Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  No wonder women go nuts over him.

  He’s literally a work of art.

  Slowly scooting toward my edge of the bed, I quietly slide my phone off my nightstand and Google the name Jax Diesel. I have a wild hair to check out the romance covers he’s graced. It doesn’t take but a few clicks and I’ve hit the jackpot. There’s one indie romance author, Hadley Caldwell, who seems to have used him for multiple covers. Clearly she’s a huge fan. I even find a photo of the two of them from a signing in Colorado Springs last year. She’s young. And pretty. And smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen anyone smile before.

  I continue clicking through Google images and come across a photo of him at a book convention, signing autographs and taking pictures with fans. There’s another picture of him with a whole group of ridiculously attractive men. I’m assuming they’re all cover models. Studying their faces, I keep going back to Cristiano’s.

  He blows the other guys out of the water.

  No contest.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cristiano’s voice sends my heart sailing into my throat.

  Clutching my lit phone against my galloping chest, I turn to him, breathless. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Why are you looking at pictures of me?” he sits up, resting on his forearm.

  “I wanted to see some of your book covers.”

  “Didn’t look like you were looking at book covers. Looks like you were Googling me.”

  “So?” I defend myself with a single word that means absolutely nothing in this argument. I did it. I Googled him while he was lying next to me because I couldn’t sleep. I’m sure I look like a freaking weirdo. Guilty as charged.

  “Why would you want to look at pictures of me when I’m right in front of you?”

  I don’t know how to answer that question. It’s a damn good question, too.

  “No reason, really. I told you earlier. I’m just a curious girl.” I shrug, placing my phone on the nightstand and slinking back under the covers. “Goodnight, Cristiano.”

  “No, no, no,” he says, scooting closer and closing the gap between us.

  “What?”

  “You tired all of a sudden?”

  “No?” I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “You should probably go back to sleep.”

  “I’m wide awake now.” He lies back, running his hand through his messy hair and blowing a breath through his lips. “So thanks for that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Rolling on his side, he props himself up again. I meet his gaze and even in the darkness of our hotel room, I know his stare lingers on my mouth.

  “It’s going to be different,” he says, voice low. “After tonight, I mean.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is our last night together.” I pick up on a hint of something bittersweet in his tone.

  “You getting all sentimental on me?” I fight a smirk. “Doesn’t seem like your style, Amato.”

  “How would you know my style?”

  “I don’t. But you don’t seem sentimental. You seem like someone who’s stuck in the moment. And maybe that’s a good thing. But I don’t think you think much about the past. And people who don’t think about the past can’t be sentimental.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He licks his lips, eyes locked on mine. “I think about the past every single day, Daphne. Sometimes I wish I could forget it.”

  My heart hammers in my ears, and in some ways, I feel like I’m looking at him for the first time all over again. He’s not just a beautiful man. He’s a complicated man. Broken. I couldn’t see that before, but I see it now.

  “Did you do something bad?” I ask, my voice a sheer whisper. The second the question leaves my lips, I’m doubting whether or not I want his answer. “Don’t answer that. Sorry.”

  “Daphne?” he asks, brows narrowed. Somehow he feels closer now, like he’d moved my way without me noticing. The space between us is tight, and his warmth brushes lightly against my skin without us touching.

  “Yes?”

  Cristiano brings his hand to my face, cupping my cheek in his palm before his gaze lowers to my lips. My heart hammers in my ears. A ripple of tingles passes through my core, radiating through to my fingertips. So much for sleeping tonight. My body’s alive and electric, completely entranced from the way he’s looking like he’s about to devour me.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he says, his voice steady and unmovable like a freight train.

  Swallowing, I try to speak, but forming a response feels insurmountable at this point.

  His mouth crashes on mine, his soapy scent invading my lungs as I breathe him in. Fingers cupping the side of my neck and tangled in my hair, he presses his lips against mine with a feverish need.

  Our bodies meet in the middle of the bed. In a matter of seconds, I’m pinned beneath him, anchored. His hips press against mine, and my body drinks in the comfort of how good it feels to be wanted, even if it’s only temporary.

  With his hands gathering my hair, he tugs until my mouth is again lifted to his, bringing his lips down on mine all over again.

  I run my hands along his sides, feeling the subtle ripple of his muscles beneath his t-shirt as his body moves atop mine. An unquestionable hardness pressed against my sex takes this entire thing to a whole new level. He’s hard. For me.

  I’m completely immersed in this moment. I think he is too. I wonder if this is what he does: stays locked in these moments as a way of running or hiding from his past. From the intrusive thoughts that steal his joy out of nowhere.

  There was a certain sadness in his dark gaze earlier. Whatever it was, whatever he refused to talk about, I have a feeling it’s always there . . . residing just beneath his polished veneer.

  Cristiano grinds his hips against mine, and I release a moan into his mouth. My core tingles with a palpable ache. It craves his touch. His fingers inside me, stroking. I imagine the way he might tease me with feather-light strokes first, building with hurried penetrations. First one finger, then two, and then . . . whatever else he’d like to do to me. Just looking at this man, I’m one-hundred percent certain he knows how to rain all kinds of pleasure down upon me.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful, Daphne,” he whispers, his lips grazing mine. His minty breath fills my lungs, and all I can think about is whether or not he can feel how fast my heart is beating in my chest. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

  His hips press harder into mine, grinding with a slow rhythm that tells me we’re straddling a very fine line here. This could easily go one of two ways. Grinding my hips against him, I nudge us in the only direction that feels right in this moment.

  It’s official. I want to sleep with Cristiano.

  No.

  I need to sleep with Cristiano.

  A hot ache in my throat accompanies the fever pitch of anticipation. I’m doubting whether or not he’s picking up what I’m putting down, but the moment he slides his hand beneath the covers and his cool fingertips graze the warm flesh of my belly, I struggle to breathe.

  In an instant, his hand slides beneath the waistband of my panties, sliding down my wet seam. My stomach caves and my body tenses at his touch. I’m hyperaware of every breath. Every move. His finger presses harder, inviting itself inside of me one teasing inch at a time, and the sudden awareness of his touch is a sensation I welcome, my thighs falling limp and powerless. His strokes are soft and gentle at first, and his eyes meet mine. When he plunges a finger deep inside me, I release a held breath that may as well symbolize his name on my tongue.

  This man is all over me. Inside. Outside. I’m fully immersed in the Cristiano Amato experience and loving every second of it.

  My mind travels, thoughts racing through my mind at warp speed. Does he enjoy this? Is he watching me? Does he like the way my body reacts to each plunge of his finger? My eyes squeeze tight. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking anymore. I only want to fee
l. I only want to enjoy.

  His body lifts slightly above mine, and the covers have fallen. My body trembles, and I’m not sure if it’s because it’s freezing in here or because he’s making my body feel things it hasn’t in well over a year.

  Rising on his knees, he tugs my pajama bottoms down all the way before pulling my panties off. Sitting up, I yank my tank top over my head before working on my bra. The sooner I’m completely naked with this Greek Adonis, the better.

  He smirks, the hint of his white teeth lighting the dark. “God, I could never get tired of looking at you.”

  His fingers return between my thighs, slipping down my slit as his thumb circles my clit with gentle pressure. His caresses are restrained, but the glint in his eye tells me he doesn’t intend to rest until he’s enjoyed all of me. Closing my eyes, I sink back into the pillow, feeling the shift of his weight on the bed and, suddenly, the warmth of his tongue dragging the length of my seam.

  “Oh, god,” I say, exhaling. Wasn’t expecting that.

  His warmth and wetness mixing with mine is sheer heaven, and I reach for a fistful of sheets to gather as my jaw unhinges.

  Cristiano, quite simply stated, is amazing at this.

  His tongue circles my clit, his free hand pressed flat against my tensed stomach, holding me down. He devours me, and yet, at the same time, there’s a gentle sensuality in the way he touches me.

  Within minutes, I find myself getting close, pulsing, throbbing, craving the real thing. I suck in quick breaths each time I feel that tingle between my thighs. Staving it off isn’t easy, and I’m not sure how much longer I can fight it.

  Rising to his knees, he leaves the apex between my thighs. Moving closer and holding his body over mine, he brings his lips down on me once again. I taste my arousal. I taste the sweet musk of what he’s done to me as he deposits an owning kiss on my waiting, wanting mouth.

  Reaching for the hem of his shirt, I pull it over his head, yearning for the feel of his skin against mine. Cristiano presses his body down against mine, his hips flush against mine until I feel every inch of his hardness. We’re separated by the fabric of his sweats and the endless, tortuous seconds that precede the inevitable.

  I help myself, guiding my hand down his sides, grazing his muscled torso until I find the band of his sweats and pushing them down the sides of his muscled, flexing ass. Slipping a hand beneath the silky fabric of his boxers, I wrap my palm around his rock-hard cock, my heart leaping in the process. The skin is hot, throbbing in my palms as I pump his length. Meeting his gaze, I bask in the seductive half-smile he gifts me.

  “Do you want this, Daphne?” his voice is a soft growl as he lowers himself, pressing kisses into the flesh above my collarbone.

  Pressing my lips together, I nod. “Mm hm.”

  Moving to the side, he grabs his wallet from the nightstand and retrieves a gold foil packet. Ripping it between his teeth, he shoves his boxers down and wastes no time sheathing his hardness and returning to his space between my spread thighs.

  A pulsing knot in my stomach makes its presence known in the seconds that lead up to his body pressing against mine all over again. His mouth finds mine in the dark as his hand grips the base of his cock, teasing my entrance with the tip before pushing his length inside me with one delicious thrust.

  He fills me, stretching me with a pain that hurts so good, but after several thrusts it washes over me, evaporating into sheer ecstasy. I want more. I want all of him inside all of me. Every inch of us connected. Every inch of us made for this moment. It hasn’t been but a minute, and already I’m burning with the kind of desire I’ve never known before. I don’t want this to end. Ever.

  Cristiano’s mouth descends on me again, his hand cupping my jaw and his fingers wrapping around the nape of my neck. His kisses linger, like he’s savoring every moment. Like he knows this isn’t just the first time . . . it’s also the last.

  After tomorrow, I’ll leave him in Scranton. He’ll go his way. I’ll go mine. And that’ll be it. There won’t be anything else.

  Just tonight.

  In this dreamily savage moment, I am his and he is mine. My soul melts with his kisses, my body melts with his touch.

  He brings his mouth on mine again, our tongues meeting as he thrusts himself faster inside me. His lips are warm and sweet, and I bring my hands to his face, cupping his chiseled jaw and feeling his dark hair beneath my fingertips.

  My body shivers.

  I can’t fight it anymore.

  I hold onto the wave, riding it out and letting it crash into me. Cristiano pumps harder, needier, bringing himself to a climax that elicits primal moans and stiffens his body from head to toe. His neck strains and his back arches as his cock pulses inside me.

  When he’s done, he kisses my mouth, resting on top of me, and then rolls off the bed and heads to the bathroom.

  I’m exhausted, basking in this post-coital stupor and barely capable of forming a fragment of a thought. All I know is my body feels like a million bucks, and at the same time, there’s a tinge of sadness washing over me because something like this will never happen again.

  And I kind of wish it could.

  Friday morning, I wake to the sound of the shower running. Sitting up, I blink a few times, adjusting to the glow of the small desktop lamp across the room. It’s still dark out, but the alarm beside me says it’s time to get up. We’ve got to hit the road by seven. It’s six hours to Pittsburgh and another two to Scranton. After that, I’ve got another two hours until Rixton Falls.

  Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I spot a missed call from Delilah’s husband, Zane.

  “Shit.” I dial him back as fast as my fingers will allow and pray to God he answers on the first ring.

  He answers on the fourth.

  “Hey,” he says, almost whispering.

  “Please tell me she hasn’t gone into labor yet.” I rise off the bed, spotting a covered dish on the table in the corner. Cristiano must’ve ordered breakfast for us. Not sure how I slept through room service, but after last night, I slept harder than I have in months.

  “Not yet,” he says as I uncover my plate and take a seat. I’m famished, which is probably also a result of last night’s activities. “We went to the hospital around three o’clock this morning. We thought it was the real deal. Delilah was in a lot of pain, but she was still only dilated to a two. They sent us home. Said to monitor the contractions. I guess they weren’t close enough together or something. I don’t know how any of this works. Anyway, she’s sleeping now, but I wanted to let you know because she’d asked me to call you. The doctor thinks we’re getting close. Says the next time this happens it might be it.”

  My heart races.

  I’m so close.

  “I’ll be home tonight,” I say. “Tell her not to worry. We’re leaving Chicago in the next hour and hitting the road. How’s the weather, by the way?”

  “Storms have all passed. They’re just cleaning up now. I heard western Pennsylvania is okay but the farther east you get, the messier it is. Drive safe, Daphne.”

  “I will. Please tell my sister I’ll be there, and I can’t wait to see you guys.”

  “Will do.”

  My stomach rumbles when Zane ends the call, but now I’m too anxious to eat. The bacon and eggs and toast before me hold about as much appeal as a bowl of sawdust.

  “Hey.” The bathroom door flings open and Cristiano stands, fully dressed, hair damp, and smelling like a million bucks. “I was about to wake you up. We’ve got to hit the road.”

  “Yeah, I know. Delilah’s getting closer.”

  “You’ll be home tonight,” he says it like it’s a sure thing.

  But a lot can happen in six hundred miles.

  Chapter 13

  Cristiano

  “Shouldn’t you be resting? Why are you drawing?” I glance at the passenger seat where Daphne sits, knees on the dash, sketching something on that chintzy little pad of hotel paper.

 
“Not tired.”

  “Guess that’s not surprising considering you drank a venti double shot Frappuccino two hours ago. You’re going to be dragging by the time it’s your turn.”

  “I’ll deal.”

  Ever since she talked to her brother-in-law this morning, she’s been quieter than normal. For the last three days, this woman has chatted my ear off. She always has something to say. A question to ask. A statement to make.

  God, I hope this isn’t because of last night.

  Last night was fucking amazing.

  It’s a night I’ll never forget as long as I live. Her scent, her soft skin, the way her lashes fluttered as she bit her lip every time I thrust my cock inside her sweet, tight pussy. She offered herself to me, and I took it, and I loved every fucking minute of it. In fact, I couldn’t get enough. The second it was over, I wanted her again but I knew we had an early morning, and she was finally getting tired.

  There’s a tightness in my chest – a feeling I don’t recognize because it’s attached to a thought I’ve never felt before. At least a thought I’ve never felt about a woman I hardly know. Most of the time, I have my fun, call it an adventure of sorts, and go on my merry way, never seeing or hearing from them again. But the thought of walking away from Daphne several hours from now, never knowing what becomes of her or if anything would’ve become of . . . us . . . is almost sad.

  I don’t want this to be the end, and I’m not sure how to grapple with that notion. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, like a foreign language that is as difficult to speak as it is to comprehend. Twisting the volume on the radio, I turn up the music and decide to let these thoughts mellow for a bit. Maybe I’m still worked up over last night, still reveling in how fucking amazing it was.

  Definitely.

  That’s got to be what it is. It’s the only logical explanation. A few more hours, and I’ll be back to my old self.

  “What are you drawing?” I ask above the musical stylings of Steely Dan.

  “This bistro in Paris,” she says, head tilted as if she’s recalling a fond memory. “I used to grab breakfast there every day. They had the best chocolate croissants and espresso. I’d give anything to go back.”