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So Benedetto carried her, not down the tower stairs to the master suite, but to the chaise he’d set beneath the windows in this tower room. Because it had amused him to make this tower look as much like the conservatory in her father’s shambles of the house as possible, he’d assured himself.
Or perhaps he’d done it because he wanted her to feel at home here, however unlikely that was—but he shied away from admitting that, even to himself. Even now.
He laid her down before him, admiring the way her hair tangled all about her. Like it, too, was a part of the same magic spell that held him in its thrall.
The same spell that made this feel like a real marriage after all.
“Welcome to your wedding night,” Benedetto said as he lowered himself over her, and then he took her mouth with his.
Claiming Angelina, here in this castle that took more than it gave.
At last.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ANGELINAFELTTORNapart in the most glorious way and all he was doing was kissing her.
It was the music. The sheer excellence of the piano he’d found for her, and had set up in perfect tune.
She had only meant to play for a moment, but the keys had felt so alive beneath her fingers, as if each note was an embrace, that too soon, she’d lost herself completely.
She still felt lost.
And yet, somehow, she’d been aware of Benedetto the whole time. Her husband and perhaps her killer—though she couldn’t quite believe that, not from a man who could give a piano like this as a gift—standing in the corner of the room with his gaze fixed on her.
She would not say that she was used to him, because how could anyone become used to a hurricane?
But she craved that electric charge. The darkness in his gaze, the sensual promise etched over his beautiful face, his clever mouth.
She’d played and played. And she could not have explained it if her life depended on it, as she supposed it might, but the longer she played, the more it was as if her own hands moved over her body. As if she was making love to herself, there before him, the way she had in the car.
Exposed and needy and at his command.
Right where she’d wanted to be since that very first night.
Angelina could hardly contain herself. All she could think of were the many times in this last, red-hot month of waiting and worrying and wondering, when her legs had been spread wide and he had been between them. His mouth. His fingers.
She’d played because her body felt like his already and there was no part of her that disliked that sensation.
She’d played because playing for him felt like his possession. Irrevocable. Glorious. And as immovable as the stone walls of the tower that sang the notes she played back to her, no matter the piece, as sweet and sensual songs.
Benedetto lowered himself over her on the chaise, and she forgot about playing, because he kissed her like a starving man.
Angelina kissed him back, because his shoulders were as wide as mountains and behind him she could see only the darkening sky. And her ears were filled with the rushing sound of the sea waiting and whispering far below.
He was hard and heavy, and this time, he did not crawl his way down her body to bury his head between her legs. This time he let her feel the weight of him, pressing her down like a sweet, hot stone.
And all the while he kissed her, again and again, rough and deep and filled with the same madness that clamored inside her.
Angelina could no longer tell if she was still playing the piano, or if he was playing her, and either way, the notes rose and fell, sang and wept, and she could do nothing about it.
She didn’t want to do anything about it but savor it.
Because whatever song this was, it made her burn.
Again and again, she burned.
Only for him,something in her whispered. And that made her burn all the more.
