‘Say yes, Marisa.’
She licked dry lips and through slitted eyes saw his gaze flicker.
‘Yes, Damaso.’
It didn’t matter whether she was saying yes to his statement that he wanted her, or his demand to stop thinking. Or whether she was simply urging him not to end the magic shimmering like stormy heat between them.
Whatever this was, she needed it, treasured it. For the first time in her life she felt not just passably pretty but beautiful, inside and out. No one had ever made her feel like this.
She blinked, her mouth hitching up in a tremulous smile as a glow filled her that had nothing to do with the warmth of Damaso’s body or the sultry night.
‘Marisa.’ His lips touched hers. Outside another crash of thunder shook the air, but it was the tenderness in Damaso’s bass voice that made her quake. She leaned into him, her face upturned, her mouth clinging to his. He plunged one hand into her hair, holding her to him as he slowly, thoroughly, savoured the taste of her.
How could a kiss make her weak at the knees? She wobbled in her high heels, clutching Damaso for support.
She half-expected to see a satisfied smile at her reaction when he drew back. Instead she read nothing but taut control that made his features severe.
Then he was gone, dropping silently to his knees before her, hands knotting in the spangled froth of her skirt. She shivered as his hands slid up her bare legs, pushing the fabric up and up. Ripples of excitement shivered along her thighs. She pressed them together as she felt a rush of liquid desire.
Damaso lifted her shirt higher, then higher still, pausing when he saw the little silk bikini panties in aqua that she’d chosen to go with her new dress.
The sight of his dark head close enough for his breath to heat her skin like a phantom touch made excitement twist inside.
He pushed the fabric right up to her breasts, baring her to his gaze.
Marisa’s breath laboured. There was something indescribably erotic about the way Damaso knelt at her feet, studying her so intently.
One large hand spread across her stomach, gently stroking till the tide of pleasure rose even higher.
‘You’re carrying our child in there.’ He looked up, midnight eyes transfixing her. Before Marisa could think of anything to say, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her flesh, then another and another. And all the while his eyes held hers.
She felt...treasured, vulnerable, different. The look on his face, the tenderness of his touch, the raw curl of arousal in her belly, created a moment of rapt awareness. She was a goddess come to life, the embodiment of femininity: creator, mother and seductress combined.
In that moment she felt awe at the miracle happening inside her and an unexpected sliver of hope. Damaso’s reaction was genuine. Could this pregnancy really help them forge a relationship?
Damaso’s mouth curved up in a smile. His eyes glittered in the soft light as he slid his hand down to the delicate silk of her panties, then with one swift tug dragged them down.
Over the sound of her gasp Marisa heard the whisper of tearing silk. Soft fabric fluttered down her legs.
‘They were new!’ Could he tell that was a gasp of anticipation, not outrage?
Damaso’s smile widened. ‘They were in the way.’
Before she could think of a retort, he dipped his head and her body convulsed as he pressed his lips to the centre point of every nerve. One stroke of his tongue and the trembling in her legs became a quaking shudder.
‘Damaso!’ Her fingers knotted in his hair, holding on, torn between wanting to pull him away and wanting him never to stop. For the storm was inside her now, the blasts of white-hot light jagging right through her again and again until, with a sob of shock, she shattered.
Marisa was tumbling, falling through a darkened sky lit by flashes of brilliant sparks. But she didn’t fall. She was cushioned, wrapped close, gentled as she shuddered again and again, her body strung out on ecstasy.
A hand brushed her face and, dazed, she felt wetness. Marisa gulped in air and realised there were tears trickling down her cheeks.
She felt like she’d never recover from the surge of energy that had wracked her. More than delight, this was euphoria.
‘I’ve never...’ Her throat closed. How could she explain the depth of what she’d felt—the combination of sensual pleasure and emotional crisis that had created a perfect storm?
‘Shh, minha querida. It’s all right. I have you safe.’
And he did. Even in her bemused state she knew he protected her. Damaso’s warmth and strength encompassed her, cocooning her. She burrowed closer, hands clinging.
She sank into soft cushions and Damaso eased away.
‘No!’ She clutched at him, hands sliding on his solid shoulders. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I don’t want to crush you.’
Marisa tried and failed to find the energy to lift her eyelids. ‘I need you.’
Had she really said that?
For a moment there was no response. Then her limp body was picked up again and she found herself draped across Damaso. He was long and hard and spectacularly aroused.
‘Sorry.’ Her leg brushed his erection through his trousers and he tensed.
‘It’s okay. Just relax.’
That was new in her experience of men, she realised foggily. He really was putting her first.
She snuggled closer and he tensed, his hands clamping tight as if to stop her moving. Her head was pressed to his chest and she inhaled the delicious scent of his skin. She pressed a kiss there and felt a quiver ripple through him.
Marisa’s exhaustion ebbed. She opened her eyes to a close-up view of Damaso’s shoulder and taut biceps as he cradled her. She touched the tip of her tongue to his skin, tasting that curious combination of potent male and sea spice.
‘Don’t!’
‘Why not?’ She slipped her hand down to cover the heavy bulge in his trousers. His guttural response was part protest, part approval as he jerked hard beneath her.
‘Because you’re not ready.’
Marisa looked down to see his hand hovering over hers, as if he wanted to pull her away but couldn’t quite manage it. She rubbed her hand up his length and saw his fingers clench. Beneath her ear, Damaso’s heartbeat quickened.
She smiled. Now the power was hers. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Deliberately she leaned over and licked his nipple, drawing it into her mouth.
Seconds later she was flat on her back on the sofa, pressed into the cushions by Damaso’s big frame. Between them his hand scrabbled at his belt and zip. His other hand caught one of hers above her head.
His mouth closed with hers and this kiss was hunger and heat. It was utterly carnal, Damaso’s tongue thrusting and demanding as he pushed her down into the soft upholstery. Wild elation rose as Marisa met each demand and added her own.
She needed Damaso to make her whole. Despite her shattering climax, there was an emptiness at her core only he could fill.
She was gasping when he surged back, rising to strip the last of his clothes and kick his shoes away.
Deep within, every muscle tightened as she surveyed Damaso, bronzed and powerful. Then he moved, shoving her legs wide, settling between them; his arms braced beside her, his breath warm on her lips, his eyes glittering as they ate her up.
He lay still so long she wondered if he’d changed his mind. Or was he waiting to see if she had?
Marisa reached down and took him in her hand, hot silk over rigid strength, and he shuddered.
In one fluid movement he dragged her hand away and thrust slowly to the place she needed him. Her breath expelled in a sigh.
He moved again, sure and unhurried, as if savouring every sensation.
Next time he withdrew, Marisa tilted her hips, but instead of pressing deeper or harder Damaso took his time, centimetre by slow centimetre.
He was killing her. From complete satiation just minutes ago, remarkably now Marisa
trembled with the need for more. She opened her mouth to urge him on then shut it as she registered his knotted brow, hazed in perspiration, the tendons tight to snapping point in his neck and arms, his gritted teeth.
This was killing him too!
‘I won’t break,’ she gasped as he eased away and stroked gently back, teasing her unbearably with the need for more.
His eyes snapped open and she wondered if he saw her clearly. His gaze looked blind.
She planted her hands on his buttocks, feeling the twitch and bunch of muscle as she tried to draw him close, yet he resisted.
His eyes focused and her heart thudded at the look he gave her. Slowly he shook his head. ‘The baby.’
He was afraid for the baby?
Marisa blinked. Emotions surged, engulfing her in a pool of warmth. At first she’d told herself she wasn’t ready to have a child. More, she was scared about the responsibility of motherhood. But now she knew a certainty as deep as primitive instinct—that she wanted this child and would do anything to protect it.
And so would Damaso. This was connection at a visceral level, more profound than anything she’d ever expected.
He genuinely cared. He’d opened his heart to their unborn baby.
Could he open his heart to her too?
Something fluttered in her chest, her heart throbbing too fast. A wave of emotion swept her, tumbling her into depths where the only anchor point was Damaso.
Hers. A voice in the deep murmured he was hers.
‘The baby will be fine,’ she whispered, wondering at the enormity of what she felt.
‘How do you know?’
From instinct as old as time.
Marisa guessed he wouldn’t be convinced by that. She focused on something more tangible. ‘The doctor told me.’
Damaso breathed deep, his body sinking into hers. ‘Still...’ He shook his head, moving so slowly it was exquisite torture.
He was so obstinate, yet how could she protest when he thought to protect something so precious?
Marisa slipped her hands to his shoulders and hauled herself higher, nuzzling his jaw, kissing his ear, feeling the friction of his chest against her tender breasts. His breathing drew ragged
‘I want you now,’ she whispered, and bit down hard at the curve between his tanned neck and shoulder.
Damaso juddered, surging hard and high.
‘Yes, like that.’
‘Marisa.’ It was a warning that became a groan as she wrapped her legs tight around him. For an instant he held strong, then his control broke and he surged into her, driving them hard and fast in a compulsive rhythm.
Marisa hugged him tight, filled with a feeling of openness, of protectiveness, as the big, powerful man who’d taken over her world let go and gave himself up to the force of passion.
Sex with Damaso had been spectacular.
Making love with him was indescribably better.
Marisa cradled him, overwhelmed by the belief they had shared something profound. Then, as their rhythm spun out of control, he bent to suckle her breast and both shattered in a climax that tumbled them into a new world.
CHAPTER NINE
THE STORM HAD PASSED, and the steady drum of rain should have lulled Damaso to sleep, yet it eluded him.
Staying with Marisa was too distracting. The rumpled disarray of the guest bedroom, the first one he’d staggered to with her in his arms, proved that.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her after that cataclysmic coming together in the sitting room. He’d assured himself he could hold back from the need to imprint himself on her, taste and hold her. But his willpower had snapped when she’d turned to him again.
He hoped she and the doctor were right. Logic told him sex wouldn’t harm the baby, yet he’d felt a profound fear of doing the wrong thing until Marisa had touched him.
He flung up an arm over his head, staring at the dark ceiling. His resolve had been renowned, and unbreakable, until her.
How had she done it? How had she overridden his determination to be gentle?
This wasn’t what he’d planned. Granted, he’d wanted her in his bed. What better way to bind her to him than with sex? He’d use any tactic he could to convince her marriage was best.
But now he had her where he wanted her, Damaso realised things weren’t so simple.
Tonight hadn’t felt like any sex he’d had before.
It hadn’t felt like he was in control.
On the contrary, his loss of control had been spectacular.
Then there was the way he’d felt. When he’d realised he’d hurt Marisa with his easy assumptions. When he’d knelt and kissed the woman who carried his baby. When she’d come apart so completely, her vulnerability had unravelled something inside, something he couldn’t mend.
Each time he’d climaxed, it seemed he’d lost a little of himself in her.
He shifted. That was nonsense.
‘Damaso?’ Her drowsy voice was like rich, dark honey, sweet and enticing, making his mouth water.
He remembered being twenty-two, a kid from the slums who’d dragged himself into the commercial world with a mix of relentless determination, hard work and luck. He’d put his past behind him and thought he knew it all: how to turn a quick deal, where to find profits, how to satisfy a woman, how to protect himself on streets so much safer and more respectable than the ones he’d known.
He’d been in a breakfast meeting at a hotel. Damaso had followed the other man’s lead, eating as they talked so as not to look too eager. He’d taken a bite of bread slathered in honey and had been instantly addicted.
Such a simple thing that most people took for granted. Yet just a taste had the power to drag him straight back to his past, deprived and wanting. To a time when honey had been a luxury he’d only heard of.
‘Damaso?’ Her hand touched his chest. ‘What’s wrong?’
He mentally shook himself out of abstraction. ‘Nothing.’ He paused, realising how abrupt he sounded. ‘You must be tired. You should sleep.’
Her hand shifted, fluttering over his ribs, and he sucked in a breath as arousal stirred.
‘Would you hold me?’ She sounded tentative, unlike the feisty woman who’d faced him down time and again.
Did the past haunt her too?
How little he knew of her.
Silently he reached out and dragged her close, hoisting her leg over his and pushing her head onto his chest. Then he pulled the sheet over them both.
Holding her in his arms felt surprisingly satisfying. She was soft and serene and fitted snugly against him, as if designed for this. His breathing evened to a slow, relaxed rhythm.
‘I should never have left you alone at the party.’ Naked against him, he realised how tiny she was. She might have energy to burn, and an attitude the size of São Paolo, but that didn’t mean she could take on the world alone.
‘You’ve already said that.’ Her mouth moved against his chest.
He had, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like him to dwell on mistakes. Yet he couldn’t shake the guilt that he’d made her a target for unwanted attention.
‘Nevertheless, I’m sorry. You—’
‘Forget it, Damaso. I handled it.’
Damaso firmed his mouth rather than blurt that she shouldn’t have needed to handle it.
‘I’m sorry I lost my temper with you in public.’ She puffed out a breath that warmed his skin. ‘That will just fuel public interest.’
An apology from Marisa, too? Perhaps they were making progress. Damaso stroked a hand along her spine, enjoying its sensuous curve and the way she arched ever so slightly in response.
‘Don’t apologise. I should have known better.’
‘What? Known I wasn’t busy seducing other men and generally behaving badly?’ Marisa’s voice was a whisper yet he heard the tinge of bitterness she couldn’t conceal. ‘How could you? That’s what everyone expects. It’s in all the gossip magazines.’
She lay taut in his arms, t
hat delicious lassitude replaced by tension. Damaso wished now he’d never raised the subject. But he owed her.
‘The magazines are wrong.’
‘I’d rather not discuss it.’ She shifted as if to pull away and he wrapped both arms around her, holding her gently but firmly.
‘I know they’re wrong.’
Marisa stilled. ‘You can’t know that.’
‘But I do.’
‘Don’t!’ She twisted in his hold and he saw her pale face look up at him in the darkness. ‘You don’t need to pretend.’ Her voice was scratchy and over-loud and it made something inside him ache.
‘I don’t know the details, Marisa. Only you do. But I do know you’re not the woman the media paints you.’ He paused, wondering how much he should admit. Then he registered the tiny shivers running through her taut frame and went on. ‘I believed it at first but the more time I spent with you the more I came to realise you’re someone quite different.’ He ventured a caress along her bare shoulder. ‘Someone I want to know.’
It was true. Marisa intrigued him. More than that, he’d discovered he liked her, even when she was prickly and refused to give in to his wishes.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he murmured.
‘Why would I do that?’ No mistaking the wariness in her voice.
‘Because you’re hurting, and talking about it might make you feel better.’
His words surprised even himself. Not that he didn’t mean them. It was how much he meant them, how much he wanted to help, that made him frown.
Since when had he been there for anyone? He was a loner. He’d never been in a long-term relationship. He didn’t dwell on feelings. Yet here he was, offering a sympathetic ear as if he was the go-to guy for emotional support.
Yet he was sincere.
Another first.
If he wasn’t careful this woman would change his life. Already she had him re-thinking so much he’d taken for granted.
‘Why? Because you’re such a good listener?’ Marisa forced lightness into her tone but it didn’t quite mask her pain. Her restless fingers moved over his rib cage until he clamped his hand over hers, spreading it wide against his chest. He liked her touch on him.
Damaso Claims His Heir Page 10
