He dragged his mouth away from hers and brushed it over her neck. Her head tipped back as he did so, and the ponytail of her fiery hair dangled behind her. He wrapped it around his wrist like a bright, silken rope. His other hand reached for her breast, splaying possessively over the silk-covered curve and feeling the nipple peak and harden beneath his questing fingers.
‘Cesare!’ she cried.
‘What is it, cara? Is that good?’
‘It’s…It’s…Oh, Cesare.’ She wanted to call him darling—her darling—her sweet and wonderful and beautiful darling—Cesare. But he wasn’t her darling, was he? Not any more. He was just a proud and angry man who was setting her on fire with the mastery of his touch.
‘I should have done this years ago,’ he ground out, and pushed her back against the table, brushing aside all the papers and sliding her bottom onto the cleared space, scarcely aware of what he was doing, only that he was being driven on by a power greater than himself. ‘And then I could have rid myself of your face. Rid myself of your pale, beautiful body. Taken the memory of you and screwed it up into a tiny ball and tossed it onto the fire.’
That didn’t sound like affection—it sounded like the very opposite. Almost as if he despised her. Resented her. It should have killed her desire stone-dead—so why was it only escalating? ‘Maybe you should—’
‘Should what?’
‘Stop what you’re doing,’ she breathed.
‘But you don’t want me to stop, do you?’
‘Cesare—’
‘Do you? You would kill me if I stopped, wouldn’t you, my haunting green-eyed witch? You would rake those talons down over my bare back and draw blood, and then you would suck it off, like a vampire.’
‘Yes! No!’ No—no, of course she didn’t want him to stop, and the visual imagery of his words almost made her faint. He was right. She had wanted this to happen since for ever, and even before that. ‘Do it,’ she whispered. ‘Do it and get it over with. And then leave me with the peace that you so obviously crave, too.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he vowed furiously. ‘I intend to.’
The skirt was tricky, but there wasn’t a skirt in the world which would have defeated Cesare di Arcangelo. Never had his experienced hands trembled so much. He rucked it up over her knees, and then further still, to reveal hold-up stockings clinging to pale thighs, and he sucked in a ragged breath, his resolve almost leaving him, but not quite.
Now he could see the fine triangle of lace which hinted at the soft red-gold tangle of hair beneath, and he touched her there with ruthless precision—lightly grazing his finger against her moist heat so that she cried out.
‘Shut up!’ he bit out. ‘We don’t want any of the secretaries coming in. There is only going to be one woman coming, and it is going to be you, my beauty.’
‘Oh, Cesare,’ she whispered helplessly.
He skated his fingers over the cool silk of her inner thigh and she writhed restlessly, impatiently—Cesare knew then that he had her completely in his power, but that he must use that power wisely.
For once he gave her the orgasm her body was so badly craving might she not just turn around and tell him to go to hell?
His fingers stilled and she groaned.
Or would it make her more compliant if he satisfied her now?
He needed her co-operation just as badly as he wanted to have sex with her if his scheme were to succeed. Wouldn’t leaving her wanting him more make her much more acquiescent to his wishes? For hunger was one of life’s great motivators, and sexual hunger the most powerful of all…
He thought of all the times he had pulled back from the brink that long, hot summer, and it gave him the strength to resist pulling her panties right off and plunging into her there and then.
But she writhed her hips again, giving a little whimpering sound of something fast approaching pain, and Cesare knew that she was past the point of no return. His smile was cruel and triumphant as he acted quickly, swiftly disentangling from her to stride across the room and lock the door. And then he came back and began to unbutton her blouse, and suddenly his triumph became a kind of submission.
‘Oh, cara,’ he groaned as he peeled away the silk to reveal the twin thrust of her lush breasts encased in pure white lace. Like a virgin, he thought helplessly, and bent his head to suckle her through the lace, feeling her buck wildly beneath him.
Blindly, he felt for her again, his hand sliding up her skirt and finding her damp warmth, and suddenly he wanted to taste it. Taste her. He tugged at her panties and she lifted her bottom as he edged them down, over her knees and past her ankles, until they dropped to the floor.
She was positioned perfectly, he realised as he began to trace the tip of his tongue up over her stockings to where lace became skin and then beyond, where the skin was softest of all and exquisitely sensitive. And then the folds themselves—moist, warm, secret entrances to her most honeyed treasure. He felt the tip with a touch so light it was almost a whisper, and he felt her little shudder of disbelief. He moved his tongue, curling the very edge of it around her in a rapid little circular movement which had her groping wildly for his shoulders, tangling her fingers frantically in his hair and crying his name out until he shushed her.
Even before he felt a rush of sweet moistness against his lips he could sense her release, and he held her hips while she began to shudder against his mouth. And then he moved away to take her in his arms, pressing his fingers hard against her while she convulsed around them, and he kissed away her wild cry until—to his astonishment—the cry became real. And tears, great shimmering tears, began to roll down her cheeks. He felt them mingling with their merged mouths—so many different flavours of her—and heard the choking little noises she made as she tried to recover herself.
He drew back from her, his black eyes hooded—for he never trusted women’s tears. They turned them on and off at will, as weapons of manipulation, that was all. As a deterrent they could not have come at a better time, though, for they stilled his own sexual hunger so that he was able to rein it in—a feat of self-control which few other men would have been able to manage under the circumstances.
‘You cry?’ he demanded. ‘I do not please you?’
It was an absurd question to ask—for surely he must have known that he had? Sorcha felt hopeless—helpless, shaky and insecure, and completely out of her depth—as if he had scraped away the top layer of skin and left her raw and vulnerable, unsure what to do next. She shook her head.
He smoothed her hair away from her damp face and frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘That…That…’
She looked almost shy, he realised. Shy?
‘What?’
She felt the blush wash upwards from her neck and she opened her eyes, biting her lip. ‘It was just…Oh! With your tongue…Well, I mean, I’ve never…’
He held her still. Were his ears deceiving him. ‘Never?’ he demanded shakily.
She shook her head.
For a moment Cesare stilled, and then he buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes. It was like music to his ears, though he scarcely dared to believe it. Had she hungered for him so badly over all these years that there had been no other man for her?
He slid his arms around her waist and levered her back up, smoothing her hair and looking into her eyes. ‘You’re trying to tell me you’re a virgin?’
There was a split-second silence, and Sorcha was so tempted to lie. To tell him what he really wanted to hear—and wouldn’t that make it much easier to bear? Then the way that she’d reacted might have been a bit more understandable—if she’d loved and wanted and waited all that time for him to make love to her then who could blame her for what she had just allowed to happen?
But she couldn’t lie. Not to Cesare. And certainly not about something as important as that. She knew how highly he rated purity—wasn’t it the main reason he had asked her to marry him?
‘No, I’m not a virgin,’ she said quietly.
Now she had made him into a fool! Or had he only himself to blame for the sudden leap of hope he had felt? As if she wouldn’t have had a long line of lovers…not when he knew how instantly she reacted to a man’s touch.
His mouth curved. ‘Your lovers must not have been good lovers,’ he drawled. ‘If they did not know how much a woman likes to be eaten.’
‘You are disgusting!’ she breathed.
‘You weren’t saying that a minute ago.’
Distractedly, she tugged at her skirt and straightened her blouse over her swollen breasts. It was like waking up from a dream when she hadn’t even realised she’d been asleep.
What the hell would he think of her now?
Yet he had started it—set the ball rolling with that almost punishing kiss. And you let him. Egged him on. Incited him in a way which was almost wanton. Was it any excuse to say that she hadn’t been able to stop herself? That once she had felt Cesare’s lips on hers it had been like falling down a well straight into paradise?
She ran her tongue over her parched lips. ‘That should never have happened,’ she said hoarsely.
‘Shouldn’t it?’
Briefly, she closed her eyes. ‘Not at the office!’
Cesare bit back a little murmur of satisfaction. The location had only added to its allure—but it was neither the time nor the place to tell her that her sudden capitulation to his kiss and its subsequent repercussions had been among the most erotic things to happen to him in a lifetime of erotic situations. That piece of knowledge would make her a little too powerful, and he liked to be the one with all the power.
And what was it about her that she should weave such magic over him even now? Because his desire for her had eaten away at him over the years? Or because she was so unexpectedly responsive? He swallowed down the bitter taste of jealousy—for that would not further his cause. He wanted her, and he intended to have her, and angry accusations about the men before him would not help his cause. And why should he feel jealousy over a woman for whom he felt nothing?
‘And what about you?’ she whispered, suddenly aware of how selfish she must seem—as if her own pleasure was the only thing which counted. This might not be a love affair made in heaven, but Cesare must be going out of his mind with frustration. ‘Don’t you…? Don’t you…want…?’
‘Sorcha—do not look so fraught. Let us acknowledge what we have—the chemistry between us is incredibile,’ he murmured. ‘Of course I want you—but I do not want our first time to be marred by a lack of time. By wondering if the phone will ring or one of the secretaries will knock on the door. Yes?’ He lifted her onto the ground, enjoying the scarlet flush to her cheeks. He lifted her chin with his finger. ‘Yes?’ he said again.
His words only reinforced how stupidly she had behaved—without even a thought of what this could do to her career. This was the career she had sacrificed so much for, was it? She could afford to throw it away—along with her self-respect—just because sexy Cesare di Arcangelo had touched her?
She pushed his arm away. ‘This is crazy,’ she whispered.
‘Crazy?’ He gave a slow smile. ‘That is not the definition I would have used, mia bella. It was stupore—amazing. And it is going to be amazing again. In fact, it’s going to happen in my hotel room tonight. You know it is.’
He silenced her protest with a finger placed over the soft cushion of her lips, and she could smell her own raw scent on him and her eyes closed helplessly.
And when he took the finger away, she did not argue with him.
CHAPTER SIX
SORCHA’S mobile began to ring, and her green eyes narrowed as she looked at the unknown number. Cesare. She would bet money on it.
Cesare.
After he had gone off to meet Rupert, she had been completely distracted by what had taken place in the boardroom. Had that been his intention? To show off his sexual wizardry and rub in exactly what she’d been missing out on? Hoping perhaps to reduce her to a shivering jelly—as she lived out that erotic encounter, moment by moment? Was he also hoping that she would be unable to work properly so he could tell her that she was no longer required by the company? Perhaps his bizarre idea about having her front the Whittakers advertising campaign was nothing more than a double bluff?
No. Cesare might be underhand and devious—but she doubted whether even he would stoop so low as that.
But she had to claw back some of her self-control—to show him that she wasn’t just some malleable female he could twist and pull like one of those rubber cartoon characters she’d used to play with as a child. She pulled the sheet of figures she’d been working on towards her, so that at least she was properly armed with a few facts in case he tried to interrogate her about how she’d spent her day.
She cleared her throat and clicked the button. ‘Sorcha Whittaker.’
‘Hello, SorchaWhittaker,’ purred the rich Italian accent down the tinny line of the mobile. ‘What are you doing?’
Had he guessed she’d been thinking about him—or was this just par for the course with a man like Cesare? She swallowed, closing her eyes, trying to rid her mind of the image of his dark, mocking face—the feel of his mouth against hers and his hands brushing against her skin.
How had this happened when it had never happened to her before? That a man could start making love to you and suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
In the intervening hours he had obsessed her. It was as if he pervaded her every thought and action—as if nothing she could look at in her immediate surroundings would not remind her of Cesare.
‘I’ve been working,’ she said.
‘How very disappointing. I thought you’d be thinking about what I was doing to you a few hours ago,’ he said softly. ‘I know that I have.’
‘Cesare—don’t.’
He leaned against the wall of the Whittakers factory, alone now that the last of the staff had just trooped off home for the day. ‘But it should be interesting to see what you’ve come up with. I’ll pick you up at seven. We are having dinner tonight, remember?’
He had said nothing about dinner—he had merely intimated sex in his apartment. Sorcha shivered. With distance between them it suddenly seemed easier to say no.
‘I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,’ she said quietly.
There was a pause. ‘You haven’t changed, have you, Sorcha? You still like to tease men until they’re going out of their mind. Promising, and then failing to deliver.’
The accusation hit her like a poison dart—but didn’t some of what he’d said ring true? She could not take what she wanted from him like a greedy child and then back away, scared that she was going to get hurt. But if she didn’t want to get hurt then she was going to have to protect herself—and that meant ruthlessly eradicating the side of her that wanted to beg him to be sweet to her, to pretend that he really cared for her. Because if there was no pretence, then she wouldn’t start building up any foolish hopes, only to have them shattered by the harsh hammer of reality.
‘Actually, I wasn’t attempting to tease you at all,’ she said coolly. ‘I was speaking the truth, if you must know—I really don’t think it’s such a good idea. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to come.’
His relief that she wasn’t backing off was only heightened by her cool response, and Cesare closed his eyes and bit back a sensual retort, recognising that he was skating on very thin ice—and that she was unpredictable. But if she thought that adopting an air of faint resignation meant that he might relent and call the whole thing off then she had underestimated him very badly indeed. She owed him—in more ways than one.
‘I will pick you up at seven,’ he said.
‘Make it seven-thirty.’
He was left staring at the phone after she had severed the connection, and it occurred to him that he simply wasn’t used to being left hanging on. Goodbyes to women he was intimate with were invariably protracted, with Cesare usually coming up with the let-out clause: I
have to go. Someone’s trying to get through to me. And then he would receive a breathless apology or a pouting little protest on the lines of Oh, Cesare—you’re always so busy!
But he was only busy when he chose to be. He had reached a position of power and authority when it was always possible to delegate. These days he cherry-picked his jobs with the same ruthlessness which had taken him to the very top of the tree.
He had inherited much from his overambitious mother and father—including a need to make it in his own line of business, despite the vast amount of wealth he had inherited after their deaths.
His eyes narrowed suddenly as he glanced around the empty car park and the concrete jungle beyond, inexplicably comparing the scene with his orchards back home in Italy, and suddenly he felt a great pang of homesickness.
He drew out a set of keys from his pocket and looked up at the sky. By travelling the world he was missing all the seasons, he realised—the natural pace of the world was passing him by.
He thought about the August crop of damsons which grew in the gardens of his villa. About how they became so plump and ripe that they tumbled from the trees—glowing on the grass like purple jewels with succulent golden flesh inside. They would be out soon, he realised.
How long since he had bitten into their sweetness and let their juice run over his lips? How long since he had given himself time to gather in the harvest?
And why had this place suddenly made him start thinking about home? Cesare frowned as he thought about the rural retreat he’d bought as an antidote to the cold splendour of the Roman mansion in which he had spent a lonely childhood.
I need sex, he thought, as he loosened his tie and headed towards his car. Just sex.
And tonight you are going to get it, he thought with a slow smile of satisfaction as he climbed in behind the steering wheel of his sports car.
Hunter's Moon & Bedded for Revenge Page 21
