Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

by Sandra Marton

  She turned toward him. She was sobbing; her face was wet with tears.

  “Baby,” he whispered, and then she was in his arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RAFE gathered his wife tightly in his arms, his heart soaring as she looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his.

  He knew that his anger had been nothing but a pathetic attempt at hiding the truth. He wanted her, had wanted her from that first kiss in Sicily. And she wanted him.

  He was not going to turn away from that tonight.

  The bed was only a few steps away.

  He could take her to it, strip her naked, tear off his own clothes and bury himself in her. One deep thrust and she would be his.

  Some still-functioning part of his brain told him he owed her much, much more.

  She was innocent. A virgin. And she’d been told things about what happened between men and women that had terrified her.

  He had to make what came next perfect. As perfect as her innocence.

  “Chiara,” he said softly.

  Slowly she opened her eyes. The pupils were enormous, deep and dark and filled with all the questions a man could ever want to be asked. With all his heart, Rafe hoped he had answers that would please her.

  “Chiara,” he said again, and kissed her. Once. Twice, his lips brushing gently over hers, each time lingering just a little longer until she gave a sigh of pleasure and her lips parted.

  “That’s the way,” he murmured. “Yes, sweetheart. Open for me. Taste me. Let me taste you.”

  He could feel her hesitation. Then, slowly, she let him in.

  The need to tumble her onto the bed swept through him with such power that he felt his muscles constrict. His big, powerful body shuddered.

  “Raffaele?”

  “It’s all right. I just—I want—” He framed her face between his hands, lifted it to him and kissed her, his mouth hot and open over hers, his tongue seeking the sweetness that awaited him.

  Her taste filled him. Honey. Cream. Vanilla. And, mingled with it, the taste of a woman aroused.

  He whispered her name. She moved closer. Her hands crept up his chest to his shoulders, and he lifted her into him. He felt the delicate weight of her breasts against the hard wall of his chest, felt the feminine convexity of her belly pressed against the taut flatness of his.

  Felt his erection rise and swell until he groaned with the almost unbearable pleasure of it.

  Chiara gasped. Clutched his shoulders. Said his name again, and he could hear shock, wonder, apprehension in the single whispered word.

  He was like stone. And all of this was new to his wife.

  He took his lips from hers. Held her by the shoulders. She whimpered, tried to move closer, and though it killed him to stop her, he did.

  “Why—” Her voice was low and thready. “Why did you stop kissing me? Did I do it wrong? If I did—”

  “No,” he said quickly. “God, no! There’s no right way or wrong way to kiss.” Another deep breath. “But I don’t want to hurry you, sweetheart, or frighten you.”

  “I am not afraid of you,” she whispered. “It is the rest. The…the touching.”

  “We can stop now,” he said, and wondered if a man who was a liar could still be a candidate for sainthood.

  Her response was too soft to hear.

  She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t want to stop. I want to know what it is men and women do together.”

  “Not men and women,” he said gruffly. “Us. You and me.”

  Her smile filled his heart. “Si. You and me, Raffaele. Show me, please.”

  He brought her hand to his lips, pressed kisses to her fingertips, then brought her hand between them and laid it lightly over his erection. Her breath hissed between her teeth; her palm cupped the hard bulge in his jeans.

  Rafe shuddered and Chiara snatched back her hand. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said gruffly, clasping her hand, putting it on him again. “No, you didn’t hurt me. I—” he swallowed hard “—I love what you just did. Touching me that way…Do you know what it means, that I’m hard like that?”

  He watched her teeth worry her bottom lip. He longed to do that for her. Bite gently into that delicate flesh.

  “It means—” Her voice was so low he had to bend to her to hear it. “It means you…you want to do things to me.”

  Rafe swallowed an oath. “It means that I want to do things with you. To touch each other in ways that bring us both pleasure.”

  She nodded, dipped her head so that her curls became a curtain that hid her from him.

  “Do it, then,” she whispered.

  Rafe took a long breath, expelled it slowly enough to give him time to think. Then he put his hand under Chiara’s chin and lifted her face to his.

  “Hey,” he said gently, “this isn’t a visit to the dentist.” That bought him a smile, as he’d hoped it would. “Chiara. Sweetheart, we’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “That’s just it. I do not know what I want or do not want.” She lifted her hands to his chest. Could she feel the race of his heart? “I only know that…that something happens when you kiss me, Raffaele. I feel…I feel—”

  “Tell me.”

  Her face colored. “I feel things. Sensations. In…in parts of me…” A laugh that was close to a sob caught in her throat. “I cannot talk about it. Talking about my body is—”

  She gasped as he cupped her breast, gave a little cry, almost pulled back, but he slid an arm around her, held her while his fingers moved gently, unerringly over her nipple. He could feel it budding even through the harsh, unyielding cotton of her dress. She moaned. Her lashes drooped, became inky-black crescents against her cheeks.

  “Do you feel something when I do this?” he said hoarsely.

  She looked up at him, her face striped with color. “Yes. Oh Dio, yes. Like that. Just like—”

  “Where do you feel it?”

  “There. Where you are touching me. And…and elsewhere. Lower than my breasts, Raffaele. I feel it—”

  She cried out as he ran his hand down her body, to the juncture of her thighs. He had touched her there before but all of that had gone too quickly. None of what would happen now would be quick. He would bring her slowly, slowly to pleasure, and never mind his own desires.

  This first time, only her needs, her pleasure, her fulfillment mattered.

  “Here?” he said thickly. “What do you feel, baby?”

  “I feel—I feel—heat. A tingle. It is what happens during a storm, when you stand outside and the lightning strikes on the hills and you can almost feel the electricity in your bones. Do you know what I mean, Raffaele?”

  He knew. It was how he felt now, as if a storm of incredible magnitude were building inside him, the tension almost more than he could tolerate.

  He answered the whispered question by urging her thighs apart, just enough so he could cup her over the stiff fabric of her dress. She gasped, her eyes wild. “I feel as if…as if I am melting. There. Where your hand is.”

  He could feel his muscles trembling. Her innocence was enough to send him to the edge of control, but he would not let that happen.

  “Your body is readying itself for me, sweetheart. For us.”

  He moved his hand and she gasped again, then buried her face against his shoulder. “I never knew—”

  “No,” Rafe said with a little laugh, “neither did I.” It was true. He’d been with a lot of women and enjoyed them all, but this, what was happening now, what he was feeling now…

  “I think I am burning up,” she whispered.

  So was he. When she returned tomorrow morning, Mrs. O’Hara might well find this bedroom in ashes.

  “I think—” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we get some of this clothing out of the way?”

  “Is it time for me to…to undress?”

  “Leave that to me,” he said huskily.

  Did everything she owned have a
thousand buttons? Did the buttons always have to be so small, especially when his fingers were so big and clumsy? It took forever to undo the first button. The second. The third…

  The dress began falling open, revealing her to him, and he forgot about buttons, buttonholes, the size of his fingers. He skimmed the back of his hand down her throat, then followed the same path with light kisses. Her pulse, in the tender hollow where her neck met her collarbones, danced beneath his mouth and he exulted at the feel of it.

  At last the buttons were all undone. Rafe freed her of the dress and let it fall to her feet.

  Her bra, her panties were white cotton, just as they’d been that first time. Except he hadn’t undressed her then, he’d torn the dress from her body.

  All the more reason to do this with the greatest care. He would touch her as if she were made of the most delicate crystal.

  He would. He would—but the curve of her breasts above that modest bra was lush. And, God, he could see the dark outline of her nipples…

  Rafe bent his head and closed his mouth around the tip of one cotton-covered breast. Chiara’s cry of pleasure almost tore him apart.

  On a low growl, he scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bed and laid her down. He kicked off his mocs, yanked his sweater over his head and tossed it aside. Chiara’s gaze flew over him, as hot and urgent as a caress. He came down on the bed beside her and kissed her, his mouth drinking the honey from hers, his hands learning her body.

  Her bra closed in the front, and he sent up a silent thank-you to whatever god had sent him that gift. She didn’t try to stop him as he undid the clasp but when the bra came away, her hands fluttered up to cover her breasts.

  He shook his head, gently caught her wrists and brought her hands to her sides.

  “Let me see you,” he whispered. “I need to see you, Chiara.”

  She lay back. She was breathing hard. He could feel her eyes on him as he looked at her.

  Ah, she was beautiful. More beautiful than he had imagined. Her breasts were round, with dusty pink crests already peaking as they begged for the heat of his mouth.

  He brought his gaze to her face, watched her eyes as he cupped one breast, groaning as he felt the perfect weight of it in his hand. Her pupils widened, then seemed to swallow her irises as he moved his thumb over the tip.

  “Raffaele…”

  Her voice was shaky. He stroked her nipple again, then captured it between his thumb and index finger, gently caressed it.

  Chiara moaned.

  “Do you like that?” he said thickly.

  A sob broke in her throat. She moaned again as he increased the pressure of his caress, lowered his head, closed his lips around the straining nipple and drew it deep into the heat of his mouth.

  She said something in Italian. He didn’t understand the words, but the arching of her body, the feel of her hand clasping the nape of his neck as he sucked on her beaded flesh, told him all he needed to know.

  He drew back. She made a sweet sound of protest.

  “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said fiercely. “Never.”

  It took only seconds to unzip his jeans, get rid of them and his shorts. He saw her eyes flash to his genitals, then widen and fly to his face.

  He’d never considered what a woman might feel the first time she saw a fully aroused male. Now he did. Could it be frightening? Maybe, especially if the woman was completely innocent. And if the guy was big.

  He was.

  He’d always taken a kind of arrogant male pride in his size. Now he realized that what might make an experienced woman smile with anticipation could make his Chiara feel terror.

  He took her hand. Brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss into the palm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “This is just another part of me.” He kissed her hand again, then slowly brought it to his erection. She hesitated and then he felt the first, cool brush of her fingers.

  It took all the determination he possessed not to throw back his head and groan.

  “See?” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Slowly her hand closed around his turgid length. Rafe bit his lip.

  “You are so hard here,” she said in wonder. “And yet, so soft.”

  “Not soft,” he said, trying for a little levity. “Not—”

  Ah. She moved her hand. Up. Down. Up…

  He caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said gruffly. “Or this will end too quickly.” He pressed a light kiss to her mouth. “Besides,” he whispered, “this isn’t fair.”

  “It isn’t?”

  He smiled. “I’m naked. You’re not.”

  He kissed her again, deeper, longer, and as he did, he slid her panties off. Then he traced the path they’d taken with his hand. The lovely indentation of her waist. The curve of her hip.

  The delicate curls that guarded her feminine heart.

  Her fingers clamped on his.

  “I won’t hurt you, Chiara,” he said softly.

  Slowly she took her hand away.

  Rafe stroked those curls. Soothed her with soft words. Softer kisses. She was silken under his touch, warm and, yes, wet. Wet for him.

  He drew back and looked at her. His throat constricted.

  Naked, she was everything he had imagined. She was an El Greco painting come to life, Praxiteles’s Aphrodite made all the more exquisite because she was flesh and blood, not cold marble.

  “Chiara,” he whispered, and he moved down her body and pressed his lips to that sweet, female delta.

  Her hands flew to his shoulders. “No! You must not—”

  He caught her wrists and went on kissing her. Gradually, her hands relaxed in his grasp. Her breathing quickened. And when he gently parted her delicate folds, she sobbed his name.

  “It is too much,” she said brokenly. “Too much…”

  He knew it wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to see her fly into the sky, then fly into it again…with him.

  “Open your legs for me,” he said in a voice so rough it didn’t seem his own.

  “I can’t,” she said breathlessly. “People do not—”

  “Open your legs, baby. For me.”

  Slowly she did as he’d asked. He touched her with reverence, parted her again, groaned when he saw the tender bud of her clitoris.

  “Chiara,” he said softly, and he put his mouth against her.

  Wild little cries burst from her throat. She began to weep. He froze but then he felt her hands in his hair, holding him to her instead of pushing him away. As if he would ever take his mouth from her, he thought in wonder. From her taste. Her scent. She was everything a man could ever want or dream.

  She was his.

  He slipped his hands under her, lifted her higher into the passionate intimacy of his kiss. He felt her shudder and then she screamed his name and he knew she had glimpsed the burning rays of the sun.

  Now, he thought, and he moved over her, positioned himself between her thighs and entered her, teeth gritted with the determination to do it slowly.

  He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to hurt her—

  Her legs closed around his hips, urging him on.

  Rafe flung his head back, thrust deep, flew over the edge of the earth and took his wife with him.

  Chiara lay beneath Raffaele’s hard body, her arms still holding him to her.

  His heartbeat was slowing or maybe it was hers. They were so close that she couldn’t tell the difference. And he was still inside her.

  She closed her eyes.

  A man, inside her. No. It was this man who was inside her. This man, who had taken her on a journey so intense she’d never wanted it to end.

  This man.

  Her husband.

  The thought sent a sweet tremor through her. Raffaele stirred. Without thinking, she tightened her arms around him.

  “Hey,” he said softly, and she blushed as she realized he wanted to get off her. Of course he did. Her mother had told her some things
that were obviously incorrect but some were surely accurate.

  For instance, when a man finished with a woman, he had no further wish to remain in her bed. This was Raffaele’s bed, not hers, but the principle was the same.

  What an idiot I am, she thought, and let him go.

  He rolled off her, but he didn’t go anywhere. Instead he gathered her into his arms and drew her close. Surprised, she let him do it—she loved having him do it—but she wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d hold her for very long.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded and burrowed a little closer, her nose just at the juncture of his shoulder and arm. She loved the smell of him there. Back home, there’d been times the very scent of a man’s body made her belly knot and her throat clench but this was different. Rafe’s scent was masculine and musky and exciting.

  “Chiara?” He ran one hand into her hair as he cupped her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

  He had, at that last amazing moment, but she’d have died rather than have stopped him. The feel of him, deep inside her…It had been pleasure so incredible that even remembering it made her tremble.

  “Damn,” he said gruffly, “I did.”

  “No. It’s all right. I did not mind.”

  “You didn’t mind?” Suddenly she was no longer lying cradled against him, she was on her back and he was leaning over her. “Damn it, you have every right to mind,” he said gruffly. “I tried to go slow but—”

  “Raffaele.” She smiled. “It was wonderful.”

  He grinned. Such a becoming grin! But then, why wouldn’t it be? He was beautiful.

  “Yeah?”

  “Wonderful,” she said softly.

  “The next time we make love, it’ll be even more wonderful.”

  Her heart filled. They had not had sex, they had made love. How wrong her mother had been!

  “What?” he said, smiling at her.

  She smiled back. “Nothing. I was just thinking…”

  “Me, too.” His smile tilted. “About next time.”

  “I am glad you are thinking that, Raffaele,” she whispered. “Very glad.”