Redemption Of The Untamed Italian

She shifted her gaze sideways, eyeing him thoughtfully. He was immaculately dressed. His suit, a charcoal grey, contrasted perfectly with his crisp white shirt, and his black shoes were polished to gleaming. His hair was neat, his nails too. His fingers were long and capable-looking, with hair-roughened knuckles.

They didn’t speak in the car. It was as though neither of them could find words, or perhaps both were equally afraid that talking would cut through the spell that had weaved some kind of magic around them, binding them together in a shared moment of madness.

London zipped past, all bright lights and ancient buildings, and then the car was running alongside Hyde Park, bringing them into Knightsbridge. It pulled off the road at a large and gracious townhouse. Despite the age of the building, modern modifications had taken place and an underground garage had been installed.

The car slid into it effortlessly, a gate closing behind them. Only then did Cesare turn to her, speculation in his face, as though waiting for her to change her mind.

She didn’t want to.

It was insanity, but it was also the thing she wanted most in the world.

At his look of enquiry, she smiled. ‘What are we waiting for?’

He expelled a breath and leaned forward, his lips claiming hers quickly, tasting her so she moaned, lifting her hands to the lapels of his shirt and gripping him tightly.

‘Not a goddamned thing. Come on.’ He growled the instructions into her mouth then pushed his door open, holding it and waiting for her to step out. She’d entered and exited limousines with the world’s press waiting to get a shot up her skirt. She knew precisely how to disembark with an air of dignity—but it was a lot trickier to manage when her knees were quivering and warmth was spreading through her in anticipation of what was to come.

Despite the fact this was a residential address, there was a lift on the other side of the basement. He laced his fingers through hers, pulling her towards it, his enthusiasm making her smile even as his face was so serious.

The lift was as elegant as you’d see in any five-star hotel. More so, in fact, because it had only one occupant, so there was no wear and tear, no scruffy carpet. It was immaculate, just like Cesare—highly polished wood-panelling, a darkly tinted mirror and five buttons, indicating it served the whole house.

‘Five storeys?’

His eyes pinned her to the spot. ‘A basement and a rooftop terrace,’ he pointed out. ‘So only three.’

‘Oh, that’s far more modest.’

His expression showed scepticism as the lift doors opened onto the second floor. He held the door open, waiting for her to step out. ‘And you live in a flat share, I suppose?’ he responded.

‘I live in a flat.’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing like this.’ She waved her hand around the room. The lights had come on when they’d stepped out of the lift, subdued and golden, and they filled the space with a warmth its furnishings required. It was...austere. Yes, that was probably the best way to describe it. She looked around and, even as she recognised every piece was the very best, designer and in brand-new condition, there was an incredible lack of personality.

‘Do you spend much time here?’ she asked, genuinely curious. After all, it didn’t exactly look lived in.

‘No.’

‘Ah.’ She was strangely pleased by that. It wasn’t even remotely homely.

‘This is good?’ he prompted. ‘Are you worried I’m going to want to see you again after tonight?’

She stilled, her eyes finding his. That thought hadn’t even occurred to her. In fact, she hadn’t spent any time thinking about what happened later, tomorrow. ‘I...’

‘Relax, uccellina.’ He said the word in his native tongue, and she had no idea what it meant. ‘This is strictly a one-night thing.’

Her eyes flared wide, her heart lurching at the line he was drawing. She was glad—simple, quick, no complications. That was better for everyone, including Laurence. ‘Perfect,’ she murmured, her pulse slamming through her veins.

‘I wanted you the moment I saw you tonight.’ Something like determination glowed ferociously in his eyes and, for no reason she could think of, a frisson of something like a warning shifted down her spine.

‘And here I am.’ There was fatalism in her words.

He didn’t react.

‘Why do I think you always get exactly what you want?’

‘What do you base that on?’ His hand lifted to the flimsy strap of her dress, sliding beneath it, running it down her shoulder slowly, his eyes holding hers.

‘Am I wrong?’

His eyes flared. ‘No, uccellina.’ His fingers ran lower, tracing her arm lightly, his gaze not shifting.

It was the second time he’d used that word. ‘What does that mean?’

His hand moved to the other strap, gliding it over her flesh so her breath snagged in her throat.

‘Little bird.’ His words were gravelled. The straps slipped lower until the dress began to fall. She bit down on her lower lip to stop a sigh escaping. The fabric was silk, and it moved like water over her breasts, her nipples puckering at the slight touch. His hands guided the dress lower still, over her hips, until it fell to the floor, leaving her standing in front of him in only a pair of heels and a lace thong.

Her breathing was ragged, her body covered in goose bumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.

‘You are beautiful,’ he murmured seriously, the words factual rather than said as a compliment. ‘But this you already know.’

It was a statement that came close to implying she was vain, and Jemima resented it, but before she could respond he’d stepped closer so that his body was hard against hers and urgency made it difficult to think, much less speak. She could feel every inch of him, every expansive muscle, his arousal pressed to her belly.

Her hands lifted to his chest, pushing against his shirt, his pectoral muscles firm beneath her curious grip. She undid his buttons one by one, starting at his neck and working down, pausing at the waistband of his trousers so she could lift his shirt out completely. The tip of her tongue darted from the corner of her lips as she concentrated on what she was doing, but before she could push the shirt from his body he’d swooped his head down and sought her mouth with his, his lips mashing to hers, the kiss driven by a mutual, desperate passion.

He took another step forward, so her back connected with the glass window, and he rolled his hips, leaving her in little doubt as to how much he wanted her.

Lust was a new feeling for Jemima. Never had she felt so attracted to a man that she wanted to act on it like this. Her brain had ceased to function; she was operating purely on instinct and her instincts were telling her to enjoy this.

‘I need to...’ What? See him? Touch him? Feel him? Frustrated by her lack of experience, her total inability to put into words what she was feeling and to explain the fever in her blood, she shook her head.

But he understood, of course he did, because the same fever was raging through him. He scooped her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, carrying her easily through the house, kissing her the entire way, and by the time they reached a bedroom and he dropped her onto the mattress she was ready to catch fire completely.

‘I want...’

‘Yes?’ His own voice was roughened by desire. ‘What do you want, Jemima?’

There it was again—the mental block, a complete inability to say what she was thinking. She groaned, reaching for him, sitting up and pulling at his sides, but he didn’t move. He kicked out of his shoes, watching her, his chest rising and falling with each of his deep breaths as he shrugged out of his shirt.

He had a tattoo that ran just beneath his heart: ‘come sono’. Her Italian was limited to industry terms and social niceties. ‘“I am me”?’ she said aloud, her eyes chasing the cursive ink.

‘“As I am”.’ He stepped out of his trousers and now a kick of fear hit her gut. Not fear of what was to come, but fear at how out of her depth she was. Her pulse lurched wildly through her body and she knew she should say something. But ancient feminine instincts gave her confidence and had her pushing to the end of the bed so that his legs straddled hers, his body so big, his presence overpowering. His fingers curved through her hair, and then her lips sought his flat chest, pressing to the ridges there as she scrambled onto her knees on the edge of the bed so she could trace one of his nipples with her tongue, flicking it curiously before transferring her attention to the next one.

In the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware of how new this was, and yet she didn’t feel anything except pleasurable anticipation and relief. She wanted this. She wanted it so badly. Soon, her virginity would be gone, and she’d know the pleasure of a man’s body... She couldn’t wait.

His chest moved rapidly with each curious little exploration of her tongue. Power trilled in her veins—the knowledge that she was driving him as wild as she was set her pulse skittering.

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