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“The truth is that I ached to see you again.”
Emily knew what she was supposed to say. Not the exact words, maybe, but the sense of them. A woman played cool when a man who interested her admitted he was interested, too. That was the time to flirt a little. Bat your lashes. Smile up into his eyes.
“I didn’t want to leave you last night.”
His voice was low. His words were sexy. She told herself not to answer…
“Then why did you?” she said, and held her breath.
“I am not the kind of man a girl like you should be involved with, cara.”
Emily stared up into eyes that had gone from midnight blue to obsidian. He was arrogant. Incredibly arrogant. She would have been able to laugh at his egocentricity, but this was different. His certainty that she would have let him stay. His conviction that he was wrong for her.
It was different because he was right. About everything.
She did want him.
And he was probably more than she could handle.
He was a conqueror. A man who knew what he wanted and took it. Power emanated from him. It was in his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the very way he seemed to fill the room.
“Emily.”
She looked up at him. Her breathing quickened. His eyes were so dark. Was there a color deeper than obsidian?
“Leave now,” he said thickly. “Before—”
She walked to him, curled her fingers into his shirt, rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. He stood tall and straight and for what seemed the longest moment of her life, she thought she’d made a mistake
Then he groaned, gathered her into his arms and captured her lips with his.
The earth spun.
She clung to him more tightly because if she didn’t, surely she would fall.
He whispered her name against her mouth; she whispered his and he cursed softly and swung her up into his arms.
She buried her face against his throat. Wound her arms around his neck. Trembled as he carried her across the room to a long, wide sofa and lowered her to it.
What are you doing? a voice inside Marco said.
She was all the things he’d thought. Naïve. Unsophisticated. He could tell by the way she was responding to him. Nothing held back. Nothing of the temptress. She was making little sounds that went straight through him, whimpers of need that a woman with more experience would not so readily make the first time a man took her in his arms to make love to her.
And this was his office.
He didn’t bring his personal life into this space. Never.
Never, he thought, and then he stopped thinking, sank to his knees in front of her, drew her forward and kissed her forehead. Her eyes, her mouth. Dio, that mouth! He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, bit lightly and she opened to him, offered him her sweet taste.
“Please,” she whispered, “Marco, please…”
He groaned, thrust his hands into her hair. The band with which she’d secured the ponytail broke; her hair tumbled loose, fell over his fingers like fine silk. He buried his face in the shining strands and then he took her mouth again, kissed her and kissed her, each time taking the kiss deeper.
Finally, he drew back, framed her face with his hands and said her name. She opened her eyes. They were blurred with desire, the pupils enormous.
He felt the last of his self-control slipping away.
He took her hands. Brought her to her feet. He wanted to undress her. Strip away the layers that separated them. Take her naked into his arms. Feel her skin against his. Inhale her scent. Put his mouth to her, everywhere. Taste her, everywhere. Mark her as his, as his, as his…
