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“No. You didn’t. I just…What time is it?”
“It’s late. Very late. You should be asleep.”
She’d smiled, lifted her hand, stroked it against the sexy stubble on his jaw. “Mmm. So should you.”
“Soon,” he’d whispered, between kisses. “But first, a kiss…”
One kiss. Then another. She’d lifted her arms and wound them around his neck. His kisses deepened. Her response intensified. That part of him she had so feared was already hard against her belly. Now it swelled even more.
Why had she ever been afraid of this? Being held so intimately. Being kissed as if you were a man’s only hope of salvation. The stroke of a strong, callused hand.
The pulsing, aroused flesh that was so beautifully, fiercely male.
“Raffaele,” she’d whispered.
Shamelessly she’d wrapped one leg high around his. He’d said her name in a voice so filled with desire that it had been like a caress, slipped a hand beneath her and raised her into him. When his erect penis had nudged against her, she’d caught her breath.
Instantly he pulled back. “Forgive me, sweetheart. You’re sore.”
“I ache,” she’d whispered, “but not because I am sore, Raffaele, I ache for you. I want you inside me.” Overcome with embarrassment, she’d buried her face against his shoulder. “Oh. I should not have said—”
“Yes,” he’d said fiercely, cupping the back of her head, lifting her face to his until their eyes met. “You should. I love hearing you say that you want me.”
“I do,” she’d replied, “I want you, want you, want—”
Their mouths fused. Moments later he had been deep inside her.
Remembering, Chiara smiled. Actually, she was a little tender, but it was a wonderful
tenderness, a reminder of her husband’s lovemaking…
Her smile faded.
Her husband. Her very temporary husband. How had she forgotten that? More to the point, how had she forgotten that, despite his gentleness, his kindness, her husband was in the same “profession” as her father?
She wanted to weep. Her mother had things wrong. Sex was not ugly. It was a drug to make a woman forget the truth.
Quickly she pushed the blankets aside and moved out of Raffaele’s embrace. There was enough early-morning light in the room so she could see her clothes, discarded on the floor. If she was quiet…
“Hey.”
She froze, her dress clasped against her body, her back to the bed.
“What time is it?” Raffaele yawned; the bedding rustled. She knew he must be reaching for the clock on the nightstand. “Chiara,” he groaned, “it’s barely six-thirty.” His voice dropped to a husky purr. “Come back to bed.”
She took a steadying breath, forced the mental image of her husband’s muscled, beautiful body from her mind. The important thing was to speak calmly. She had behaved foolishly, but it would not happen again. He needed to understand that.
“Six-thirty is late for me. At home, I would already be in the kitchen, making coffee.”
His chuckle was low and sexy. “We tried that, remember? I’m the one who makes the coffee around here.”
“It does not matter who makes the coffee. What matters is that your housekeeper will be arriving soon.”
“And?”
“And I do not wish her to find us like this.”
More rustling. Was he getting out of bed? Please, no. Let him stay where he is. At least, let him put on some clothes.
“Not a problem, sweetheart. Mrs. O’Hara doesn’t come in today. Even if she did, she never comes into my bedroom. Well, into a bedroom with a closed door.”
“Certainly not. I am sure she is under strict orders not to disturb you and whatever woman you have brought home for the—”
“Is that what’s troubling you?”
“No. It is not. Why would it trouble me?” Why, indeed? Why had she even said such a foolish—
He came up behind her, dropped his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Are you trying to count all the women who’ve spent the night with me?”
“No,” she said again. “I already told you that.”
Slowly he turned her toward him. Her heartbeat quickened. Yes, he was naked. Beautifully naked, his shoulders and arms taut with muscle, a whorl of dark hair over his hard-planed chest, a flat abdomen leading down to his sex.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said quietly. “There’ve been women here.”
Why did the admission hurt? “Really, Raffaele, you owe me no explanation.”
“Maybe not. But it’s important to me that you understand. I’ve never spent a night like this one, sweetheart. And I’ve never awakened wishing the night had not yet ended.”
