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His eyes narrowed. “Is an apology what you came in here for?”
Her knees knocked together. Damn him. Damn him to hell for knowing her so well, for understanding what she really wanted.
She bit down on her lower lip, refusing to acknowledge the primal, biological urges that were running rampant inside of her, demanding she run to him, feel his whole body pressed to hers.
“I just think we need to be professional,” she whispered, the words halfway to prim.
“No, it was far better when you asked for an apology,” he said with a dangerous tone to his voice, abandoning the coffee and pacing towards her, his stride long. “Then I could tell you that I am sorry. Sorry for touching you yesterday.” He stopped right in front of her, so close but not touching. “Sorry that you were close to me and all I wanted was to feel your skin one last time. Sorry that you are standing here now, so cross with me, your little face pale and your breasts moving with every indignant breath and all I want is to kiss you, Bronte. Sorry that I find myself wishing we never said we would only see each other for the weekend. Sorry that I find myself wanting to bring you home with me tonight, for more of you, more of this.” He gestured from his chest to hers.
Bronte was sinking again.
She made a soft noise and then she was lifting up, her lips seeking his, her body moulded completely to Luca’s, his breathing as hard as hers, their pain, their ache, mutual and shared.
“I’m sorry,” he groaned into her mouth, his fingers spread wide on her cheeks, his tongue invading her completely, making speech impossible. “This is so wrong but God help me, I can’t stop wanting you.”
She made a soft noise of acknowledgement, her hands pushing at his shirt, needing, wanting, with the same urgency he felt, to touch his bare skin.
She ripped her mouth away just so she could stare at him. “Then don’t.”
It was the sealing of their fate, a invitation, a plea, and he answered it, pulling her away from the door as he undid his pants and stepped out of them, his fingers lifting her skirt, finding the lace of her thong and pushing at it, crouching at her feet to remove it, his dark head bent, her body awash with sensations. He stood, pulling her with him, drawing her to one of the dark leather armchairs; she straddled him, his body so achingly familiar to hers. She lifted up on her haunches, preparing to take him deep inside but he lifted a finger to her lips, halting her, stilling her, even as the torrent of her desire refused to be silenced.
“You’re sure about this, Bronte?”
Her laugh was half-maniacal.
“Of course. What do you think?”
He paused only so long as it took him to sheathe his length and then he moved, thrusting into her at the same time she sunk down on him, the feeling of this euphoric, blissful, heaven-sent.
He moved quickly and she pressed down hard, her muscles clamping around him, clinging to him, her body finally making her mind accept what she should have realised much sooner.
This was perfect.
Bliss.
Passion, yes, but so much more. Bronte was home.
This wasn’t just sex. It was so much more. She kissed him as though that kiss could explain what she was feeling, and the kiss he returned it with answered the questions of her soul.
She loved him.
There was no other explanation for why he’d taken up residence in her brain and heart and refused to leave. She loved him and everything was right in the world.
Pleasures pushed thought aside; it wasn’t possible to think rationally, to acknowledge her thoughts in such reasonable terms, but it was enough to know they were there and real, and enough to allow for the blossoming of hope that he felt it too. There’d be time after —later— to make sense of her realisation, to measure his feelings; their bodies were taking over.
She dug her nails into his shoulders as he pushed up, so deep, so hard inside of her that she gasped and then moaned as her hips wiggled down. His hands cupped her bottom, guiding her, his fingers digging into her rounded flesh, the intimacy of the touch sending goose bumps over her skin so she whimpered.
“Good?” He bit the word out, pausing and scanning her face. “I’m not hurting you?”
His fears slammed into her. She ran her fingers over his cheek gently, lightly, tears misting her eyes. “You could never hurt me.”
She hoped, more than anything, it was true.
12
“I DEFINITELY DIDN’T COME in here thinking that would happen,” she laughed as she pulled her underpants back on, the smile genuine as relief gradually overtook everything else in her body.
Pain receded.
