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Relief soared inside her and she found his mouth with hers, kissing him as though there was nothing between them but this passion, this heat. She kissed him as though this were a new beginning, and all the old hatreds and resentments were nowhere to be seen. In that moment, she wasn’t a diSalvo and he wasn’t a Herrera, and there were no storm clouds threatening on their horizon.
Her hands roamed his body in all the ways she’d been wanting to do since that night in the cottage. Movements that her dreams had crystallised became real. She pushed at his shorts, a low, keening noise in her throat when her fingertips grazed the strength of his arousal, the promise of his possession.
He pulled his head from hers, his expression one of utter need when he stared down at her. And awakening too, as though he were shifting out of a dream state and discovering this new reality.
‘Why the hell haven’t we done this sooner?’ he demanded gruffly, finding her bikini bottoms and pushing them down at the same time she kicked out of them.
‘Because we’re stupid,’ she said, the words intended as a joke but coming out seriously. There was nothing funny about the intensity of their desire.
‘Sí,’ he grunted, lifting her legs and staring at her for a long, intense moment before wrapping her around his body and sinking his powerful arousal deep into her moist core.
She groaned as he swept inside her, remembered sensations kicking to life along with new ones. It was so overwhelming! And as he thrust deep into her feminine centre, he brought his mouth to hers and his kiss mirrored the movements of his body, so her blood stirred to his tempo, gushing fast and desperately. She writhed in his arms, her ankles crossed behind his back, her hands tangling in the dark pelt of his hair, and then pleasure turned to something far harder to quantify—something earth-shattering and mind-blowing. She dug her nails into his back, scoring red marks over his flesh as the pleasure became unbearable and finally she exploded, holding onto him for dear life as everything she’d ever known seemed to fade into a distant, faraway pinprick of light.
She was high above the earth and there was only this—blinding, inconceivable light.
Amelia held onto him as slowly she sunk back down to earth, her eyes blinking open in disorientation to find she was in the pool, held by Antonio, his body tight against hers, his arousal still rock-hard inside her. He was watching her, and heat bloomed in her cheeks to recall what madness she’d just succumbed to. How lost she’d been to the feelings he could stir within her so easily.
But realisation didn’t last long before he moved within her once more, this time watching her, their eyes locked in an ancient, primal examination. He watched as he drove himself deep inside her, he watched as her teeth sunk into her lip to stop herself from crying out, and he s
hook his head, lifting his thumb and rubbing it over her lips. ‘Do not censor yourself.’ The words were heavy with his exotic accent, thrilling over her nerve endings, setting little fires beneath her blood.
Before he could pull his hand away, she sunk her mouth around his thumb and his eyes flared wide at the sight of her pink lips swallowing a part of him.
His own groan was loud then, and power surged inside her to know that she could drive him every bit as wild as he could her. ‘Tentadora,’ he growled, his strong, virile thrust sending spasms of awareness spiralling through her.
‘Right back at you,’ she whimpered, digging her nails into his shoulder as another wave of pleasure built.
But he stilled suddenly, his face wiped of anything she could discern, his expression unrecognisable. ‘I want you to be my wife, Amelia,’ he said, and the words were foreign and confusing when all she could think of was sensual pleasure.
‘I am.’ She rolled her hips, needing him to keep doing what he had been, needing him to keep pushing her towards the edge of what she could bear.
‘No. I want you in every sense. In my bed, by my side. From now on. Entiendes?’
Something other than pleasure punched through her, something that set her soul on fire, that she couldn’t analyse and couldn’t comprehend, beyond knowing that it mattered more than the world to her.
‘Sí,’ she moaned, rolling her hips once more. And, satisfied with her agreement, he gave her what she needed, his body resuming its rhythm, driving her higher and higher into the heavens. And as she stood on the precipice, preparing to dive into an unknown heaven, he was there with her, his body vibrating alongside hers, and they clung together as they fell apart, into a billion pieces of what they had once been.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANTONIO HAD ALMOST forgotten about the interview. It had been given months ago—shortly before their wedding, when Amelia had still been, for the most part, simply a diSalvo to him. A month before they’d slept together again and formed a new kind of relationship, one that existed outside the bounds of their blood feud.
Since that day in the pool, something had shifted for them. She’d come to his bed each night and he’d slept wrapped around her, a hand possessively curved over her stomach and a certainty in his chest that she was right where she belonged.
He stared at the newspaper spread over his desk and the photo they’d chosen to print of her, and his gut twisted with a mix of fury and disgust. She was only young in this picture—ten, perhaps? And her mother stood beside her, wearing a skimpy dress and huge sunglasses, looking every bit the drugged-out supermodel he had discovered her to have been.
Perhaps if he didn’t know Amelia as he did now, he wouldn’t have noticed the fear in her eyes. Nor the panic stretched across her beautiful young face.
But he understood every cell in her beautiful body, he knew her, in many ways better than he did himself. And even though they’d met only eight months earlier, seeing her in this picture, he understood exactly what she was feeling. There were photographers in the background of the photo, paparazzi, and her small fingers were curved around her mother’s, as though she were the protector, the adult.
He swore a guttural oath into his office as he reached for his phone and dialled her number on autopilot. His eyes took in the headline to the left of the article: Tycoon’s Marriage Merger!
His gut clenched.
In a move the billionaire businessman himself describes as ‘fortuitous’, the marriage of Amelia diSanto to Antonio Herrera brings together two warring dynasties—and a merging of assets that will form one of the biggest financial powerhouses in the world.
‘Prim’Aqua will be at the heart of my business operation going forward,’ Herrera says. ‘It gives me great satisfaction to bring the company back into the fold. The future is bright.’
He hadn’t even been misquoted. He had said that, and myriad other self-congratulatory statements lauding his own success in reacquiring Prim’Aqua. At the time, he’d thought only of Carlo’s reaction on reading the news. He’d taken pleasure from imagining his sworn enemy having to see evidence of Antonio’s success—and the marriage that would add insult to injury.
