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Her eyes seemed to grow even more opaque.
‘But if you’ve changed your mind I can get Marco to—’
She was close enough that he could feel her small, firm breasts through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the tiny shivers of anticipation scampering over her skin. Seducing Imma at a hideaway on a remote island owned by Buscetta himself was about as far away from ideal as it could get, but he didn?
?t want to jeopardise this mood of intimacy between them.
The time for talking was over.
He looked down at the pulse beating erratically at the base of her beautiful throat, feeling his body harden to stone for the second time in as many minutes. Reaching up, he caught her chin with his hand, tilting her face to his. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
He could make it work—he would make it work.
Needing to defuse any indecision she might still be feeling, he did the first thing that came into his head. Lowering his mouth to hers, he kissed her.
Whatever he’d been expecting when his lips touched hers, it wasn’t what actually happened. For a brief second or two she stilled against him, her mouth softening beneath his, lips parting on an intake of breath, and then her hand slid over his neck, fingers pressing lightly against his skin as though she was reading Braille.
Barely breathing, he moved his lips over hers, teasing her with the whispering heat of his mouth, the firm tip of his tongue, stirring her senses, tasting her, all the while telling himself that he hated this woman, that she was guilty by association.
But then she moaned softly, shifting against him. Her fingers curled through his hair to grasp his skull, her tongue pushing between his lips, and hunger, hot and powerful, punched him in the gut.
Her scent enveloped him and, breathing in sharply, he made a rough, incoherent sound against her mouth, trying and failing to still the blood pounding through his veins, almost idiotically stupefied by the strength of his desire and hers.
He was hard—very hard—and, framing her face with his hands, he kissed her fiercely, pulling her closer so that she pressed against him, wanting more of her, needing more of her—
‘Miss Buscetta?’
Imma jerked back and they stared at one another dazedly as the pilot’s voice filled the cabin.
‘We’ll be coming in to land in about five minutes. There might be a few crosswinds, but nothing to worry about.’
With a hand that trembled slightly, Imma pressed the intercom. ‘Thank you, Marco.’
Vicenzu breathed out unsteadily, blindsided by her response, and utterly floored by his own.
He had wanted so much more than just her mouth. And, judging by the dull ache in his groin, he still did.
His heart beating out of time, he struggled to pull his brain back online. ‘Imma—’
Her green eyes fluttered to his face, wide and startled. The curves of her cheeks were flushed with desire, or embarrassment, or maybe both.
He swore inwardly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect—I didn’t mean for that to happen—’
Actually, what he hadn’t expected was for it to feel like that—for her to be so gloriously responsive, so fierce, so sweet, so everything he’d ever wanted in a woman.
But how was that possible?
He was only supposed to be seducing this woman to avenge his family.
‘I understand.’
She inched backwards, slipping her hand free of his. He watched her fold it back into her lap, his heart beating as violently as if he’d just sprinted for a finishing line. Only for once—incredibly—he didn’t appear to be on the winner’s podium.
‘Imma—’
‘Please.’ She held up her hand and her beautiful mouth no longer looked soft and kissable but pinched, as though she was trying to hold something in. ‘I don’t need to hear it.’
‘Hear what?’
