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Once he had her naked, he dropped her not all that gently onto the enormous bed. With his dark gaze fixed on her, he shed his own clothes and then joined her on the bed, pushing her back to straddle her hips.
This time there was no foreplay. This was a lesson in ownership, a display of possession. He possessed her, too, stretching her out beneath him, his hands holding her wrists down above her head, his chest crushing her full breasts, his strong thighs holding her slim thighs apart as he entered her, and then filled her, driving deep into her body, again and again.
She was warm and slick, his shaft thick and hard, and he stroked her relentlessly, creating a maddening friction that was so pleasurable it almost caused pain.
With each of his thrusts she tightened her inner muscles around him, wanting to hold him, wanting to keep him with her in an attempt to meet that wonderful and yet terrible need he created.
As he filled her, her head spun, and her senses swam with the dizzying pleasure of it all. Making love to him had always made her emotions feel wildly out of control. Today was no different. She craved him. She hated him. She needed him. She wanted him. She wanted him like she’d never wanted anyone or anything. And when together like this, skin against skin, warmth to warmth, heartbeat to heartbeat, she didn’t think she could possibly ever want anything more.
This was intimacy, and closeness, connection as she’d never known it. Together like this, she felt whole. Comforted. Cherished. The lovemaking was such perfection it made her eyes sting and her heart ache. She never wanted it to end. Not even tonight.
Long before she was ready, her body betrayed her, nerves and muscles coiling into an explosive physical climax that triggered his. She sighed as he released into her, her body still sensitive and shuddering with pleasure. How could sex be so right with him when everything else was so wrong?
For a moment she allowed herself to relax into him, savoring the feel of his hard, lean body. And then he withdrew.
As always, she felt bereft.
As always her heart ached, wanting, needing more.
He turned onto his side, pulled her up against him, his arm over her chest holding her close to him. She let him, too, because when they were together like this, she did need him. She needed him more than she’d ever needed anyone. Her life had been lonely. Her father’s problems had eclipsed everyone else’s needs. When Vittorio loved—even if only with his body—she felt good. And safe. Safer than she felt with anyone else.
But sex, even slow and leisurely, didn’t last forever. It always ended. And the afterglow always ended. And then she was swamped with all the overwhelming emotions again.
Emptiness. Pain. Hopelessness. Sadness.
And so when he wrapped his arm around her, his forearm warm and snug against her breast, she unsteadily exhaled and inhaled and exhaled again to keep the tears from falling.
How could she mistrust him and yet need him so much?
How could he make her feel so vulnerable? No one else made her feel this way. Why did he?
Lying in the bedroom’s semidarkness, with the last lingering rays of sunlight fading from the sky, Vittorio felt Jill’s chest rise and fall, a silent hiccup of emotion that she never acknowledged, and always refused to discuss. Suppressing a sigh, he drew her small frame closer to him, her soft round breasts pressed to his arm.
She was so full of secrets and her secrets wore on her. He’d known many men who lived in the shadows, clandestine lives filled with cloak-and-dagger games, but those men reveled in their furtive behavior, thriving on danger, thriving on power. Jill didn’t.
He’d once wished she’d tell him what troubled her. He no longer cared. Or that’s what he told himself.
But when her narrow rib cage rose and fell with a deep shuddering breath, his own chest grew tight.
In Bellagio everything had been easy between them. Not just the sex, but the connection, the conversation, the friendship they’d been building. He’d trusted her. He’d believed she was honest, true and real.
Turned out nothing about her was honest or real. Not her name. Not her past. Not even her hair color.
His meeting tonight was with one of his detectives. The detective had learned what he’d called “significant details” of Jill’s past.
Tonight in Catania he’d discover who she really was.
Tonight could change everything.
And so he held her closer, held her as if he could possibly keep bad news from changing the fragile tie between them.
Maybe in his own way, he still loved her a little.
“When I first saw you on the cliff, I thought perhaps you were wearing a wig,” he said quietly, his voice rough with passion and emotion he’d never share. “But it’s not a wig. You dyed it.”
She lay still in his arms. “Yes.”
“How have you perfected so many different disguises?”
