm. What little control Luca had left disappeared completely in response to her unguarded orgasm. He let himself go immediately. With a ragged, hoarse breath, he found the same relief Rosie had just experienced.
He didn’t want to leave her. He didn’t want her to leave. Those were his first thoughts, once his head had cleared. He didn’t know what Rosie had planned, but one taste of her had certainly not been enough. He felt he needed more, and more. That she was the kind of woman one could never get enough of.
He collapsed onto his bed and turned his head to look at her. The sheet was still pushed down around her ankles. Her body was naked, every little bit visible to him. Her blonde hair, usually so sleek, looked like it had just been teased by hand. Which, he supposed, it had been. But her face, oh, her face! In profile, with cheeks that glowed from passion, and lips that were bruised from his kisses, and a neck that was reddened from his stubble… he was left with the distinct impression that he had marked her. That his body had imprinted on hers. And he was glad. He wished he could properly tattoo her, claiming his rights to her. It was an absurd and barbaric thought, but there had always been an element of the untamed predator in Luca.
“Woah. That almost makes me wish I smoked,” she joked, turning her face to him. Her smile was broad, her nature relaxed.
“You don’t smoke?”
“God, no.” She pulled a face. “I can’t stand the smell of the things.”
He nodded. He felt the same, unusually for a man from his country.
Rosie propped up on her side, holding herself upright on one e
lbow. “That was… incredible.” Her voice was husky, her emotion genuine.
He grinned back at her. “You’re telling me.”
“No, I mean it. I mean, I’ve never done anything like that in my life.” She flushed. “I mean, I’ve done that. But never with someone I’ve just met. And I guess I always thought it was better with someone you loved or something.”
Her embarrassment was delightful. The awkwardness that was making her babble and explain her feelings filled him with pleasure. He reached out and tapped the tip of her nose. “I don’t know if it gets better than that.”
“Oh, phew!” She grinned. “That’s a relief. I’m glad to know it wasn’t just mind-blowing for me.”
“Definitely not,” he promised seriously.
Rosie flipped over onto her back and, for the first time, gave his bedroom a proper inspection. She was left with an overwhelming impression of white. The sort of room that had probably cost a bomb to decorate, undoubtedly using one of the top interior decorators in the city. The effect was pristine, but cold. Far too cold for this warm-blooded, virile man. No color. No heart. No emotion. Just very beautiful, very sterile blandness.
He saw the way her expression changed. From blissful pleasure to cautious distaste. “You don’t like my apartment.” A statement, not a question, for her feelings were obvious.
“Oh, no!” She bit down on her lip, her enormous green eyes winging guiltily to his face. “It’s not that, at all! It’s really, um, lovely.”
“But?” He teased, moving closer to her and stroking her hair.
She shrugged. “I guess it’s just not very ‘you’.”
He frowned. “You do not think?”
“No. It’s like you went to a vending machine and pressed the button for ‘sophisticated billionaire’s city pad’. And this is what you got. Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I have a habit of speaking my mind.”
“A habit I approve of,” he said sincerely. “I chose the color scheme.”
Rosie laughed. “White?”
Even that wasn’t true. His decorator had hounded him so often that, in the end, he’d just agreed with the first thing she’d said. White had been the result. “So how would you decorate it for me, then?”
Rosie looked around thoughtfully. “Definitely more shades of red and black. Color. Life. Bold feature walls and dark furniture.”
He felt something squeeze his chest. “You think that would suit me?”
“Yes. Better than this, anyway.” She blinked her eyes, awkward suddenly. “I’m sorry. I mean, I hardly know you. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Hey.” He put a finger under her chin and angled her face to his. “You do know me. Very intimately, now. I guess I’ve just never really cared about where I live.”
Rosie didn’t understand that. Her little flat was a beacon of her personality; a sign of the kind of woman she was, and what she valued. Nothing had been done to the flat that didn’t perfectly express her personality.
“Well, impersonal or not, this bed is mighty comfortable. I wish I could stay all night.” She smiled up at him reluctantly.
“But you can,” he said immediately. It surprised him. He was usually anxious for his lovers to leave. He liked his own time. His own space.
“No, I can’t.” She pushed out of the enormous bed. “Is the bathroom through here?”
“Si.” He frowned. “You are leaving now?”
“Yes. I have to.”
“But it’s midnight.”
“I know.” She paused in the doorway and fixed him with an expression of bemusement. “Which means I have only a few hours before my work day begins. Flower markets are held painfully early.”
“So? Stay here until then. I might even come with you.”
Another order. Not a question. A statement of intent. It reiterated to Rosie that Luca was a man who was used to being obeyed. It didn’t seem to occur to him that she might not fall in with his plans meekly.
She sighed softly and padded back out of the bathroom, over to the bed. She kissed him lightly on the lips, and felt her heart rate spike when he reached out and put his hands on her hips. “Stay.”
“I can’t.”
Luca didn’t like it. In fact, he really didn’t like it. He was not used to being in the position of begging a woman for more of herself than she wanted to give. And he certainly wasn’t used to being turned down.
“I want to see you again,” he murmured against her mouth.
When she smiled, it was like a perfect little kitten. Her eyes, so feline and exotic, her face so sweetly innocent. His heart turned over in his chest at her softly voiced response. “I certainly hope so, Luca.”
Chapter 4
“Bloody buggery bugger!” She squealed, dropped the crop of Lisianthus halfway through the act of trimming the bottom of their stems. They fell like pickup sticks at her feet, their silk-like blooms in danger of becoming crushed. But Rosie had bigger worries. She pushed a hand through her hair and focussed up at the ceiling.
A beautiful little red-chested robin had just come bursting happily through her open window, singing a merry song, but it now seemed panicked by the confines of her attic space. The bird went from wall to wall, finding only closed windows and hard glass. “Buddy, it’s freezing out! I just have the one window open. Go that way! Go that way!”
She watched in consternation as the bird became more and more frantic, its shiny little eyes conveying fear.
“Oh, darn it.” The bird landed on the edge of her desk, and she moved towards it gingerly. It turned its elegant little neck in her direction and regarded her suspiciously. If she had any hope of getting it out of her apartment, she needed to act quickly.
She looked around for something suitable. A pot. Yes, perfect! She walked slowly across the room. The apartment was open plan in design, and she could retrieve a deep pot from the kitchen area without taking her eyes off her accidental companion.
As she lifted the pot, a wooden spoon that had been resting beneath it fell loose and clattered to the floor with a resounding bang-bang-bang. It was difficult to say who was more startled, Rosie or Robin.
The bird flapped off the desk and did another several circles of the apartment before landing on the top of her wardrobe. “Shoot.” She reached for a copy of her order book and gingerly climbed onto her sofa.
Rosie had spent the day making up floral arrangements for a wedding the following day. She was not expecting company beyond the gorgeous blooms, and she’d dressed accordingly. A pair of faded, snug jeans and a big black sweater. As she reached up on top of her wardrobe with the slowest of movements, careful not to disturb the bird, her sweater lifted with her, revealing inches of her stomach.
Which is how, seconds after lowering the pot onto the frightened creature, Luca Abramo found her. Perilously balanced on the edge of her bright yellow sofa, arms aloft, face a study of concentration.
His face showed his surprise. “Rosie? May I ask what the hell you are doing?”
“Shhh!” She said, flicking her eyes to him. Her heart was racing so fast she thought it was probably outdoing the Robin’s. And it had nothing to do with the Florist and Bird chase she’d just engaged in. No. The second Luca had spoken, her entire body had ratcheted up its physical responses. She lifted her book on to the top of the pot and then lowered her arms. Slowly and carefully, she stepped off the sofa.
Inside the pot, the bird was batting about frantically. “I’m sorry, dearest. It’s for the best.”
“What are you doing?” He asked again, frozen to the spot where he’d entered the apartment, just inside the doorframe.
It hadn’t even been a day since she’d left him. Her eyes lifted to the original fifties clock that hung suspended above her kitchen. It showed that it was not yet seven o’clock at night. But she’d missed him. Now that he was here, back in her personal space, she realised that every flower she’d arranged that day had been accompanied by thoughts of Luca. Her body was supercharged with me
mories of the night before.
She tried to control her reactions, but God, he looked good. The night before, he’d been dressed in a way that befitted a gala affair. Tonight, he was wearing dark denim jeans and a collared shirt, beneath a caramel colored sweater. And over it all, a knee length trench coat in the darkest of blacks. His hair was wavy, his expression sardonic. Effortlessly elegant, and impossibly masculine, given the fact he looked like he could have walked straight from the pages of a high fashion magazine.
“Saving this poor little navigationally challenged thing.” She moved closer and eased the book off the pot just enough to show the bird inside.
“A bird?”
“Obviously.” Her smile was thick with amusement.
She was close. So close to him. How had she forgotten how good he smelled? She breathed in deeply now, and lifted her eyes to his. She was lost. Floating in the dark pools of black opal that shone from his face.
“And what do you plan to do with it?”
She blinked. The bird. “Um, make sure it’s okay and let it go.”
He nodded sagely, but his eyes were locked to her lips. He wasn’t the only one that looked different. Rosie did not habitually wear make up. Her face was bare. Her hair was unstyled. Her clothes were clearly casual. Self-consciousness throbbed inside of her. He was so damned gorgeous; she felt rather inadequate somehow. “Do you make a habit of this?”
She shook her head in confusion. “Of what?” She couldn’t stop thinking about how his hands had felt on her body.
He smiled with indolent amusement. “Of rescuing poor little creatures.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips nervously. “No. Yes. I mean, of course. This one sort of flew right into my home and didn’t seem able to get out. What could I do?”
“Open one of these enormous windows?” He nodded to the glass panels that surrounded two of the walls of her flat.
Marrying Her Enemy & Stolen by the Desert King Page 4
