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“So what was this? What happened here?”
“I wanted you. I have wanted to be with you since I was eighteen. And so I slept with you, and I did it mostly for closure. I slept with you so that—” She broke off abruptly, unwilling to say what was burning in her heart.
So that I would always have this moment with you. So that I would always have this memory.
This was her secret, not his. Her memory for her to cherish, and she would cherish it, but he didn’t need to know that making love with him was bittersweet. He didn’t need to know that being so close to him had been heaven, and it would hurt like hell to walk away, but far better to leave and hurt and heal, then stay and be overlooked day in and day out.
“Finish your sentence,” he said curtly. “I’m hanging on your every word. I’m trying to understand.”
“There is nothing to understand. I wanted to be in your bed. I wanted to make love to you. I did. We did. And now I’m ready to go as soon as the storm lets up.”
He crossed his arms, and his jaw jutted. “I don’t like any of this.”
“I know you don’t, but you’ll be fine the moment I’m gone and you reach back out to Vittoria, or you set your sights on the next appropriate woman. I’m just convenient, Marcu. Don’t forget that.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“But true,” she said, tugging her sweater over her head, and crumpling the rest of her clothes into a ball. “This isn’t complicated between us. We both had an itch to scratch, and we scratched it, freeing you to find the next aristocratic young woman with the bloodline you desire.” And then she tried to put on her knit slacks but Marcu scooped her into his arms and carried her back to the bed.
“Then why isn’t my itch scratched?” he asked, pinning her to the bed. “Why do I just want even more of you?”
“Because you like what you can’t have.”
“But I can have you. I know if I told you how much I wanted you right now, and how much I ache to be inside of you, and how much I want to taste you, you’d welcome all of it.” He pressed her hands open, and placed his palm flat against hers in a slow caress. “And if I’m wrong, tell me right now, and I’ll let you go and we will be done with the itch and the scratch and all of it, because I do want you, but I want you to want me, too.”
There was so much heat and energy zinging between them. Just the press of his palm to hers made her want to arch up against him.
Was it bad that she loved being pinned to the bed like this? Was it bad that the sheer strength of him made her shivery and excited?
“I do want you,” she answered, throwing her head back, which resulted in him dropping his head, and kissing the side of her neck, his lips setting her on fire.
“Then stay,” he said huskily. “Because I want you here, la mia bella ragazza.”
His beautiful girl.
She closed her eyes as he kissed her, and gave him the rest of her heart because there was no one else she’d rather give it to. There was no one she’d rather be with. She’d never wanted anyone but him. But she just couldn’t let him know she loved him.
She couldn’t ever give him that power over her.
CHAPTER NINE
A FEW HOURS later Monet was woken by the most lovely sensation of his hand stroking her side, and then up her rib cage to cup her breast. Of course her nipple pebbled and he stroked that, too, all while she pretended to still be sleeping, wanting to just focus on how he made her body feel.
He made her body feel amazing.
But it was harder to feign sleep when he tugged on her nipple and flooded her with warmth, making her ache between her thighs, making her want him deep inside of her again.
And still, she kept her eyes closed, focusing on his warm palm against her breast, and the thick length of his erection against her backside.
Her body was waking everywhere and it was almost painful not responding. She wanted to turn over and give him all of her...well, all but her heart, because she didn’t trust him with that.
“I know you’re awake,” he murmured, his breath warm against her neck.
She smiled into her pillow. “Mmm...?”
“You’re a faker,” he answered, sliding his hand lower, down over her hip, the curve of her butt, before slipping between her thighs. “So wet,” he said, stroking her.
She gasped as he touched her; she was wet, and ready for him. She rolled onto her back and reached for him. He kissed her, and moved between her thighs but didn’t enter her. Instead he leaned back and reached for a condom and sheathed himself before burying himself inside of her.
Monet sighed with pleasure as he filled her. He was big and the fullness was somewhat overwhelming and then it was perfect.
She linked her hands behind his neck and pulled him down to her, so she could kiss him as he thrust into her. This was exactly what she needed—him, all of him. It wasn’t just sex, but joy at the deepest level. To finally know him, to finally be able to express her love for him...if not in words, then in actions. The climax was shattering, and even more bruising for her heart because the more she cared, the more the pleasure hurt.
Afterward she lay across his chest, in the hazy afterglow, thoughts drifting, emotions still not quite in control.
Leaving him would be so brutal.
Forgetting him would be impossible.
“This is why I came back,” he said quietly, playing with her hair, the long strands slipping through his fingers. “I came back for you.”
“Marcu,” she protested huskily, a lump forming in her throat. “Let’s not talk about that again.”
“Why not? It’s true. You’re here because I needed you, and not for the children, but for me. I didn’t see it before, but it hit me as I was leaving the castello yesterday. I didn’t even want to get in the car, and once I was driving away, I felt almost sick. I didn’t want to leave you, nor did I want to spend Christmas away from all of you. This was where I wanted to be—with you, and my children.”
She sat up to see his face. “Don’t mistake desire for love, or affection. It’s not the basis for commitment, nor will it provide stability for a family of young children.”
He said nothing for a moment. “Are you afraid of commitment?”
Her cheeks flamed with heat and her pulse thudded hard. Her body still felt treacherously warm, and aware. “No!”
“Then why can’t we discuss us?”
“Because that’s not why I slept with you!” She left the bed and reached for the soft cashmere throw on a chair near his hearth, and wrapped it around her. “I slept with you because I found you appealing, and yes, I was curious as to what making love with you would be like, and it was wonderful. But at the same time, I have no interest in pursuing this further. What we did together was lovely, and I have no regrets about losing my virginity to you, but once I leave, it’s over.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? I came to Aosta to take care of your children, not play the part of your mistress. I might be my mother’s daughter, but I have too much self-respect to go down that path.”
“Our parents loved each other.”
She let out a strangled laugh and pulled the fuzzy blanket closer to her bare shoulders. “I wouldn’t ever call it that,” she said hoarsely, remembering the inequality in their relationship. Matteo Uberto had all the power. Her mother had none.
“My father proposed to her twice. She turned him down both times.”
She’d heard this before, from her mother, but she hadn’t believed her. Monet had thought her mother was telling her what she thought Monet wanted to hear. “And yet he replaced her with a younger model when she turned forty.”
Marcu sat up, the covers falling low to his hips, revealing his lean, muscular torso. “Because your mother was ill and she kept the news from my father, not wanting him to see her sick. She left him, not the other way around.”
