‘Did you want to join me, cara?’ he drawled, those eyes lifting back to hers with something like knowing buried in their depths.
She shook her head quickly from side to side, but still she didn’t move. Her throat was dry, parched, and it stung as though razorblades had been dragged along it.
‘I think you do.’
His smile flickered again, but it was a harsh smile, thoroughly without pleasure.
‘I think your nipples are tight and aching for my touch. I think your skin is covered in goosebumps because you want me to kiss you all over. I think you came to me tonight because you’re curious about whether sleeping with me would feel like that kiss outside the chapel.’
She stifled a groan. ‘But...’
‘But?’ he prompted, reaching out a hand and capturing hers, lifting it to his lips.
She had expected a kiss, but instead he dug his teeth into the ball of her thumb and arrows of heat and need shot through her, making her knees shake and her back sway.
She couldn’t speak. She could barely think. Sensation and feeling were all that was left in her.
‘But you are a virgin?’ he prompted, her inexperience not even a question.
Was it emblazoned on her skin somewhere? Like the opposite of a scarlet letter and something only he could see?
‘And you are saving yourself for someone you love?’ He dropped her hand and let out a harsh sound of laughter. ‘Rather a shame, given you’ve just married me.’
His eyes returned to hers with renewed speculation.
‘How do women like you even exist in this day and age?’
There was anger in the question—an anger she didn’t understand.
‘Women like me?’ She was surprised that her voice came out smooth and calm—cold, even.
‘A virgin at twenty-two! Did your father lock you up in some kind of a chastity belt? Build a moat around Annersty?’
Emmeline shook her head. ‘Neither.’
‘So you just aren’t interested in boys? In sex?’
Emmeline grimaced, her cheeks flushing darker. ‘I guess not.’
‘Your body’s reaction to me would dispute that.’
‘You’re imagining it.’
His laugh was soft. ‘Careful, Mrs Morelli. One touch and you melt like butter in my hands. Imagine if I pinned you back against that wall and kissed you as though I wanted so much more from you...’
The image filled her with a sense of strange confusion. She wanted him to do that. At least a part of her did. A crazy part. The part that had no pride and no rational ability to think.
‘I’m sure I’d be very disappointing after the women you’re used to,’ she said stiffly, sounding so prim that she cringed inwardly.
He didn’t say anything. His hand lifted and reached for the cap sleeve of her wedding dress, and slowly he guided it lower. So slowly that she had plenty of opportunities to say something. To object. But she didn’t. She watched him with hooded eyes as he drifted it downwards, the fabric a torment as it pulled over the skin at her décolletage and then lower, exposing one of her breasts to the night air—and to his eyes.
They were neat breasts—not huge. But nor were they tiny—and they were firm. His eyes studied her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
‘Has a man ever touched you here?’ he asked, the question gravelled.
She shook her head, biting down on her lip.
‘Do you want me to touch you?’
A slick of moist heat formed between her legs and her eyes were anguished as they met his. She nodded. Just a tiny, almost involuntary movement of her head, accompanied by a mask of abject fear on her face.
He laughed softly, dropping his hands to her waist and yanking her closer. His body was hard all over, and she could feel the hint of his arousal through the fabric of her dress. A moan was thick in her throat.
‘And I thought this wasn’t an invitation,’ he said with sardonic mockery, dropping his head so quickly she couldn’t anticipate his intention, moving his mouth over the swell of her nipple and rolling his tongue over its unsuspecting tip.
She cried out at the stark feeling of pleasure. It came out of nowhere and it practically cut her off at the knees. His face was stubbled, and the contrast of his rough chin across her soft breast, and the warm wetness of his mouth, the lashing of his tongue...
She was melting—just as he’d said she would.
Swirling need pounded inside her, creating a vortex of responses she’d never imagined possible. Her body was experiencing its first awakening, and any thought of words or sense had fallen from her mind. There was only this.
She could hear herself mumbling incoherently, needing more than he was giving. A wave was building and she had no idea when and how it would crash. Only knew that it was imperative she stay on it, surf it right to its conclusion.
He dragged his lips higher and she cried out at this abandonment of her nipple. But his hand lifted up and cupped her breast, his thumb and forefinger taking the place of his mouth, twisting and plucking at its sensitised nerve-endings until she was crying out over and over, a fever-pitch of sensation rioting inside her.
His other hand pushed her forward, holding her tight against him as his lips sought hers, kissing her as his hands moved over her, and she cried into his mouth as the feelings became too much, her awareness of him too great.
‘Oh, God, please...’ she groaned into his mouth, with no idea of what she was asking for, only knowing that she needed something. Something he alone could give her.
He pulled away, lifting his head at the same moment as he dropped his hand and stepped backwards. His look was one she couldn’t fathom. His chest was moving rapidly, his jaw clenched, but she couldn’t understand why he’d stopped. Arousal was a raging river in her bloodstream.
‘Go to your room, Emmeline.’
The way he said her name was like warm butter on hot toast. It dripped over her body.
Did he mean with him? Was he going to come with her? Her confusion was muddied by the way her body was crying out for him.
‘I’m not interested in breaking in virgins.’
He turned away from her, stalking into his own room and picking up the glass of Scotch that was resting on the bedside table.
Her jaw dropped. She stared at him, confused and bereft. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘No need to apologise,’ he said, with a shrug of those broad shoulders.
His hair was tousled. Had she done that? Had she run her fingers through it so that it now stood at odd angles, all messy and gorgeous?
‘I’m not... I wasn’t apologising,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion. ‘I don’t understand why you stopped. I don’t—’
His accent was coarse when he was angry. ‘I’m not interested in sleeping with you. It would complicate things and undoubtedly be unsatisfying, for me.’
She drew in a harsh breath, her eyes flashing with pain.
‘Don’t be offended,’ he murmured. ‘I’m just used to more experienced lovers.’
Mortification curled her toes, flushing away any lingering desire. She spun on her heel, walking quickly down the corridor. It was only when she reached her room that she realised she’d come the whole way with her breast still uncovered.
* * *
Pietro stared into his whisky, his expression grim.
That had been a mistake. He could still taste her on his lips, smell her on his clothes, hear her sweet little moans of fierce, hot need as though she were still with him. Worse, he could feel her—like a phantom of the night he could be having if only he hadn’t pulled things to a stop.
He was hungry for her...hard for her.
Col’s daughter.
A groan permeated the silence of the room and bounced off the walls, condemning him as it echoed back. He’d married her to save her. He’d married her because he’d felt obliged to help his friend out.
Desiring his wife had never been part of the equation.
An
d he had to damned well do a better job of remembering that.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T AS though she’d lived a particularly active and busy life. Confined to Annersty, her company had been made up predominantly of the staff, her father and the schoolfriends she’d caught up with from time to time for lunch.
But life in the villa was utterly silent.
A week after their wedding, and she’d barely seen her groom.
Thank God! The less she saw him, the less she’d need to remember what a fool she’d been in his arms. What a weak, willing, stupid idiot. Shame over that night still had the ability to make her blush.
She wandered further along the citrus grove, reaching up and plucking an orange blossom from a tree as she passed, bringing it to her nose and smelling its sweet fragrance.
Oh, they’d seen each other a few times. Once the next day, when she’d been walking around the villa like a lost lamb having escaped slaughter.
He’d come out of a room which she’d subsequently learned was his home office, full of enough technology to power a spaceship. Their eyes had met and he’d arched a brow—a simple gesture that had conveyed derision and scepticism. She’d dipped her head forward and moved past him, her heart pounding, her cheeks burning, her whole body confounded by mortification.
Two days had passed before she’d seen him again, that time in the evening. He’d walked in through the front door just as she was passing. And he’d looked tired. World-weary. He’d loosened his tie so he could undo his top button, and his jacket had been removed. She’d managed a tight smile and a nod of acknowledgement before she’d scurried away, and even kept her head up as she’d gone.
There were oranges growing in this part of the citrus grove, and further down the gently sloping lawn were lemons and limes. Beyond them were quinces and then olives.
It was a perfect Mediterranean garden—just as she’d always fantasised such a spot would be. She paused at the end of the row, turning around and looking down the hill towards Rome. The sky was streaked with orange and peach: a hint of the sunset that was to follow.
The warmth was quite delicious. She felt it on her skin and smiled. Her first genuine smile since before the wedding.
University would help. She needed activity. Something to do to keep her mind busy. Distracted from him. Her husband. And the treacherous way her body had responded to him.
She needed to remember her reasons for embarking on this charade! For the first time in her life she had a semblance of independent freedom, and she didn’t want to waste it by pining for a man who didn’t even like her. Hell, he barely seemed to notice she existed.
This marriage wasn’t about lust and need. It wasn’t about him.
It was about her. It was her vehicle to going out into the world at last.
A whisper of discontent breezed through her but, as always, Emmeline ignored it. She had stayed at Annersty, stayed under the same roof as her father, because it had been the right thing to do. Just as marrying Pietro to assuage her father’s obvious concerns was the right thing to do.
And the fact that it spoke of a lack of faith in her own abilities? That it spoke of her being infantilised to an unbearable degree? She wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t. For she knew where that path would take her, and criticising her father, whom she adored, was not something she would countenance.
All that mattered was that she had left home—finally. She was in Rome. A smile tickled at her lips and once more she felt the sunshine warm her skin.
At twenty-two, she’d finally done it!
Her phone buzzed, startling her out of her reverie. She lifted it from the back pocket of her jeans and Pietro’s face stared back at her from the screen.
Her heart pounded as she swiped the screen across. ‘Hello?’
‘Emmeline.’
There it was again. The warm butter oozing over her skin. She closed her eyes and sank to the ground so that she could give him the full force of her concentration.
‘Are you there?’
‘Oh.’ She blinked her eyes open and nodded. ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Your father is coming for dinner tonight. Seven o’clock.’
Silence prickled between them. Then, ‘Daddy’s coming...here?’
‘Certamente. Naturally I presumed you’d want to see him again before he leaves for the States.’
Emmeline nodded, but consternation ran through her. She had intended to see her father again—only for coffee the following morning, when it could be just the two of them.
‘Right.’ She bit down on her lip.
‘My assistant will let Signora Verdi know,’ he said, referring to the housekeeper Emmeline had met once or twice. A matronly woman who filled her with a sense of awe.
‘Fine,’ she said, a little too sharply.
‘Though he knows our marriage was arranged to serve a purpose, I think it would be good for him to see that we are...getting along.’
Emmeline’s stomach churned. But we’re not.
‘Do you?’ she asked.
‘Si. He loves you very much,’ Pietro said, but his tone was weary. Impatient. ‘Seeing you happy will make him happy.’
‘So you want me to fake it?’ she snapped, before she could catch back the sarcastic rejoinder.
‘I want you to think of your father,’ he said softly. ‘As you’ve proved yourself so very good at in the past.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You married me to make him happy.’
A woman’s voice filtered through into the call and acid spiked Emmeline’s blood. She couldn’t make out what the woman said, but the tone was low. Personal.
Jealousy—unmistakable—pricked at her flesh.
‘I’ll be home by six. And, Emmeline? Perhaps wear a dress.’
Outrage simmered in her blood as she disconnected the call. Wear a damned dress? He actually thought he could boss her into wearing whatever the hell he wanted? What he thought would be appropriate? True, since their wedding she’d gone back to the clothes she felt most comfortable in, and they were hardly the kind of clothes that would set the world on fire. But of all the rude, misogynistic, barbaric things to say!
She stood up, her hands shaking as she jammed the phone back in her pocket and stared out at Rome.
She’d show him, wouldn’t she?
* * *
At ten minutes past six Emmeline walked into the formal dining room, intending to pour herself a stiff drink to steel her nerves. What she hadn’t expected was to see her husband already at the bar, shaking a cocktail mixer.
She froze on the threshold, taking a deep breath. She had only a second to compose her face into a mask of calm before he looked up. And when their eyes met she was thrilled to bits that she’d put her plan into action.
It had involved hours of shopping—her least favourite activity by a mile—but the effect was worth it.
The dress was exquisite. It had the advantage of looking as though it had been made for her—in a silk fabric that clung to her breasts and hips and stopped several inches shy of her knee—and it had batwing sleeves that fell to halfway down her hands, giving her a sense of comfort. The front had a deep vee—far deeper than she’d worn in her life before. She’d teamed it with a pair of espadrilles, which made the look a little more casual for an at-home dinner.
‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ she murmured, with a veneer of confidence she was far from feeling.
He began to shake the drink once more with a tight nod. ‘Nice dress.’
The compliment made heat flood through her body. ‘Thanks.’
‘It makes it almost impossible to remember that you’re a sweet and innocent little virgin bride.’
Emmeline fought her natural reaction of embarrassment, which he must have been trying to goad her towards. She saw beyond it. Her eyes narrowed and she moved closer, watching as he poured the martini into a glass and curling her fingers around its stem before he could even o
ffer it to her.
‘That bothers you?’
‘It confuses me,’ he corrected, reaching for more bottles of alcohol and sloshing it into the mixer. ‘Particularly when you are dressed like this.’
‘So one’s choice of attire is an indicator of sexual inclination?’
‘No. But dressed like this you are...irresistible.’
She sipped her drink to hide her reaction, and then spluttered as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. ‘Ugh—that’s strong.’
‘It’s a martini,’ he pointed out seriously. ‘It’s meant to be strong.’
She nodded, taking another sip, and this time it went down more easily.
‘Why do you dress like you do?’ He returned to their previous conversation.
‘Why is it any of your business?’ she fired back, her eyes holding his even when she wanted to look away.
‘It interests me. You are an attractive woman who goes out of her way to hide her assets. It makes no sense.’
Emmeline turned away from him, surprised by how easily he’d surmised the truth of her situation. ‘Not everyone thinks their worth is derived from their appeal to the opposite sex.’
He made a sound of disagreement. ‘But to take pride in one’s appearance isn’t just about meeting someone, or attracting a lover. It’s a sign of self-love to want to look your best.’
‘I don’t agree,’ she murmured, even though she’d never really thought beyond the opinions she’d formed in her teenage years.
‘But don’t you feel better in this dress?’
He walked towards her, a glass in his hand, his eyes holding hers. She stared at him, refusing to cower even as nerves fluttered inside her.
‘Don’t you like the way you look tonight?’
‘I don’t like the way you’re looking at me as though you want to rip it off,’ she said thickly, sipping her drink.
His laugh was a slow, sensual cord, wrapping around her. And was she imagining there was something like tension in the harmless sound? The air in her lungs was burning, exploding...
‘We’ve already discussed that. I’m not interested in being the man who teaches you to feel.’
Her Wedding Night Surrender (Harlequin Presents) Page 5
