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Again, his eyes swept shut, his body tense; she could feel his arousal against her stomach and she wanted everything he was offering.
“And if I forget your name when you’re gone from here, forget you ever existed?”
She reminded herself he was pre-emptively hurting her for her own good, making sure she was prepared for what this was. Sex. Just sex. Nothing more.
“Then I’ll forget yours too,” she said with a bravado they both knew to be forged. “I’m flying out of Italy in a week, weather permitting. I have a busy schedule in America. Believe me when I tell you I won’t be pining over you, no matter how fantastic you are in bed.”
His smile lacked humour. It was, if anything, an indictment.
“You talk a good game, Isabella, but I don’t think you’re capable of the kind of detachment you’re suggesting.”
“Your ego is seriously overblown,” she responded, moving her hips in a silent invitation, an attempt to tempt him.
He dug his hands into her hips in response, his eyes holding a warning. “We’ll see.”
Hope flew through her. She didn’t know what the heck she was doing, only that she was at a tipping point and didn’t care. Victory was within sight, and euphoria flooded her body.
“So show me,” she challenged, her eyes clashing with his, the invitation not silent any longer.
His smile was sardonic, his eyes dark, as he dropped his head to hers. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Isabella couldn’t answer. His kiss robbed her of breath and completely stole her ability to think. She was riding a wave of sensation and she never wanted it to end…
8
SHE WAS LIKE VELVET beneath his fingertips, her skin so soft it reminded him of rose petals in the first light of morning, covered in dew, delicate and silky. He ran his hands over her hips, around to her back, linking his fingers together so he could cradle her closer, locking her to him. Not that he needed to do that – her body was pressed to him, her hips moving side to side, trying to get close to him, to make love to him despite the barrier of their clothes. Hell, he wanted to carry her to his bed and make this last, but more than that, he wanted her now – needed her now. He’d been denying himself to prove a point; he’d failed. He was weak. The torturous strength he’d taken from denying himself this pleasure had dissipated in the wake of his desire.
Kissing her was the bursting of a dam; his control was shot to hell.
He pushed at her jeans, lowering them impatiently, his hands roaming to cup her bottom, kneading her flesh, lifting her as he touched her, kissing her, anxious to feel her, wanting every part of her.
She whimpered his name, over and over again, filling the room with the sound of her pleasure. When he removed her shirt, cupping her breasts, she tilted her head back, crying out sharply. His mouth sought a nipple, dusky pink aureole firm beneath his tongue as he encircled it, his knee wedging her legs apart, his hand pushing his own pants down.
She weighed nothing; he lifted her with ease, wrapping her legs around his waist and stepping forward, until her back connected with a wall. He braced her there, lifting his mouth to hers, kissing her, holding her, his arousal throbbing painfully, seeking her sex. Something was blaring in his brain, a warning, or a reminder, he couldn’t hear it though over the din of his desire. It was a desperate, pounding, raging tsunami, too fierce to ignore. He swore as he entered her, dropping his head to nuzzle the curve of her shoulder, kissing her there, needing a moment to catch his breath as her impossible tightness squeezed him hard, wrenching him further from reality. He was conscious of nothing but the physical sensations assaulting him from all angles. The crush of her breasts to his chest, her breath against his ear, her ankles at his back, her heart ramming against his, her muscles convulsing around his length so that he growled, his control slipping away so that he had to grind his teeth to stop from coming – something that had never happened to him so swiftly before.
She was a witch. An auburn-haired witch delivered from the forest, conjured by magic on that dark snowy night, sent to curse him in some way. He felt that certainty wrapping around him as he moved, thrusting into her again and again, harder, faster, his every movement jerking her against his body so he felt her softness and hardness all at once.
Her first orgasm was a revelation. Her muscles tightened and her voice grew loud, her nails digging into his shoulders as though holding on for dear life. He stilled, waiting, watching, then dropped his head and teased her breasts, flicking her nipples with his tongue, his fingers splayed across her bottom, his thumbs padding her flesh there, while she whimpered from the spreading of pleasure. He held her until her breathing slowed, her voice quietened, and then he began to move again, gently at first, allowing her time to catch her breath, to absorb the aftershocks of pleasure before losing himself in her with deep, rapid thrusts, grabbing her hips and holding her low on his waist, giving her more of him, all of himself.
He spoke to her in Italian, telling her in his native tongue that she was beautiful and perfect, and in that moment he truly felt that she was, even if he was convinced that she was also a witch or apparition, and he knew that he didn’t believe in perfection anyway.
Guilt was there too – guilt at his pleasure, his enjoyment, the guilt that dogged him any time he surrendered to his wishes, anytime he allowed himself to live his life and enjoy something simply and honestly. It was a guilt borne of deprivation – Carmen was dead because of him; Avery was growing up without a mother. He didn’t deserve this.
Guilt he would grapple with later, after. For now, there was only this, feeling and need, an ancient imperative driving his body. He lifted a hand to her head, his fingers tangling with her hair, tilting her head back so he could kiss her, his tongue echoing the movements of his cock, thrusting into her warmth, duelling with hers, dominating her, pleasuring her, robbing her of breath, until tension began to coil in his abdomen, spreading lower, and her whimpers became more frantic, her need in perfect synch with him, his tightness spreading to his balls and then releasing in an almighty rush through his arousal, so he held her tight as he thrust into her, spilling his seed in a hot, urgent rush, his desperate movements driving her over the edge once more, euphoria binding them, blinding them, owning them equally.
Frantic breath was an orchestral b
ackdrop. He groaned as he held her, dropping his head to her shoulder once more, every colour in the universe forming a rainbow behind his eyelids as he waited for his own tidal wave of pleasure to recede. Every movement was magnified, every feeling intensified, and he wanted to stand there and relish the pleasure of their coming together, he wanted to simply feel and delight.
But guilt was on him, a guilt that pulled against him hard particularly now, reminding him he had no business feeling so damned good. So damned fantastic. So damned whole.
What he wanted, most of all, was to stay exactly where he was, buried deep inside her, her body weight completing him in some way as she balanced between him and the wall, her pleasure-soaked breath the most fulfilling sound he’d ever heard.
What he wanted, most of all, was to enjoy the afterglow of this, and so he didn’t.
He denied himself that, easing her feet to the floor in the same motion he pulled out of her, ignoring the screaming rejection of his body.
It was then that he realised why alarm bells had been sounding earlier.
