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He was not afraid. He was in control. Of all things.
‘You’re to be the mother of my child. You do not need to knock,’ he said throatily, and swallowed down the lust storming through him. Making his blood heavy. Hot.‘You,’he said, reinforcing his words with unrelenting arousal thickening his voice, ‘will enter whichever room you like, take any seat you want. You need no one’s permission.’
‘Not even yours?’ she asked.
‘Not even mine,’ he answered. Too quickly. Too easily.
It roared through him then. The temptation to stand, to push his chair back and hold her by the hips. Place her on the veneered table. Step between her thighs, between the legs that he knew would fall apart for him on command. Push the plates covered with silver cloches onto the floor and sink inside her. Untether the leash of rigid control as he had six weeks ago. To pop every button on the shirt that she wore and reveal the nakedness beneath with his teeth.
And shewasnaked, wasn’t she? Under his shirt? He could see the pink shadows around her puckered nipples pressing against the silk. The swell of her breasts...
He hardened, painfully, and tried to turn off the image in his head of a naked Flora in his arms. Beneath him. Moaning...
Now was not the time for kissing, either. Not when his control was hanging only by a thread.
Raffaele cleared his throat. Looked away and purposely broke the spell. He placed his phone on the table next to his empty plate. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked, and lifted a cloche to reveal some chocolate-covered delights.
‘I’d like something else to wear.’
He placed the cloche back over the food and trained his gaze on the next platter of food. He wouldn’t think of his shirt next to her skin. He would not think of a naked Flora in his bath. Drying her body with his towels. Leaving her scent all over his bedroom, as she had in London. He’d still been able to smell her scent there only hours ago. Now here she was, in the flesh. Spreading her scent everywhere.
‘You don’t like my shirt?’
He lifted another cloche.Porridge?
She wrinkled her nose and lifted her arms. The sleeves hid her hands. ‘It’s a little big.’
He replaced the cloche. ‘Clothes are arriving for you within the next thirty minutes.’
‘You have clothes arriving?’ She pointed a hidden finger at her chest. It looked like a handless arm. ‘For me?’
‘You are the one stealing my clothes in the absence of yours.’
‘Borrowing,’ she corrected.
‘Sit. Eat.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘The clothes will come.’
Dear God, he hoped it would be soon, or his erection would never go down.
‘A laptop and a mobile phone, too.’
‘You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.’ She sat in the white leather seat next to him at the head of the table. Her eyes moved over it. ‘Do you always eat so formally?’
‘This can hardly be called a formal meal. You’re wearing a shirt and nothing else.’ His eyes moved over her—the open collar at her throat, the buttons undone just enough for him to see the subtle swell of her breasts.
‘It’s awhiteshirt.’ A blush warmed her cheeks. ‘They’re always for best, aren’t they?’
He cocked a brow. ‘Sunday best?’
‘It’s Tuesday.’
She laughed. A gentle titter of breath. And there was the burn again in his chest.
‘But something like that.’ She reached for another lid and lifted it. ‘Pancakes? Did you have someone cook the entire breakfast menu?’
He had.
‘You didn’t eat breakfast.’ He looked at his watch. He should have ordered lunch. Even an early dinner. He frowned. ‘Give me a list of the meals you would like and a menu will be prepared.’
