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A host for your heir?
He rolled his shoulders. A host for his heir sounded cold. Emotionless. She was not cold. Shefeltthings. Madehimfeel things.
The burn in his chest was setting fire to his throat.
He must be sick...coming down with something. The flu?
He pressed an open palm to his forehead. He didn’t have a fever.
What was wrong with him?
There was a rap at the door.
He sighed. Heavily. More food.
‘Entra!’he called absently, and picked a piece of invisible lint off his cuff.
‘Raffaele...’
His eyes shot to the door and there she stood. The slight wisp of a woman who’d infiltrated his life and turned it upside down. And she was wet. Her hair was dark, almost black, hanging limply over her shoulders.
‘Flora...’ He said her name and, oh, it tasted sweet to his tongue. Eased his indigestion...calmed the roughness of his throat.
A rush of yearning pulsed through him in waves. To get closer to their baby. To get closer toher. To inhale her clean scent and comb his fingers through her hair.
‘Why did you knock?’ he asked, focusing on anything but the scent of soap clinging to the air and seeping into his lungs.
‘Because it’s polite. I’ll always knock if the door’s closed. But if it’s open...’ Her eyes flashed with challenge. ‘I’ll come inside.’
She moved into the room. Her movement drew his gaze to her bare feet, to the knot of her ankle bone, where an angry line ran across her otherwise perfect skin. He wanted to kiss the imperfection. Bring it to his lips.
He concentrated on her legs. The taut, milky skin of her calves, leading upwards to where the hem of his white shirt kissed her thighs.
She stopped at his side. The delicate warmth of her body hit him. She raised her arm and held out his phone. His eyes shot to her fingers, to the elegant digits. He reached for it. His fingers brushed overs hers. Connection zapped through him.Chemistry.
She stepped back. Disengaging their hands.
She felt it too.Still.
He looked up at her, standing above him, looking down at him. Soap and warmth seeped through his nostrils. Delicate scents that he couldn’t place, but that he recognised were only hers.
He would recognise her scent anywhere. The subtlety of it. It punched him in the gut, that sense of knowing. Of familiarity.
‘Open doors are not always an invitation to enter,piccolina.’
The black of her pupils washed through the brown. ‘But sometimes the temptation is too hard to resist...’
He felt it. The shift. The pulsing between them of the shared memory of that night six weeks ago when she’d entered his domain uninvited.
Her mouth parted. She exhaled. He wanted to taste her. Her mouth. Her lips.
He should have kissed her. Pushed his lips against hers when she’d invited him to do so. Should have celebrated the confirmation that she was pregnant in the same way all this had started. With his undiminished need to be inside her.
Why didn’t you?
It wasn’t the time.
Lies. You’re afraid of who you are with her.
