Rafe kissed her. She sighed and opened her mouth to his. His kiss deepened, his hand cupped her breast and her nipple engorged at his touch.
“Oh,” she said softly, “oh, yes…”
He slid his hand down her body. Cupped her. Slipped a finger inside those plump folds…And saw her wince. Cursing softly, he gathered her into his arms.
“See? I did hurt you. Forgive me, baby. It’s much too soon.”
“No.” Her cheeks turned pink. “If you would like to…to make love again—”
“I would like to make love straight into tomorrow,” he said solemnly. “But this is your first time and you need to take it easy.”
She would have protested but he kissed her again, then rose from the bed. She sat up, the sheet drawn over her breasts, and watched him. Had he changed his mind? Was he leaving her now?
No. He was not. Unashamedly naked, he went into the connecting bathroom and shut the door. Chiara lay back against the pillows. She felt boneless and happy and exhausted. It was as if she had experienced a miracle. That sex—that making love could be like this…
But it was not really love. Love was not what Raffaele—what her husband felt for her, and that was all right because…because it was not what she felt for him, either.
Tears welled in her eyes. And what for? What reason was there to weep? Something that had begun as a disaster had turned into something, yes, wonderful. She was free of her father, of San Giuseppe. And she was with a man who had taught her that sex could be the most wonderful experience of a woman’s life—
Even if he was not going to be in her life…
“Hey.”
Raffaele’s voice was soft. He was standing beside the bed, holding a small basin and a towel.
“Sweetheart. Why are you crying?”
“I am not crying. I am just—I am weepy. Did no one ever tell you that women get weepy when they are happy?” She sniffed back her tears and hurried to change the subject. “Thank you for the basin of water but—”
“But you’re going to take care of things yourself.”
“Sì. As I should. As I—Raffaele, that is not for you to do.”
But he was already sitting beside her, the washcloth in his hand.
“Yes,” he said softly, “it is for me to do.” He brought the warm, wet cloth to her thighs, nudged them gently apart and began laving her with it. “I took your virginity.”
She smiled a little. “Yes,” she whispered. “You did.”
Rafe rinsed the cloth in the basin, wrung it out again and carefully used it on her once more. There were tiny drops of blood on her thighs and on the cloth. The sight of her blood, the knowledge that his lovemaking had been the reason she had shed it, was almost overwhelming.
He put the cloth aside, gently dried her with the soft towel, got into the bed and gathered her in his arms.
“Shut your eyes, sweetheart. You’ve had a long couple of days.”
“Mmm.”
“Just…just let me kiss you first…”
His lips closed over hers. She sighed with pleasure. His mouth moved lower. Along her throat. She sighed again. His mouth found her breasts and her sighs became moans.
“Raffaele,” she said, as he drew a nipple deep into his mouth. “Raffaele…”
“It’s too soon,” he said thickly, but she slipped a hand between them, touched him, caressed him, and he groaned and moved over her. “Are you sure?”
Her answer came not in words but in the stroke of her fingers, the arch of her spine, the mingling of her breath with his.
He drew away, took something from the nightstand drawer. Chiara knew what it was.
A condom.
He had not used one the first time. It was her safe time of month—Miss Ellis had taught her the basics of biology—but she thought she would not have cared if he had made her pregnant. This was her Raffaele.
Her husband.
She watched as he tore open the little pack and rolled the condom on. She wanted to do it for him. To touch him. To explore his hard flesh with her hands, her mouth…
She reached for him as he came back to her, and he entered her slowly, eased into her with such care that his muscles trembled until, at last, he was deep, deep inside her.
Could a woman die of pleasure? If she did, it would be worth what she felt now.
The rhythm he set was hard and urgent but she stayed with him, thrust for thrust. She cried out, arched from the bed and, seconds later, cried out again as her Raffaele took her with him into that place where the sun blazed forever.
“Chiara,” he whispered. “My beautiful, beautiful bride.”
Tears again rose in her eyes. She blinked them back and returned his tender kisses as he drew her close in his arms. Moments later his breathing was deep and even, but she lay awake for a very long time, torn between incredible joy and heartbreaking despair.
Raffaele was her husband.
Except, he was not. Not really.
And this, all of this, could not last.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WAS there a specific protocol for a woman’s behavior when she woke in a man’s arms?
Did you lie motionless until he was awake? Slip free of his embrace, gather up your clothes and tiptoe from the room? What if all that shifting around woke him?
What did people say to each other after they’d spent the night making love?
They’d made love again and again, Chiara thought with a little shudder of pleasure. And each time had been different and even better than the last.
How could her mother have been so wrong? This was not pain or submission or humiliation. This was pure joy, a heart-stopping, breathless climb to the very top of a mountain and then a long, dizzying flight to the stars.
At least, it was when Raffaele Orsini was your lover.
During the night she’d awakened to his kisses. She’d shot from sleep with her heart pounding, struggling against the alien, male touch.
“No,” she’d said sharply, and he’d framed her face with his hands.
“Chiara. Sweetheart, it’s me.”
Slowly she’d became aware of the familiarity of the hard body poised just over hers. His scent. His features. His skin, smooth and warm over taut muscle.
“Raffaele,” she’d whispered.
“I’m sorry, Chiara. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“No. You didn’t. I just…What time is it?”
“It’s late. Very late. You should be asleep.”
She’d smiled, lifted her hand, stroked it against the sexy stubble on his jaw. “Mmm. So should you.”
“Soon,” he’d whispered, between kisses. “But first, a kiss…”
One kiss. Then another. She’d lifted her arms and wound them around his neck. His kisses deepened. Her response intensified. That part of him she had so feared was already hard against her belly. Now it swelled even more.
Why had she ever been afraid of this? Being held so intimately. Being kissed as if you were a man’s only hope of salvation. The stroke of a strong, callused hand.
The pulsing, aroused flesh that was so beautifully, fiercely male.
“Raffaele,” she’d whispered.
Shamelessly she’d wrapped one leg high around his. He’d said her name in a voice so filled with desire that it had been like a caress, slipped a hand beneath her and raised her into him. When his erect penis had nudged against her, she’d caught her breath.
Instantly he pulled back. “Forgive me, sweetheart. You’re sore.”
“I ache,” she’d whispered, “but not because I am sore, Raffaele, I ache for you. I want you inside me.” Overcome with embarrassment, she’d buried her face against his shoulder. “Oh. I should not have said—”
“Yes,” he’d said fiercely, cupping the back of her head, lifting her face to his until their eyes met. “You should. I love hearing you say that you want me.”
“I do,” she’d replied, “I want you, want you, want—”
Their
mouths fused. Moments later he had been deep inside her.
Remembering, Chiara smiled. Actually, she was a little tender, but it was a wonderful tenderness, a reminder of her husband’s lovemaking…
Her smile faded.
Her husband. Her very temporary husband. How had she forgotten that? More to the point, how had she forgotten that, despite his gentleness, his kindness, her husband was in the same “profession” as her father?
She wanted to weep. Her mother had things wrong. Sex was not ugly. It was a drug to make a woman forget the truth.
Quickly she pushed the blankets aside and moved out of Raffaele’s embrace. There was enough early-morning light in the room so she could see her clothes, discarded on the floor. If she was quiet…
“Hey.”
She froze, her dress clasped against her body, her back to the bed.
“What time is it?” Raffaele yawned; the bedding rustled. She knew he must be reaching for the clock on the nightstand. “Chiara,” he groaned, “it’s barely six-thirty.” His voice dropped to a husky purr. “Come back to bed.”
She took a steadying breath, forced the mental image of her husband’s muscled, beautiful body from her mind. The important thing was to speak calmly. She had behaved foolishly, but it would not happen again. He needed to understand that.
“Six-thirty is late for me. At home, I would already be in the kitchen, making coffee.”
His chuckle was low and sexy. “We tried that, remember? I’m the one who makes the coffee around here.”
“It does not matter who makes the coffee. What matters is that your housekeeper will be arriving soon.”
“And?”
“And I do not wish her to find us like this.”
More rustling. Was he getting out of bed? Please, no. Let him stay where he is. At least, let him put on some clothes.
“Not a problem, sweetheart. Mrs. O’Hara doesn’t come in today. Even if she did, she never comes into my bedroom. Well, into a bedroom with a closed door.”
“Certainly not. I am sure she is under strict orders not to disturb you and whatever woman you have brought home for the—”
“Is that what’s troubling you?”
“No. It is not. Why would it trouble me?” Why, indeed? Why had she even said such a foolish—
He came up behind her, dropped his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Are you trying to count all the women who’ve spent the night with me?”
“No,” she said again. “I already told you that.”
Slowly he turned her toward him. Her heartbeat quickened. Yes, he was naked. Beautifully naked, his shoulders and arms taut with muscle, a whorl of dark hair over his hard-planed chest, a flat abdomen leading down to his sex.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said quietly. “There’ve been women here.”
Why did the admission hurt? “Really, Raffaele, you owe me no explanation.”
“Maybe not. But it’s important to me that you understand. I’ve never spent a night like this one, sweetheart. And I’ve never awakened wishing the night had not yet ended.”
She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Something was wrong, but Rafe had no idea what that something was.
“Chiara.”
He put his hand under his wife’s chin and lifted her face to his. Yes. She was troubled. So was he. Something had changed inside him, during the long night. It had to do with their making love but there was more to it than that. He wished to hell he knew what it was, but whatever had changed, whatever he felt, was just out of reach.
He only knew that he was happy.
Incredibly happy.
He said Chiara’s name again, bent his head and kissed her. At first she didn’t respond. Then she sighed and kissed him back.
He smiled. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he said softly.
Her smile was tremulous. “Good morning, Raffaele.”
His eyes moved over her face. As always, it was bare of makeup and it hit him that he couldn’t recall seeing a woman without makeup, even after a long night in bed. Falco joked about it. The 5:00 a.m. face, he called it, because it was always freshly painted on by the time a man opened his eyes. Women were programmed, Falco said, to wake at dawn so they’d have time to scrub off last night’s war paint and put on today’s.
Chiara had put nothing on her face. She hadn’t fixed her hair, either, as women always did. It went with the 5:00 a.m. face—the perfect straight fall or the artfully tumbled curls.
Not his wife. Her hair was a dark nimbus of silk.
Rafe’s gut clenched. It was tough to decide what he wanted most right now. To carry her back to bed and make love to her, or simply to hold her close in his arms.
And there it was again, that sad expression in her lovely eyes. Did she regret their long, wonderful night?
“Sweetheart?” He hesitated. “Are you sorry we made love?”
He’d expected a quick answer, a smile and a no, and maybe a touch of her lips against his. But the seconds slipped past, and just when he thought he was going to go crazy, she shook her head and melted against him.
“The thing is,” she said, in a small voice, “the thing is, I do not understand any of this.”
His sense of relief was enormous. He pulled back, just far enough so he could see her face, and flashed a wicked, sexy grin.
“Which part don’t you understand, baby? I’ll be happy to help.”
“I am serious, Raffaele. I mean, we hardly know each other. Our marriage is not…” She couldn’t say it, and wasn’t that silly? “Our marriage is not a normal one. We are only together because you were my Sir Galahad.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I doubt if Galahad’s armor was as tarnished as mine.”
“And that is another thing.” Her voice was low. “Your…your occupation.”
His eyebrows rose. “Well, I’ll admit, lots of people don’t think much of guys in my business right now, but—”
“You have been so good to me. So gentle.” Her eyes searched his. “So how could you be one of them?”
“One of who?”
“You know. You are part of…of—What is it called here? My father’s organization. Your father’s. How could you be you and be part of that, as well?”
It took a couple of seconds before he figured it out. She still thought he was a hoodlum. He would have laughed, but he sensed that this wasn’t really funny.
“Okay,” he said briskly, “here’s what we’re gonna do. Shower. Get dressed. Then we’ll go out for breakfast and after that, I’ll show you what it is I do for a living. What I really do for a living, sweetheart, as opposed to what you think I do.”
“I know what you do, Raffaele. Didn’t I just tell you that?”
“Yes. You did.” He kissed her. Just for good measure, he kissed her again. “And,” he said softly, “I can see that it really matters to you.”
“Of course it matters,” she said with indignation. “I—You and I—we did things…”
“Amazing things,” he said huskily. “Incredible things.” He gave her a slow, tender kiss. “And we’ll do them again, sweetheart, but first I’m going to show you who I really am.”
“I keep telling you—”
He silenced her with another kiss. “I know you do,” he said gently. “And now, I’m telling you, baby. Give me the benefit of the doubt, okay?”
Chiara nodded. “Okay,” she murmured, because maybe she was wrong about him. She had to be wrong. How could she, of all people, have made love with a man who was as evil as her father? How could she have lain in his arms?
Most of all, she thought, most of all…
Most of all, how could she be falling in love with him?
Rafe wanted her to shower with him.
She refused.
He knew it would take him less than a minute to change her mind. His wife was the most responsive woman he’d ever been with. All he had to do was touch her, kiss her. But if they ended up back in bed, he’d
feel even guiltier about how many times he’d made love to her during the night.
So he made do with a kiss. Well, a few kisses. Her eyelids. Her cheeks. Her delectable mouth and, finally, her breasts. She put up a little struggle, a couple of You must not, Raffaele whispers, but she moaned when he tugged away that ratty dress she clutched like a shield and touched his lips to first one delicate nipple and then the other.
Stopping was sheer hell, but knowing she didn’t want him to stop was a gift that made it worthwhile.
“Later,” he said softly, and then he spun her toward the door and told her to hurry up and get ready to go out.
She bristled.
“I do not take orders, Raff—Oh!”
It was the reaction he’d hoped for, the indignant “Oh” when he swatted her lightly on her naked butt—she was clutching her dress again and she seemed to have forgotten it only covered her front—and then a shocked gasp when he followed it up with a quick kiss on that same place.
She all but ran for the bathroom. He chuckled. He knew he’d pay for it later.
At least, he hoped he would.
Twenty minutes later he was showered and dressed.
Jeans. A dark blue sweater and a leather jacket, because the day looked bright but he could see the tops of the trees in the park swaying under the wind. He scooped up his keys and wallet, then headed downstairs. Chiara wouldn’t be ready, of course. He knew women. She would need another twenty, thirty minutes. He’d wait for her near the elevator. It was safer than waiting for her upstairs where all he had to do was go down the hall, turn the doorknob to her room…
But his wife was waiting for him. She’d tamed her hair, damn it, pulling it back into another of those knots, and she was wearing one of those black dresses.
Something must have shown in his face. She blushed a little, brushed her hand down the length of the dress.
“I know this is not what New York women wear, but—”
Rafe wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her. It was the kind of opening he’d been waiting for, and he wasn’t about to let it go by.
“Breakfast can wait,” he said. “First we’ll deal with what New York women wear.”
Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin Page 14
