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Benedetto tore his mouth from hers and began to move down her body, then, but only far enough to tug on the bodice of her dress. Hard.
He glanced at her, his dark eyes bright and gleaming, and tugged on her dress until it tore. Then he tore it even more, baring her breasts to his view.
And when she gasped at the ferocity, or at the surge of liquid heat that bloomed in her because of it, he laughed.
Benedetto looked at her, his face dark with passion and set fierce like a wolf’s, as he shaped her breasts with those calloused palms of his and then took one aching nipple into his mouth.
And then she was a crescendo.
Angelina arched up, not sure if she was fighting him or finding him, or both at the same time. His mouth was a torture and treat, and she pressed herself even more firmly into his mouth. Whatever he wanted to give her, she wanted to take. As much as possible.
His hands moved south, continuing their destruction. He tore her white dress to ribbons, baring her to him. And she thrilled to every last bit of sensation that charged through her from the air on her flesh, or better still, his wicked mouth.
And when he thrust his heavy thigh between hers even as he continued to hold her down and take his fill of her, she found that gave her something to rock the center of her need against.
Over and over again, because it felt like soaring high into the night.
And when she shattered, tossed over a steep edge as if from the window of this tower to the brooding sea far below, he laughed that same dark, delighted laugh that had thrilled her from the first.
Angelina could feel the laugh inside her, and it only made her shudder more.
When she came back to herself, rising from the depths somehow, he had rolled off of her. Her wedding dress was torn to pieces, baring her to his view completely. That he could see all of her was new, and faintly terrifying. No one had seen Angelina fully naked since she was a small child.
But far more overwhelming was the fact that as Benedetto stood beside her, looking down at the chaise from his great height, he was shrugging out of his own wedding clothes.
In all this time, all throughout this longest month, he had never dislodged his clothing or allowed her to do so.
“Are you horribly scarred?”she’d asked him once, feeling peevish with lust and longing and that prickling fear beneath. She’d been stretched out on her piano bench in the conservatory back home, after he’d buried his face between her thighs and made her scream.
As usual.
Benedetto had only smiled, drawing her attention back to that mouth of his and the things it could do.“None of my scars are external.”
And now the first stars were appearing in the sky outside. He blocked them all out and somehow made them brighter at the same time, because he was perfect. He was everything.
She had never seen a naked man in real life. She had never imagined that all the various parts that she’d seen in pictures could seem so different in person. Because she knew what it felt like to be in his arms and she knew what it felt like to taste him in her mouth.
But Benedetto naked was something else. Something better. He looked as if he’d been fashioned by a sculptor obsessed with male beauty, but she knew that he would be hot to the touch. And more, unlike all the marble statues she’d ever seen—many of them here—there was dark hair on his chest. A fascinatingly male trail that led to a part of him she’d felt against her leg, but had never seen.
“What big eyes you have,” he said, sounding dark and mocking.
Angelina jerked her gaze up over the acres and acres of his fine male chest, all those ridges and planes that made her fingers itch. To touch. To taste. To make hers, in some way, the way he had already taken such fierce possession of her.
“I understand the mechanics,” she confessed. “But still...”
“Your body knows what to do.” He came down over her again, and she hissed out a breath because it was so much different, now. Bare flesh against bare flesh. Her softness against all the places where he was so impossibly hard. Everything in her hummed. “And so do I.”
And then, once again, she felt as if she was the piano.
Because he played her like one, wringing symphonies out of her with every touch, every brush of his mouth over parts of her body she would have said were better ignored.
He flipped her over onto her stomach, right when she thought that she might simply explode out of her own skin—
And he laughed in that dark, stirring way of his, there against the nape of her neck. Then he started all over again.
Angelina...lost track.
Of herself. Of him. Of what, exactly, he was doing.
