‘I don’t,’ she said quietly.
He felt a rush of misery and regret, but then his pulse leapt as her hand splayed across his chest.
‘But if we start again it has to be different. No more lies, Vicè. No more games. Agreed?’
At that moment, with her body so warm and soft and close to his, he would have agreed to just about anything.
‘Agreed,’ he said hoarsely.
There was a short silence.
Finally, she cleared her throat. ‘You should probably get out of those damp clothes...’
Nodding, he made as though to slide her off his lap, but she didn’t move. Instead, her eyes met his.
‘Or I could help you...’ A little shakily, she ran her fingers down his body to the waistband of his shorts. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind?’
He stared at her dazedly. What mind? Like the rest of him, his mind had melted at the feel of her fingertips on his skin.
A flicker of hope went through him like an electric current and he swallowed, his eyes dropping to her mouth, then lower to the swell of her breasts.
‘Is that—Do you—I mean, are you saying what I think you’re trying to say?’
His usual effortless eloquence had deserted him. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so awkward. But he was shaken by the intensity of his desire, paralysed with fear that he had misunderstood her gesture and words.
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
It was as if a starter gun had gone off in his head.
Framing her face with his hands, he pulled her closer, his mouth finding hers, and he felt a shiver running over him as her fingers stroked across his skin.
‘I’ve been thinking about this for days...’ he groaned against her mouth.
Shock waves of desire were slamming through his body.
‘I’ve been thinking about it too.’
Her breathing was decidedly unsteady now, and she was pushing him back, back onto the sofa.
‘Wait, wait... No—not here. Not on this damn sofa,’ he muttered.
It was his last conscious thought as, reaching down, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her upstairs.
As he dropped her gently onto the bed Imma sat up, pulling him closer, her mouth seeking the outline of his arousal through the still damp fabric of his boxer shorts. He grunted, his body jerking forward as her fingers slid over his hip bones and she began to move her lips over the swell of his erection.
His hand caught in her hair. ‘Imma...’ He swore softly.
* * *
Imma felt her stomach clench. Her power to arouse him was shockingly exciting, and he was fiercely aroused. Fingers trembling slightly, she tugged at the waistband of his boxer shorts, heat flaring in her pelvis as she slid them over his hips.
She watched his jaw tighten, the muscles of his arms bunching as she ran her tongue around the blunt, rigid tip, taking it in her mouth. The feel of it jerking and pulsating in her mouth made her head swim.
He groaned, his fingers twisting in her hair, and then he jolted backwards, lifting her face and lowering his mouth to hers, kissing her with a hunger that made liquid heat flood her pelvis.
As her hands reached for him, he batted them away. ‘My turn,’ he said hoarsely.
His eyes were dark and molten with heat. Pulling her to her feet, he dipped his head, kissed her again, taking his time, running his tongue slowly over her lips then between them, tasting her, slowing her pulse.
She felt his hands on her back and then he was unzipping her dress, sliding it over her body, his hands moving smoothly around to cup her breasts, his thumbs grazing the already swollen tips until she was shaking inside.
And then he was nudging her back onto the bed, his mouth on hers, dropping his head to take first one and then the other nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the tight, ruched skin as her hands clutched his neck and shoulders.
She reached for him again and this time he caught her hands, pinning them to her sides. Deliberately he slid down her body. A shiver of excitement ran through her.
‘Let me taste you,’ he whispered, and her head fell back, her whole body quivering as he parted her with his tongue.
Her body arched, pressing against his mouth. She had never felt anything like this. She was moaning, shifting restlessly against him, desperately seeking more, her body no longer her own. There was nothing except him...nothing but his warm, firm mouth and the measured, insistent press of his tongue.
Helplessly, she pushed against him, chasing that fluttering, delicate ripple of pleasure, and then her pulse quickened and she felt her body tighten inside, tensing as the ripple became a wave and she cried out, shuddering beneath him.
Releasing her hands, he moved up the bed, licking his way up her body to her mouth. ‘I want you, Imma.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘I want you too. Inside me.’
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she was straddling the rigid length of him, hard and hot against the ache between her thighs. Reaching over, he fumbled in a drawer, lifting her gently as he rolled on a condom.
Squirming against him, she moved her hands across his body, over his stomach and down lower, taking him in her hand. He pulled her against him, his fingers tightening around her waist as he lifted her up and pushed into her slowly, easing himself in, inch by inch.
His face was tight with concentration and with the effort of holding back. ‘Look at me,’ he whispered.
Their eyes met and, gripping her hips, he began to move. She moved with him, and their bodies sought and found a steady, intoxicating rhythm that sent arrows of heat over her skin.
Reaching out, he cupped her breast, squeezing her nipple, and then his hand moved to the swollen bud of her clitoris, caressing her in time to his body’s thrusts, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
She rocked against him, feeling the heat rising up inside her again, gripping him with her muscles, holding him as the friction grew. Her skin felt hot and tight. She was hot and tight inside. And suddenly she flexed forward, as though she was trying to climb over him.
He pulled her back, his eyes locking with hers, and then he pushed up one more time and she felt her body arch as he tensed, his hands clamping around her waist, her gasp of pleasure mingling with his groan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS LATE when Vicè woke, the distant sound of a motorboat in the bay dragging him reluctantly from his cocoon of warmth. For a moment he clung on to the last shreds of sleep, and then slowly he opened his eyes and turned his head towards the open French windows.
He had forgotten to draw the curtains, and outside the sky was a marbled swirl of the palest blue and gold, as beautiful as any Renaissance ceiling. But no sky, however beautiful, could compete with the woman lying beside him.
Imma was asleep, her face resting against his shoulder. Her left hand curled loosely on his chest, the other was resting on the pillow, leaving one rosy-tipped breast bared to his gaze.
His heart began to beat faster. With her tousled hair and long dark lashes brushing her cheeks she looked like a painting. There was a softness to her in sleep, a hint of the vulnerability beneath the poise that made him want to pull her close and hold her against him.
He tensed. It was the first time in his life he had felt that way about any woman, and yet even though it was new and unfamiliar he didn’t feel panic or confusion. Instead it felt completely natural, like smiling.
But was that so surprising, really?
He might have acted unfairly—ruthlessly, even—but he wasn’t a monster, and seeing her cry had horrified him. Naturally he had wanted to comfort her.
His pulse quickened. What had happened next had been completely natural too.
Natural and sublime.
He swallowed, his groin hardening at the memory of how Imma had m
oved against him. Illuminated in the moonlight, her body had looked like liquid silver—felt like it too.
It had been different from that first time—slower, less frantic, more like riding a wave...an endless, curling wave of pleasure.
But then last time there had been other things in play. Obviously he’d needed to seduce her, but the intensity of his attraction had caught him off guard, made him question his motives so that it had all got tangled up in his head.
Imma had had her own agenda then too. Sleeping with him, losing her virginity, had been her first small act of independence.
Last night, though, it had been far less complicated for both of them.
It had been lust. Pure and simple and irresistible.
There had been no agenda.
He had wanted her and she had wanted him.
Of course they had been fighting it for days—fighting each other for days. But it had been too strong for both of them.
His chest tightened. They had come together as equals and Imma had made him feel things no other woman had—driven him to a pitch of excitement that had subsumed everything that had happened between them.
Including getting even with her father.
She stirred in his arms and he stared down at her, replaying that thought, turning it back and forth inside his head. Yesterday, when she had been so upset, he’d felt something shift inside him, but he hadn’t articulated it quite so bluntly before. Putting it into words seemed to make his thoughts move up a gear, give shape to his feelings.
He felt a rush of relief. Getting even with Cesare didn’t matter any more. His father’s business was as good as his already, and that meant he was free to enjoy this year with Imma.
Watching her eyelids flutter open, he felt his body grow even harder.
And he didn’t want to waste a second of it.
‘Hey,’ he said softly.
She stretched her arms, the movement causing the sheet to fall away from her naked body, sending a jolt of heat across his already overheated skin. For a moment she stared up at him, her green eyes widening with confusion, and then she met his gaze.
* * *
‘Hey...’
Imma stared up at Vicè, her heart pounding. She had absolutely no idea what to do. Last time she’d been in the same situation Claudia had called, so she had never got to this moment of acknowledgement. It had got lost, swept aside by her sister’s revelation. But now there was nowhere to hide from the truth of what they had done—what she had done.
Remembering her hoarse, inarticulate cries of pleasure, the way she had pulled his body and then his mouth closer as he’d addressed that relentless ache between her thighs, her cheeks felt suddenly as if they were on fire.
His touch had been electric, every caress sending her closer to the edge, straining for that elusive something that would douse the swirling heat at the centre of her body, until finally it had been in her grasp and she had shuddered to stillness in his arms.
She had never felt like that before—not even that first time. It had been beyond anything she’d ever experienced.
As the moonlight had spilled through the windows she had demanded and given pleasure in equal measure, surrendering to the passion he had unleashed. Now, though, in daylight, she felt a little embarrassed.
Understandably.
She had cried all over him, told him things about herself and her life that she had never shared with anyone, and then she’d had sex with him.
Her heart skipped. She’d expected the sex to be incredible—Vicè was a generous, gifted lover. But apparently he was also a good listener. Talking to him had been easy—even about things she had held so close and kept secret from others.
‘If it’s any help, I don’t know how to do the morning-after bit either,’ he said quietly.
Swallowing, she looked up into his dark eyes. Her whole life she had been a complicated, contained girl, equal parts fear and ambition, always wanting to push back, but too scared to refuse, to demand, to ask.
But she wasn’t scared any more.
‘What do you usually do?’ she asked.
‘That’s just it.’ Leaning over, he stroked her cheek. ‘I don’t do anything. Spending the night with someone isn’t my thing.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Wasn’t my thing.’
She stared at him uncertainly, trying to ignore the way her stomach was turning over and over in response to the implication of his words.
‘But it is now?’ she whispered.
A curl of hair had fallen over her breast and, reaching out, he wrapped it around his fingers, drawing her closer so that her mouth was under his.
‘Yes, it most definitely is.’
Was that true? Or was he simply saying what she wanted to hear?
There was a moment of silence.
‘You don’t believe me?’ His eyes searched her face.
‘I want to...’ She hesitated. There was a coldness in her chest, the chill of doubt. ‘It’s just that before this—you and me—it wasn’t real. You had an agenda—’
Vicè hadn’t wanted her for herself then. He’d needed to seduce her. Only she’d had no idea. So how could she trust her instincts, her senses, now?
‘And you think I had one last night?’ He grinned. ‘What can I say? I had to get off that sofa somehow.’ He glanced down, his smile fading. ‘I’m joking, cara. That wasn’t why—’ His face stilled. ‘Is this about what I said before? About only wanting you to get at your father?’
He stopped, his jaw tightening.
‘Look, maybe right at the beginning, at the wedding, it was about getting back at him and getting the business back. But when you came out of the bathroom—’ He grimaced. ‘I promise you I wanted you so badly I wasn’t thinking about your father or my father’s olive oil company. Actually, I wasn’t thinking, full stop.’
Imma bit her lip. She wanted to believe him, but it was hard. Her father and Claudia both needed her. For support, for protection. She had never felt desirable before—just necessary.
His hand covered hers, and the warmth of his fingers thawed the chill in her chest.
He shook his head. ‘Lo so, cara. I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me, but I meant what I said last night. I can’t get you out of my head—you’re all I’ve been thinking about.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Watching you walk downstairs in that dress, those heels... I actually thought I was going to lose control. I was desperate to get to the hotel, so I didn’t make a fool of myself.’ He gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘Although being a fool is what I do best.’
It was the kind of teasing remark that was typical of him, and yet she couldn’t help feeling there was something beneath the banter.
She stared into his eyes. ‘You’re not a fool.’
‘I’m a fool for you,’ he said lightly.
She smiled at that and, lifting his hand, he stroked her hair away from her face. ‘You know, I think I’m getting pretty good at this morning-after bit,’ he murmured.
‘Is that right?’ Her lips curved upward, caught in the honeyed trap of his gleaming dark eyes and teasing smile.
‘Yeah...’
Their eyes met, and then his mouth dropped, and then he kissed her. She felt something stir inside—a flickering heat that made her body ripple to life and tighten in response.
Tipping his head back, he stared down at her, and then he ran a finger slowly along the line of her collarbone. ‘Although I might just need a little bit more practice...’
His voice was warm with desire, and she felt an answering warmth start to spread over her skin as he took her face between his hands and bent his head to kiss her again.
She wanted him, and she was willing to act on that want. She was making a choice and she was choosing Vicè.
It was a feather-light kiss. But then his mouth fused with hers and she whimpered
softly as he moved his tensile muscular body over her.
Gripping his hips, she stretched out beneath him. He entered her slowly, giving her time to adjust, inching forward in time with her soft sighs of pleasure. But she needed him now—all of him—and she arched upward, pressing herself against the smooth, polished heat of his skin, wrapping her legs around his hips.
She was already aroused, and soon she was growing dizzy, intoxicated by the hard, steady rhythm of his body. A moan of pleasure climbed in her throat, and then a fierce heat blossomed inside her as her muscles tightened around him and she let go in time to his thrust of release.
* * *
Later—much later—they sat outside beneath the canopy of wisteria, enjoying a late brunch on the terrace.
‘What are you thinking?’ Vicè asked.
Turning, Imma smiled. He was staring at her across the table, his dark eyes fixed on her face.
Her pulse skipped. The shock of his beauty never seemed to fade. Any other man would have been eclipsed by the decadent glamour of the Dolce, but in his cream linen trousers, short-sleeved shirt and loafers, he looked like a poster playboy for the Italian Riviera.
With effort, she pulled her gaze away to the view past his shoulder, where huge white yachts floated serenely on an aquamarine sea. ‘I was thinking how lucky you are.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s crazy—so was I.’
Smiling, she glanced past him at the panorama below. ‘You have such a beautiful view here.’
‘No, that’s not what’s beautiful here,’ he said softly.
She shook her head. ‘Do you ever stop?’
‘You made me, remember?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You said we had to eat food. Or get dressed or something...’
Their eyes met. She and Vicè had taken a shower together. Her cheeks felt suddenly warm. At first they had just washed one another, but then the soap had got dropped, and then he had shown her other, more inventive and thrilling ways to pass the time beneath the warm, tumbling spray.
‘Somebody was knocking at the door. You were naked.’
The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage Page 13
