by Sara Craven
He added softly, ‘You can command me not to touch you, but not to stop wanting you. Because that has become impossible.’
Then he bent his head, and his lips met hers.
CHAPTER FOUR
SOME distant voice in her mind was telling her that she should fight him. That she should kick, bite and punch, if necessary, before the warmth of his mouth on hers sapped every last scrap of resistance from her being.
That she should hang on, with every ounce of will she possessed, to her life—her safe, planned future with Chris.
And to her reason—her sanity.
But it was too late. Indeed, she realised helplessly, it had always been too late—from that first time she had seen him in the restaurant. And, even more, from that fleeting moment when his lips had first touched hers.
It was pointless to remind herself that she had no moral right to be doing this. That she was engaged—committed—soon to be married. That this was a madness she could not afford. Because logic, reason, even decency no longer seemed to matter.
And the most shaming thing of all was that he was using no force—because he didn’t have to. Because her lips were already parting in acceptance, and welcome. And with a growing hunger she was no longer able to disguise, even had she wanted to.
Her mind—her will—was in free fall—cascading into surrender.
And the hands which had been braced in the beginnings of protest against the wall of his chest lifted and locked at the nape of his neck.
At first it was a gentle, almost leisurely exploration of her mouth, as if he was learning the taste—the texture of her. Then, slowly, the kiss deepened, imposing new demands. Testing the outer limits of her control. And his.
Her body was pressed against him, making her aware that he was powerfully aroused. The hurry of his heartbeat seemed translated into her own being.
He pushed a hand into her hair, twining the silky strands round his fingers, drawing her head backwards so that the long, lovely line of her throat was exposed and vulnerable to the lingering passage of his caress. His lips found the pink shell of her ear, then travelled down to the frantic tumult of her pulse.
She gasped as she felt the heated, animal surge in her blood. As his lips encountered the delicate hollows at the base of her throat, pushing aside the narrow strap, baring the curve of her shoulder.
The long fingers found the rounded curve of her breast, moulding it gently as his thumb moved delicately, voluptuously on the hardening nipple. Flora leaned her forehead against his shoulder, eyes closed, lost in exquisite shuddering sensation.
Whatever coherency remained in her mind told her that she had never felt like this before. Never dreamed it was possible that she could want like this. That she could welcome every new intimacy and long for more.
She heard herself say hoarsely, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Everything.’ His voice was a husky whisper, the single word an affirmation. Almost a warning.
He kissed her again with slow, sensual purpose, while his hands continued their absorbed, teasing play with the heated peaks of her breasts, making her sigh her pleasure against his lips.
She wasn’t even sure when he released the zip at the back of her dress, letting the soft fabric slide away from her shivering skin.
He lifted her into his arms, sinking back with her on to the sofa, holding her so that she was lying across his thighs, the black dress pooling round her hips, her entire body attuned—accessible—to the touch of his hands and mouth.
She heard him murmur in throaty appreciation as his dark head bent to adore the scented mounds he had uncovered, and she quivered as she felt the burn of his lips against her skin—the flickering glide of his tongue on her nipples.
She made a little stifled sound and he lifted his head, looking down at her, the green eyes warm and slumbrous.
‘You don’t like that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Too much—too much.’
He stroked each taut peak with a gentle finger. ‘They are like tiny roses,’ he told her softly. ‘Only more sweet.’
Her own hands were pulling feverishly at the buttons on his shirt to free them, touch the heated, hair-roughened skin beneath, and he helped her, dragging the loosened edges apart, then lifting her triumphantly, almost fiercely, so that her naked breasts grazed his own.
His mouth closed on hers with renewed fire, and she clung to him, half dizzy with abandonment, aware of nothing but the pagan clamour of her flesh.
He moved suddenly, lifting her away from him, setting her on her feet, and for an instant she looked at him in mute bewilderment. He smiled slowly up at her, letting his hands drift down her body to disentangle her finally from the ruin of her dress.
When it was done Marco stared at her for a long moment, absorbing the contrast between the creaminess of her skin and the silken black of the tiny undergarment which was her sole remaining covering.
He said softly, ‘All evening I have been imagining how you would look at this moment, and you are more beautiful than any fantasy, Flora mia.’
His fingers spanned her waist lightly. ‘Because you are real.’
His touch lingered on her flat stomach. ‘And warm.’
His hand moved downward, brushing over the fragile silk, until he reached the scalding secret core of her, where he lingered.
‘And wanting me,’ he added huskily.
With one lithe movement he was on his feet, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and walking with her out of the room, and across the passage into the stark whiteness of her bedroom.
Still holding her, he bent slightly, switching on the lamp beside the bed, then took hold of the immaculate bedspread, pulling it back and tossing it to the foot of the bed before lowering Flora to the mattress.
She looked up at him through half-closed eyes as he stood over her. She was aware of the thud of her heart, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as sudden nervousness lent an edge to her excitement. And she was conscious too that it was a stranger’s face that looked down at her in the lamplight, shadowed and almost feral in its intensity.
Her throat tightened. ‘Is something—wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ The sound of her voice seemed to awake him from some spell. His smile banished the shadow—or had that just been a figment of her overwrought imagination? ‘Except that you are still wearing too many clothes, mia bella.’
‘So,’ she whispered, ‘are you.’
‘You think so?’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Well, that is easily remedied.’
He stripped with deftness and grace, and without apparent self-consciousness, although she knew he was watching her watch him.
Watching her widening eyes, and the swift, betraying flush that stained her cheeks as she absorbed his lean, strong, totally masculine beauty. The flutter of the muscles in her suddenly dry throat, as apprehension took hold. As she remembered…
Her eyes and her mind went blank. She wanted to run—to hide—to be a thousand miles from this place—this room—this bed—where pain and humiliation waited for her all over again.
The flame in her veins was cooling to ice. The swift, mindless rapture that had consumed her such a short time ago had burned itself out, leaving her with only the ashes.
She thought, Oh, God—what can I do? What can I say…?
She felt the bed dip as he came to lie beside her. Heard him say her name with a question in his voice.
Fingers as gentle as the brush of a feather stroked her hot cheek, then inexorably turned her face towards him.
He said quietly, ‘Tell me.’
Pointless to pretend she didn’t understand.
She said, falteringly, ‘I’m not a virgin—at least, not completely.’
She’d been afraid he would laugh, or be scornful, but instead he nodded, the green eyes thoughtful.
‘You are telling me that you have made love with your fidanzato after all?’
‘Not—exactly.’ She swallowed. ‘This is�
��so difficult to explain.’
‘No,’ Marco said. ‘You forget—I have seen your eyes, mia bella. And I do not believe that your first surrender was a happy experience for you. Is that what you are trying to say?’
‘Yes—I suppose.’ She flushed unhappily, avoiding his gaze. ‘But it wasn’t Chris’s fault. I just didn’t realise it would—hurt so much.’
She tried to smile. ‘It’s so ridiculous. I’m a twenty-first century woman, not some early Victorian. It never occurred to me…’ Her voice trailed into silence.
He stroked her hair back from her forehead. ‘And when the pain was over, did he give you pleasure?’
He sounded totally matter-of-fact—as if he was asking if she thought it would rain tomorrow, she told herself, bewildered.
She said stiltedly, ‘He was very—kind about it. But, naturally, he was terribly upset that he’d hurt me. So he suggested it might be better—to wait—before trying again. So we—have…’
‘Such amazing self-control.’ The cool drawl held a sudden bite. ‘I am filled with admiration.’
‘He was thinking of me,’ Flora defended swiftly.
He shrugged a negligent shoulder. ‘Did I suggest otherwise?’
‘And it was my problem—my failure,’ she went on with determination.
‘With lovers, there is no question of failure,’ he said softly. ‘Some times are better than others—that is all.’ He paused. ‘As for this problem you believe you have—we shall solve it together.’
Her voice shook. ‘I don’t think—I can…’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But you will. And that is a promise, Flora mia. So, do you believe me? Say, “Yes, Marco.”’
A tiny shaken laugh escaped her. ‘Yes, Marco.’
‘Then why are you still trembling?’
She thought, Because no matter how scared I might be, you make me tremble—and burn—and shiver—and ache. And even if I had all the experience in the world you would still possess the power to do this to me. Because—with you—I cannot help myself.
She said, with a catch in her voice, ‘I think you know…’
He said quietly, ‘Perhaps.’
He framed her face in his hands and began to kiss her again, lightly and sensuously, making no further demands until her taut body began gradually to relax and her lips parted for him on a little sigh of acceptance. His kiss deepened, showing her a glimpse of hunger held well in check. Leaving her almost disappointed when he took his mouth from hers.
He held her for a long time, murmuring to her in his own language, his long fingers stroking her tumbled hair, her cheek, the line of her throat, his gentleness a reassurance. And a seduction.
When his lips next touched hers Flora responded like a flower turning to the sun, offering her mouth’s inner sweetness without restraint.
As they kissed Marco began to caress her, the experienced hands slowly rediscovering the curves and planes of her body, revealing them to her anew through his touch.
She had never known there could be such excitement in the brush of skin on skin. She was warming deliciously, her body tinglingly alive to the subtle caress of his fingers, so intent on every new sensation he was offering that she hardly knew the moment when he slipped off her final covering and she was naked in his arms at last.
When his hand parted her thighs, her little gasp was lost under the answering pressure of his lips, as he kissed her deeply and with mounting sensuality. And any sense of shock or shyness was drowned in the flood of sensation which instantly assailed her.
His fingers stroked and tantalised, demanding her quivering body to yield up its most intimate secrets to him. Turning her slowly and deliberately to liquid fire.
She began to move in response to his caress, her body arching tautly towards him as his lips returned to her breasts, suckling the rosy peaks with voluptuous delight. At the same time his exploring hand discovered, then focused on another tiny hidden mound, moving gently and rhythmically on its moist, silken pinnacle.
She was making small helpless sounds in her throat, her head twisting involuntarily on the pillow. She was dissolving in pleasure, her attention absorbed, blindly concentrated on the delicate arousing play of his fingertips with an intensity that bordered on pain. Nothing existed but this man and what he was doing to her, she thought, as her breathing changed and even this last contact with reality slid away.
Even so, the final dark waves of ecstasy caught her unawares, lifting her to a sphere she had never known existed and holding her there, suspended in some rapturous vacuum, while she called out in a voice she didn’t recognise and her body shattered into the uncontrollable spasms of her first climax.
She descended slowly, every inch of her body throbbing with a new languor yet feeling alive as never before.
She lifted heavy eyelids and looked up at her lover, and her hand went up to touch his face, feeling the taut jaw muscles clench under her fingers. He captured her questioning fingers and carried them to his lips, biting the tips gently.
She said softly, huskily, ‘Is it appropriate to say thank you?’
‘If you wish.’ There was a smile in his voice, and his mouth was curving in disturbingly sensual appreciation.
Flora realised suddenly that he was moving—positioning himself over her without haste but with definite purpose. ‘But I would prefer a more—tangible demonstration, mia cara,’ he added softly, easing his way into her newly slackened and totally receptive body.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and startled as she felt herself filled—possessed utterly.
‘Hold me,’ he instructed tautly, and she obeyed, her hands clinging to the smooth brown shoulders as he began to thrust into her, gently at first, his eyes watching hers for any sign of fear or reluctance, and then more powerfully—more urgently.
She had thought that he had taken her to the extremes of sensation, and beyond. That she was sated—content to be passive while he took his own satisfaction.
But, as she soon discovered with astonishment, she was wrong. Because her body was answering him—mirroring the strong, controlled rhythm of his lovemaking.
She lifted her legs, wrapping them round his sweat-dampened body, and he slid his hands beneath her, raising her towards him as he found her mouth with his.
His kiss was raw and passionate, and her surrender was total, dominated by the renewed demands of her own fevered flesh.
The rasp of his breathing was echoed by her own. She felt as if she was poised on the edge of some abyss, and he must have felt it too, because he spoke to her, his voice hoarse and urgent. ‘Come for me, mia bella—mia cara. Come now.’
And, deep within her, as if answering his cue, Flora felt the first sharp pulsation of rapture. She moaned aloud, burying her face against him, biting his shoulder, as the moment took her and sent her spinning out of control into some limbo where pleasure bordered on pain.
Marco flung his head back, his eyes closed, his face taut with the same kind of agony, and she felt his entire body shudder like a tree caught in a giant wind as he came in his turn.
When it was over, they lay together quietly. Flora tried to steady her breathing, to make sense of what had happened to her.
‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a thread. He didn’t answer, and she turned her head to look at him. He was lying, staring up at the ceiling, his profile as proud and remote as a Renaissance carving.
She felt her throat tighten. ‘Marco—is something wrong?’
He turned his head slowly, and smiled at her. ‘What could possibly be wrong, Flora mia?’
‘You looked a thousand miles away.’
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I was thinking how ironic it is that I should have come all this way to find my perfect woman.’
‘Truly?’
‘You doubt me?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s just—that was a happy thought, and you didn’t look very happy.’
‘And you, mia bella, look as if you need to stop imagi
ning things and sleep.’ He gathered her closer, so that her head was pillowed on his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart, still slightly uneven, under her cheek.
He was not, she thought with satisfaction, as cool as he seemed. And she closed her eyes, smiling.
She slept deeply and dreamlessly, and awoke with reluctance. For a moment she lay still, feeling oddly disorientated—as if her faintly aching body no longer belonged to her. And then, like a thunderbolt, her memory returned and she sat up.
Oh, God, she thought desperately. I’m in bed with Marco Valante.
Except that wasn’t strictly true. Because no sleeping man lay beside her. Nor, she realised, was there any sound from the bathroom, or any sign of his clothes either.
She said aloud, ‘He’s gone.’ And her voice sounded small and desolate in the emptiness of the room.
She lay down again, pulling the tangled sheet up over her body, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart was thumping.
Well, Flora, she told herself. It seems you’ve just had your first one-night stand. Now you have to live with that, and I just hope you think it was worth it.
And, to make matters a million times worse, you’ve had unprotected sex with a stranger. A man who’s probably left his notch on bedposts in every major capital of the world, and several small towns as well. And that’s something else you’ll have to deal with.
She pressed her clenched fist against her mouth, to stop herself from moaning aloud.
She had no one to blame but herself, whatever the consequences. After all, she’d gone out last night undressed to kill, flinging down a challenge to his sexuality that no red-blooded man could have ignored. And all because of a fit of pique.
She stopped right there. Because that was too easy—too glib an excuse for what she had done.
From that first glimpse of him, Marco had intrigued her. Had tantalised his way into her dreams, sleeping and waking. He himself had been the challenge—and the ultimate prize.
And she had hardly been short-changed. In a few brief hours Marco had taught her more about her body and its needs than she could have believed possible.
