Italian Mavericks: Forbidden Nights With The Italian: The Forbidden Ferrara / Surrendering to the Italian's Command / The Unwanted Conti Bride

‘Please—’

‘Yes—’ Without hesitating, he lifted her so that she was forced to wrap her thighs around him and then he was kissing her again, his mouth feasting on hers as they yielded to the madness.

Her hands were on his bare shoulders and she felt the rippling power of his body and the strength of him as he positioned her. Like this she was helpless, but she didn’t care. She was wild with the feelings they unleashed together, utterly lost in the mind-blowing excitement of his touch. He kissed her as if this moment would never, ever come again, as if the crazy collision of their mouths was the breath of life.

They dispensed with foreplay, the wild urgency of it stampeding over thoughts of taking it slow. There was no slow. Just hard, fast and desperate.

His fingers dug into her thighs and she felt the smooth tip of his penis against her and then he was inside her, hot, hard and all male. She cried out and arched, taking him deep, her body yielding to the demands of his. And he demanded everything, took everything, until her orgasm came screaming down on her and took him with her, soft, sensitive tissue clamping down on each erotic juddering thrust until the experience became one wild, mad rush of exquisite pleasure.

Fia clung to him, eyes closed, struggling for breath.

He supported her with one arm while he planted his other hand on the wall behind her in an attempt to steady himself. Muttering something in Italian, he rested his forehead on his arm and struggled for breath.

‘Madre de Dio, that wasn’t how I planned it.’ He lifted his head and looked at her, those impossibly sexy eyes darkened to near black. ‘Did I hurt you? You fell against the wall—’

‘Don’t remember that.’ She felt dazed. Weak. ‘I’m all in one piece.’

Except for her heart. Did that count?

But she wasn’t going to think about that now. Didn’t have time to think of it because he was lowering her to the floor and the moment he released her, her knees buckled. He caught her easily and dragged her against him, but that meant that they were touching again and what began as support quickly moved into seduction. They couldn’t help themselves. He buried his mouth in her neck. She slid her arms around his shoulders and pressed closer. Even after that explosive climax he was still hard and she gave a soft gasp as she felt the heaviness of his erection brush against her.

‘Santo—’

‘You’re driving me crazy—’ He slid a hand behind her neck and brought his mouth down to hers. Kissed her with raw hunger. Then his other hand slid between her thighs and she stumbled against him.

‘The bed—’

‘Too far—’ His mouth devouring hers, he tipped her off her feet, down onto the floor.

She was dimly aware of her neat pile of rose petals scattering and then he rolled onto his back so that she was the one straddling him. Strands of her hair brushed his chest and she leaned forward to kiss him, unwilling to relinquish that pleasure even for a moment. His hands sank into her hair and he crushed her mouth with his. His tongue played with hers. Teased. Tormented. Her hands grew bold and greedy, tracing his flat, muscled abdomen and moving lower to close around the thickness of his shaft. If he needed recovery time then there was no sign of it and when his hands locked on her hips and he lifted her onto him, she paused for a moment, teasing him and herself by delaying the moment. She felt the smooth probing heat of him against her and he watched her through eyes that glittered dark with barely restrained desire. There was something about that sexy, smouldering look that snapped her control and she moved her hips gracefully and took him deep.

‘Cristo—’ His jaw tightened and the muscles in his shoulders bulged as he drove himself into her. The power should have been hers but she felt the hard throb of him inside her and the bite of his fingers on her thighs and realised that all the power still lay with him. He controlled her. He controlled every second of the whole erotic experience and this time when her senses exploded she collapsed onto his chest and felt his arms come round her tightly.

They lay for a moment and then he winced.

‘Cristo, this is uncomfortable. We should move.’

She didn’t think she was capable of moving but he slowly eased himself onto one elbow and then frowned down at her.

‘You’re bleeding!’

She glanced down at her arm. ‘It’s a rose petal. They’re stuck to you, too.’

He shifted her gently away from him and sat up, removing rose petals with an impatient hand. ‘Why are rose petals considered romantic?’

‘They just are—in certain circumstances.’ But not these, of course. The petals had been part of the image he wanted to create.

But how could she be angry with him about that? He’d been thinking about their son. And she didn’t want Luca to be the subject of gossip and speculation any more than he did.

He sprang to his feet, lean and lithe, his body at the peak of physical fitness. ‘Intrigued though I am at the prospect of picking rose petals from your body all night, I think the shower might be quicker.’ Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet and drew her across the bedroom into the wetroom.

He was completely unselfconscious and relaxed as he prowled into the shower and hit a button on the wall.

Fia was still staring at the muscular perfection of his lean, bronzed back when he turned.

‘Keep looking at me like that and we’re not going to make it to the bed any time in the next two days,’ he warned, hauling her against him and burying his hands in her hair.

Steaming jets of water covered her and she gasped as the water sluiced over her hair, her face, mingling with the heat of his kiss.

Her body was slick and damp against his.

He washed the rose petals away and she did the same with him.

Hands stroked. Mouths fused. Senses flared.

He pressed her back against the tiled wall of the shower out of the direct jets of the water and slowly kissed his way down her body. The skilled flick of his tongue across her nipples made her arch into him and he clasped her writhing hips in his hands and anchored her as he kissed his way down her body. He didn’t speak and neither did she. The only sounds were the hiss of the water and her soft gasps as he boldly took every liberty he wanted to take, first with his fingers and then with his mouth. It felt too intimate, made her feel too vulnerable, and she closed her hands in his hair, intending to stop him, but then he used his tongue, teasing and tormenting until she was engulfed by a dark, erotic pleasure that threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted him to stop and carry on at the same time. She ached with wanting him and when she felt the knowing slide of his fingers deep inside her she sobbed his name and felt her body race towards completion.

‘Please—’ Desperate, she moved her hips and he rose to his feet, lifted her thigh to give himself access and drove himself deep into her quivering, excited body. He was hot, hard and unapologetically male, each skilful thrust so intensely arousing that she cried out and dug her fingers into his warm, naked shoulders.

She felt him throb inside her, felt him drive them both higher and higher with long, sure strokes until pleasure exploded and her muscles clenched around him, the pulsing contractions of her body propelling him to the same peak of sexual excitement.

Sated, Fia dropped her head to his damp, sleek shoulder, stunned by a pleasure she’d never known before. He pushed her wet hair away from her face, stroked her cheek with a gentle hand and muttered something in Italian that she didn’t catch.

Just in that moment she felt closer to him than she ever had.

Maybe, she thought numbly, maybe it would be all right. That degree of sexual intimacy wasn’t possible without some degree of feeling, was it? Maybe, if the sex was this good, the rest of it would eventually be good too.

The gentle touch of his fingers on her face made her insides melt in an entirely different way. She softened. That frozen part of herself that prevented her from allowing herself to be close to anyone thawed slightly. Feeling incredibly vulnerable, she lifted her head to look at him. She didn’t know what to say, but presumably he did because if there was one thing Santo Ferrara was never short of it was smooth words. He used them in business to command and persuade and yes, he used them with women. He would know exactly the right thing to say to capture the moment.

Supporting her with one arm, he leaned across and killed the jet on the shower.

The hiss of water was silenced.

Fia held her breath and waited. She felt as if she was poised on the brink of something life-changing. As if whatever he said now would shift the direction of their relationship.

‘Bed,’ he said huskily, his lashes darkened and damp with water. ‘This time we’re going to make it to the bed, tesoro.’

This time we’re going to make it to the bed.

Her fragile hope and expectations shattered, Fia paled. ‘That’s all you can say?’

Dark eyebrows rose in lazy appraisal. ‘I was thinking of your comfort,’ he drawled. ‘So far we’ve had wall sex, floor sex and shower sex. I was thinking bed sex might be a progression but if you want to try something else I’m up for it. You are utterly incredible.’

‘You—’ Fia was so upset that she couldn’t finish her sentence.

Plunged from hope into the depths of despair in the space of minutes, furious with herself for being so gullible as to think even for a second that he might have feelings for her, she lost her cool.

‘I hate you, do you know that? Right now, this moment, Santo Ferrara, I really, really hate you.’ But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. It was the very fact that they weren’t true that made her so upset. She was completely confused about her feelings. She barely knew him and yet she’d allowed him to—

Fia closed her eyes, embarrassed, excited, humiliated, vulnerable—all of it. The thought of how close she’d come to revealing her feelings and making a monumental fool of herself was a dizzying experience.

His eyes were suddenly wary. ‘Very intense sex can make women very emotional.’

‘It’s not the sex that’s making me emotional, it’s you! You’re a heartless, cold hearted, arrogant … s … s …’

‘—sex god?’

‘Slime ball!’ Her heart was pounding and her whole body was shaking. She sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm herself down and she might have succeeded had he not given a dismissive shrug of those wide shoulders.

‘I was joking,’ he said flatly, ‘but suddenly you’re very serious. The sexual chemistry between us is off the scale and you’re obviously unsettled by that. Don’t be. Instead, be grateful that at least one part of our relationship is a spectacular success. It gives us something to build on. Sex is important to me and we’re clearly not going to have any problems in the bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or the floor—’ His lazy humour was the final straw.

‘You think not? I’ve got news for you—we’re going to have big problems. Sex is just sex! You can’t build on it. Especially not the type of Olympic sex you go in for. With you it’s all about performance! That’s not emotional, it’s just physical.’

‘“Just physical” has had you panting and begging for the past three hours.’ Reaching past her, he grabbed a towel. ‘If it was an Olympic performance you were looking for then between us I’d say we produced a gold for the team.’

‘Get away from me.’ She planted her hands on his bronzed chest and pushed, but he stood with his legs braced, all rocksolid muscle and glorious male nakedness. ‘I don’t want wall sex, floor sex or bed sex. I don’t want any sex! In fact I never want you to touch me again!’ She pushed past him and grabbed her own towel from the heated cabinet, noticing that the rose petals had been turned to mush by the water from the shower.

Finally, she thought wildly, something that was truly symbolic of their relationship.

Wrecked, ruined and a total mess.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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