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And then, while their assembled guests watched and applauded—or in the case of her friends, frowned—he bent slightly, then swept her into his arms. Ranieri held her there for a moment, so the whole of the wedding reception could see them. So the photographers could be certain to take the last picture for some time.
Then he turned without another word and bore her into the museum.
Ranieri did not put her down. He carried her straight through the museum, then out the front door, and deposited her in his waiting car.
“I think this counts as a kidnapping,” she said, but she did not sound unduly concerned at the prospect.
“I would not be surprised to discover that many a honeymoon started off the same way,” he replied, unrepentantly.
And then, finally, Ranieri kissed her the way he wanted to.
He feasted on her as the car pulled away from the curb, carrying them off to the jet that waited for them in a private airfield.
She surged against him, tasting of the same hunger that burned so hot and wild within him. He kissed her and he kissed her, and this time, they were safely ensconced in the back of a moving car. There were no watching eyes. No cameras.
No acts to perform.
He could indulge himself.
And so, at last, that was what he did.
Ranieri succumbed to the temptation of her mouth, angling his head as he took the kiss deeper. And while he was at it, he let his hands explore the glory of that figure of hers she had so long kept concealed.
He wanted to take that as some kind of evidence of her perfidy, even now, but he couldn’t get past the notion of her shyness. Her disinterest in the games so many in her set played.
And the possibility that it had never occurred to her that her figure was a gift.
One he did not intend to share.
He bent his head to press his mouth to the graceful line of her neck, then followed it down. He lavished attention on the sweet, rounded mounds that rose above the bodice of her gown.
But he wanted more. He wanted some proof that he was not alone in this wanting. This need that had taken him over, little as he wished to admit it.
He pulled her voluminous skirts up with him, still kissing her. And he reveled in every noise she made. Because she sounded greedy and half-mad, just as he felt.
And because he could taste the sounds she made, and that made him even harder.
He found the garter she wore, and he moved his fingers up higher. Then still higher, until he found the soft heat of her at last.
“Ranieri...” she whispered brokenly.
But her hips rose as she said his name. And she opened herself beneath his hands, giving herself over to him that easily.
As if this was no surrender, but an invitation.
He traced the shape of her, learning the soft, hot contours of her femininity. The scent of her was wilder now, but still that same sweetness that was only hers. And only when she was shuddering in his arms, her head thrown back and her back arched as if offering herself to him on the altar of his choosing, did he test the tight clasp of her heat.
Then, following an urge that felt like a drumbeat within him, he tested her heat with one finger, then another. She sighed, and opened herself even farther as he set a slow, unhurried pace, twisting his hand around to let his thumb press hard against the center of her need.
Now, finally, she was his.
Ranieri gazed down at her, her face flushed, her head thrown back, the very picture of grace and greed.
He had never wanted a woman more.
In point of fact, he could no longer recall if any other women existed.
After only a few thrusts, Annika bucked all around him, flooding his hands with her sweet heat.
