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Chapter30
LANDON
“Look this way, per favore, Signore e Signora Paige.”
He tightened his grip on Harper’s waist. The cut of her dress revealed her back, and he held her close, feeling the heat of her body against his chest. A strand of her loose chocolate-brown locks caught the breeze and tickled his chin, and he reveled in the bliss of her nearness. He inhaled her delectable scent and kept her close as the pops of light ignited around them.
“Smile for the Italian press, bonbon.”
“I’m trying to, heartthrob,” his wife murmured. “But it’s awfully hard to concentrate.”
“Why is that?”
“Between dinner and dessert, you must have wandered into that giant Italian villa study of yours and slipped a pencil into your pocket.” She shifted her hips enough to brush her supple ass against him. And his cock took notice. But how could she blame him? He did have the sexiest woman on the planet in his arms.
Still, he had to address her incorrect choice of descriptors.
“A pencil?” he purred as the paparazzi jockeyed around them and snapped photo after photo. The rapid-fire clicks and flashes of the dozens of cameras peppered the crisp dusk air, but they couldn’t blot out its serenity. Italian evenings could be categorized as the Eighth Wonder of the World. The scent of wisteria and the hint of Harper’s chocolate breath teased his senses as the lake lapping against the shore provided a soothing, textured sound to the whirl of activity.
Harper swayed her hips, and the movement sent another jolt of lust through him. “How about a banana? Or would you prefer I compare you to a zucchini? On second thought, we are in Italy. How about a cannoli?”
This woman.
He peeled his gaze from her face and observed the frenzied press. While he was used to photographers hounding him, he didn’t live for the exposure anymore. Sure, he’d worried about his dwindling record sales and his waning reputation in the music world. He’d spent years agonizing over the promise he’d made to make Heartthrob Warfare everything he, Leighton, and Trey had dreamed it could be. But since they’d arrived in Italy five days ago, the nagging voices in his head had quieted.
And it was thanks to Harper Presley.
No, Harper Presley-Paige.
His wife.
Emphasis onhis.
He’d be making his intentions regarding their marital status perfectly clear tonight.
He slid his hands from her waist and allowed them to rest below her navel. All the press could see were two newlyweds embracing like a corny prom photo. There was nothing obscene about it, but the desire surging through him made him want to test the limits of modesty.
He pressed his hard length against her and moved his hands lower as he followed her curves, preparing to make her just as hot and bothered as he was.
And he knew precisely how to do it.
Harper had paired a shawl with her dress to stave off the night chill. The thin fabric draped past her shoulders and hit mid-thigh.
It provided the perfect cover.
He slipped his hands beneath it and skimmed farther down her torso.
“What are you and your cannoli up to, heartthrob?”
He answered by making barely perceptible circles with the pad of his middle finger above her tight bundle of nerves.
If she could provoke him with her gorgeous as hell ass, he could do a little taunting of his own.
Two could play at this game.
Harper inhaled a sharp breath, and that slight hitch signaled he’d gotten her attention. She rested her hands on top of his and swayed again. Her high heels scraped against the courtyard’s stone patio as she arched her back.
“You’re playing dirty, Mrs. Paige,” he murmured.
