by Caro LaFever
She tasted as sweet and spicy as he’d dreamed. His tongue tormented her folds, his lips nibbled at her. He lifted his gaze and saw his woman arch away from the bed, her breasts wet from his attention, her skin a pale, gleaming gloss on the sheets.
A broken cry came from her as her entire body tensed and bowed into his touch. He felt her bliss roll through her, shuddering through her chest, her belly, her thighs. For a long moment, he continued to pleasure her as she shuddered once more and then collapsed.
He finally moved. Leaning over her, pressing her warm body to the bed, he reached for protection. With shaking hands, he ripped open the silver packet and slid the condom on him. Turned to her lax body and took her in his arms. “Talk to me. Are you all right?”
Her eyes slowly opened. They were dazed with the passion and pleasure he’d given her. Her hand lifted and tenderly grazed his cheek. “That was amazing.” Awe rang in her voice.
Fierce pride pumped inside him. He’d won her. He’d conquered her. It was time to take her and make her his.
“Ho bisogno di te,” he groaned as he positioned himself.
The blue of her gaze turned to midnight as he thrust into her warm, wet channel. Her mouth opened in a gasp as she arched her head back. For a moment she tightened, stiffened, seemed to pull away.
“Carita.” The one word whispered from his lips, whispered in his heart. Had he hurt her?
“Keep going.” Her soft voice soothed his concern.
Words escaped him at that point. He had only his body to communicate. Involuntarily, he thrust once more, wanting and needing her to let him in.
Her hands fluttered on his shoulders, like gentle butterflies. Her head tilted back and her eyes met his. Secrets swirled in the mist of her gaze. Along with something else, something clutching at his heart.
But it was swept away when she softened, when her core let him all the way in.
He gasped as he surged to his hilt.
Her hands smoothed across his chest, sending streaks of lightning need across his torso. With feral intensity he lifted, thrusting into her once more. She felt as tight as a virgin. As plush as velvet, as wet and warm as he’d ever dreamed.
One of his hands slid down on her legs. “Put them around me.”
Her eyes shone with surprise, yet she instantly wrapped her lithe legs around his waist, causing him to sink even deeper into her body.
“Dio.” What was going on with her? Why was she feigning this passivity, pretending not to know what to do? But his body didn’t care. It plunged and thrust and lusted. The feeling was exquisite, infinite. Fire burned in his groin, shooting out to the tips of his toes and fingers. He shook and shuddered with need.
His piccola carita sighed and grew still.
She was not participating. She was not moving, lusting, wanting, as he was. She wasn’t with him in this dance of desire.
He stopped and stared at her. “Move with me. Be with me.”
Worry lanced across her face. “I’m not doing it right, am I?”
“There’s no right way.” Astonished amazement flashed through him at her question. Doing it right? Was she playing her games? Sudden anger pulsed behind his words. “Lose yourself in me.”
His hands grasped her hips, pulled her and pushed her into his pace. Determination surged in him along with his overriding lust. She would fall first into this desire. He would lead her into the frenzy before he allowed himself to fall into it with her.
Her hips caught his rhythm. Her face flushed and her chest rose with a deep breath.
“Madonna in cielo,” he groaned as her tight passage clamped around him.
They finally moved as one, their bodies slick with sweat. He felt every inch of her skin, saw every emotion and feeling as it crossed her face. He reveled in her every sigh, her every gasp. The pace quickened. The dance became frantic.
His body teetered on the edge. Sucking in his breath, and his lust, he drove into her once more. “Come for me,” he moaned. “Now.”
Her eyes widened as she did as he commanded. Her fingernails bit into his skin and she arched in a bow underneath him. Her inner core squeezed his cock. Elation swept through him as he watched her come once more. Watched the pleasure he’d given her seize her and throw her into the need and want and desire he felt as well.
His time. He let go of the final thread of control. His body stiffened, shuddered. Sweat poured off him, slicing down his hot skin. His hips pounded out a drum of fervent taking. He tightened his hands on her slick skin, pinning her to the bed with his big body. He felt her breath on him, felt the beat of her blood. Felt himself bind and blend with the center of her. Trembling and shaking, he thrust one last time. Pushing himself over his own edge.
Into the oblivion of utter fulfillment.
Into an ache he thought never to feel again.
Into a fear rushing through his pleasure, fracturing his heart.
As he poured the last of his pain, and his fear, and himself into her, he realized he was in too deep with a woman once more.
Not only physically.
Emotionally.
Chapter 11
She woke alone and cold.
The silk of the sheet slid cool on her skin. She knew instinctively he was gone, gone from more than simply the bed. The shadows of the room were lighter now. She could tell from the sunbeams splintering through the shades it was day, but early. Very early.
Apparently late enough, however, for the La Rocca work ethic to kick in.
Her mouth twitched into a grimace. Clearly her sexual appeal hadn’t lasted longer than one night if her lover had bounded out of bed to get to his all-important work.
She rolled over and surveyed his side of the bed.
Empty.
The pillow held the imprint of his head. She pulled it to her, curled into it. It was cool. He'd been gone for a while. Yet she still could smell him on the silk. Masculine virility mixed with the sweet sweat of sex.
Closing her eyes, she pictured him as she'd seen him last. His dark lashes long on his cheeks as he slept at her side. The beginning of a five-o'clock shadow on his jaw. His olive skin glistening from the heat of their coupling.
The pure beauty of the man. The pure joy she felt with him at her side.
She rubbed her cheek on his pillow. A tear dripped down, darkening the silk.
What he'd given her. The gift ran through her like a clear stream of healing. The night had been a revelation. A reawakening. She still found it almost impossible to take in. Sex had always been a transaction to her. A way for a woman to pay her bills, keep her man. Her mum had showed her the moves by her example. And Darcy had taken it all in. Sex was something she never wanted to have. Sex was something dirty. Sex was something that had ultimately killed her mum.
Plus, there was also her fear of sex. That had come later. But the experience at seventeen had put an iron seal on the lessons she’d learned as a kid.
Last night, though, he'd changed everything.
It hadn't been sex she'd experienced last night. It had been love.
Another teardrop splattered on the fine woven silk.
She was in love with Marcus La Rocca. She'd given her body in love. She'd found more pleasure, more intimacy in this one single act than she'd ever found in any other interaction with another human being.
But this morning, when she desperately wanted him, wanted to sink into his warm arms, taste his lips, feel him move inside her…when she wanted to once more find this amazing bond between them…this morning, he’d left her.
She popped her head up and listened. Listened to complete silence. He wasn’t in the flat. She knew it with a bone-deep certainty. Looking around, she saw no loving note to tell her where he’d gone. She didn’t need one. He wasn’t out buying her a breakfast pastry. He hadn’t raced from the flat to buy her flowers or chocolate.
As sure as she knew herself, she knew him.
Marcus La Rocca had gone to work.
Exactly as if it we
re another day.
What did it mean? Was he disappointed in her? Had she showed how naive and untrained she was at the act? Last night he'd seemed satisfied. But she'd been so overwhelmed with all the emotions and feelings running through her head and heart and body, she'd barely been able to focus on any of his reactions.
Her scrambled thoughts ran through her head driving her crazy. Why was she sitting here torturing herself? It wasn't in her nature. She wasn't going to spend her time mooning over a man while lying here stupidly waiting for him to come back.
Which probably wasn't going to happen if she’d disappointed him last night.
The memory of him arching above her, his face grimacing, the low groan that tore from his mouth as she moved with him—
No. She was sure she'd given him pleasure too. Enough that he'd want to do it again.
The thought of doing it again with him brought a flush of anticipation to her face and body. She really, really couldn't wait.
Still, right now, lollygagging around in bed wasn't what she wanted to do.
A burst of energy rushed through her.
She got herself out of the bed and into the bathroom in record time. As the hot water poured on her in the shower, she took an inventory of the aches she’d never felt before. She had a slight bruise on one breast. A love bruise. How batty was it that she liked it? She liked the thought of his brand on her skin.
Okay. She was as bad as all those women she used to scorn. She was seriously gaga over her guy. If she didn’t get herself together before she saw him, she was likely to drool, say brainless things, and generally make a fool of herself.
“No way,” she promised herself as she wrapped a towel around her body.
Instinctively, she knew, he wouldn’t want that. She’d have to be careful with him. Not show the joy and love pounding inside her. At least, not yet. Staring into the steam-covered mirror, she took stock of her situation. Tried to bring some reality to her sex-fogged brain and love-soaked heart.
Marcus had only ever claimed he wanted sex with her.
In a little more than a week, her time with him would be done.
She swished her hand across the mist and encountered two worried blue eyes.
“You can change it,” she whispered.
What she wanted more than anything in the world was to stay with him, be with him.
Forever.
A man who held women in contempt.
A man who’d blackmailed her.
A man who’d never indicated by his words he felt anything for her other than lust.
Her throat tightened. “Stop it.”
She would focus on the bright side of this. And there was lots of bright.
He’d helped dear old dad for her sake. Spent a fortune on private medical care. He’d given her a room to paint in his penthouse. Spent a fortune putting it together. He’d arranged her first gallery opening. Been there at her side the entire time. Launched her art career into the stratosphere.
There was a lot to build on, a lot to hope for if a girl simply examined the guy’s actions.
Actions spoke louder than words, right?
“What you need,” she announced to her mirrored image. “Is a strategy.”
Marching out of the bathroom and across the hall to her bedroom, she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. What was the best way to win a man once and for all? She’d never had to think about it. It was completely unfamiliar territory—but she was determined to master it. Some way or another, she was going to win Marcus La Rocca’s love.
And teach him how to live.
The man had serious issues about his lifestyle. Working day and night was not how a person should live. She was going to lure him away from it if it was the last thing she did. She was going to teach him how to laugh and love and give and take. She was going to show him a woman could be trusted, respected.
She was going to love him so hard he’d have to learn how to love in return.
Darcy strode down the hall and into the kitchen. The pristine, precise, polished, and utterly soulless kitchen. From the beginning the room had intimidated her with its bare counters and every cooking utensil known to gourmet chefs gleaming as if daring her to mess with them.
Well. She was going to mess with them for real now instead of using only one pan to warm some soup a time or two.
She propped her hands on her hips and glared at the congregation of don’t-touch-me appliances, tools, and gadgets. Cooking was something she’d learned as a survival skill as a kid. When your mum was too busy entertaining men to earn money and your pop was too busy spending said money on drugs, what else was a kid supposed to do if she wanted to eat?
Over time, cooking had become not only survival, but therapy. Then it had been a way of showing love to her friends. She couldn’t do it by hugging or touching. So she did it by serving great food to an appreciative crowd.
Especially Matt.
A pang of distress twisted in her stomach. She hadn’t done right by her buddy. She hadn’t even thought of him during the last few days. Anger at herself mixed with the distress.
Still, she had time. Granted, not much. But if she could win Marc’s heart using her charm, her love, her body—a girl could hope.
There was also her famous stew. The one Matt always raved about. Peposo, he called it. Peppers and tomatoes and beef and all sorts of spices. She wondered if one brother would be as susceptible to her best dish as the other.
“I bet he is,” she stated to the barren kitchen. “I just bet he is.”
A first step towards her goal. If she did say so herself, a very good first step.
* * *
He was an idiot.
Sognavo di te.
I’ve dreamed of you.
He glared down at the stream of traffic rolling past his office. Watched as the people hurried across the street, winter wind whipping in their faces. Noticed the beginning slices of sleet on the window pane.
Ti desideravo nelle mia braccia dal primo memento che ti vedi.
I’ve wanted you in my arms since the moment I met you.
He rolled back on his heels. Closed his eyes. Fisted his hands.
Ho bisogno di te.
I need you.
The last memory of what he’d whispered to her tore into him with a savage rip.
His breath whooshed out in a gust of rejection. “No.”
Pacing to his desk, he sat down, flipped through his messages, tried to push all the memories, all the emotions, all of her back into the box he’d labeled ignorable.
He found it impossible. Staring blankly at the data streaming on his computer, Marc saw only her. His charming Darcy. The small sprite who had enthralled him against his will. The lithe elfin who’d lured him into deep waters before he even knew he was in danger.
Dio. At least he could be thankful he’d confessed those words in his native tongue. He shuddered at the thought of how a woman could use those words against a man.
Ho bisogno di te.
No longer. He’d known it the moment he’d pulsed inside her. Known he had to put a stop to it even if he’d been in the thrall of the best orgasm he’d ever had. Even if last night had been the best sex he’d ever had.
Apparently the virgin act turned him on. This surprised him. His usual woman was inevitably experienced both in the bed and in the parting. It was what he wanted. Yet somehow, Ms. Darcy Moran had figured out his jaded appetite yearned for something fresh and new.
She’d played the act very well.
Played it so well in fact, it had sucked him into caring for her, feeling for her. Believing for a moment he was the only one she wanted or ever had wanted.
Last night hadn’t been only about the sex, had it?
There was the problem. One he was determined to fix.
His phone buzzed.
Glancing down, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. Momma. What excellent timing she had. Right on time to remind him of why this fixation with the nymph was a mi
stake.
“Si.”
“So surly,” his mother chided. “But of course, you must put up with that woman for a few more days, so I suppose it is understandable.”
“What do you want, Momma?” Her disparagement of his sprite drove a wedge of pure fury into his stomach. This was unreasonable of him, though. What did it matter what his mother thought of Darcy?
“I wanted to let you know about your brother.”
Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. “What has he done now?”
“Don’t use that tone about my Matteo.”
Always it had been this way. Her second husband and second son had always been her pride and joy. He and his father were second-hand goods. Her constant flattery and coddling had nearly destroyed his younger brother. Only after he’d taken charge, took him away from her influence, had Matteo started to turn into a man. Yet now his brother had spent almost a month in her orbit again. A recipe for disaster. Which he should have thought about when he sent him to Italy.
But he’d had a sprite on his mind instead.
“Marcus?” his mother snapped. “Are you there?”
“Si.”
“Your brother is doing fine, I’ll have you know.”
“I am all amazement.”
His mother huffed. “He’s doing an excellent job in charming Viola and her family. The wedding should go off without a hitch.”
Eight days. Eight more days with Darcy. Then he would be free to return to what he did best. Do business and make money.
An ache burned in his gut.
Eight days.
“I do believe my son is really in love this time,” his mother intruded, cutting off his confusion.
“Really?” His tone was riddled with sarcastic disbelief. Why his brother had only recently been in love with another woman. Mere weeks ago. A woman who declared her love for Matteo with passionate fervor. Where had that love gone?
The burn deepened, dug into his soul. The memory of Darcy’s fierce defense of his brother, her clear love for him shining in her eyes; he’d buried the memory. Buried it under the driving desire to make her his.
Which he’d done last night, hadn’t he?
Why didn’t he feel the elation of winning rather than this ugly anger at his brother’s apparent desertion of the sprite? Apparently his brother had moved on to the better option. Exactly as he’d been told to do.
