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Shock rendered her speechless, not only at his sudden manoeuvre, but at the tightening and dance of muscles she’d thought wasted, muscles that welcomed another chance to play.
Large hands anchored her hips as he drew back and she hated his leaving almost as much as she hated him.
Maybe more.
He took his own sweet time coming back, inch by excruciating inch until she thought she would go mad with want, until he was seated deep inside her, his thighs pressed hard against hers.
She sighed with the exquisite fullness of it. Oh God, he felt so good this way, so deep.
And when he moved it was even better. He started slowly, inviting her into the rhythm of his dance, taking her with him. His hands grew hungrier, sliding down her spine, curling around a breast, slipping around a thigh to stroke her sensitive nub. He was everywhere around her. He was inside her. He possessed her.
The rhythm built, the pace increased, the slide of flesh against flesh set to the sound of the slap of skin against skin and the feverish need for air as he wound her need around him, tighter and tighter than it had been before and left her teetering on the edge of a precipice.
He paused, leaving her on the brink. She heard a sound like a whimper, needy and desperate, before she realised it had come from her own throat.
And then it was his turn to cry out—a cry of triumph borne of pain—as he thrust one last desperate time and sent her to that place where hate and want coalesced in a fireball that consumed her.
He followed her over the edge, pumping his release and catching her to ride the wave together.
I hate you, she thought, as he collapsed alongside and gathered her close.
I hate you, she thought, as a single tear rolled down her cheek. I need to be able to hate you.
But after what they had just shared, the sentiment rang hollow and empty.
CHAPTER NINE
LUCA couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept late. Not that he hadn’t woken earlier. But this morning she’d stirred too and she’d been warm and malleable in his arms and it had been inevitable that they’d made love again.
But then instead of rising like he’d planned, he’d fallen back to sleep. If Aldo hadn’t woken him with a subtle knock at the door, he’d still be sleeping.
‘What time is it?’ he asked as Aldo placed a tray of coffee and rolls on a table. Beside him Valentina stirred, still sprawled on her stomach, her hair in disarray around her head, testament to the riotous night they’d spent rediscovering each other’s bodies. How many times had they made love? Was it four? Or five? He’d lost count along with his sleep.
‘Ten o’clock,’ the valet said in response to a question Luca had forgotten he’d asked. ‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you but Signore Cressini called and said he needed to talk to you.’
‘Matteo called?’ he asked, lashing a gown around himself while Aldo opened the curtains.
Aldo nodded. ‘He said it was important.’
He left the room as Valentina lifted her head from the pillow and sniffed. ‘Mmm, coffee,’ she muttered before dropping her head back on the pillow and Luca smiled and reached for the pot, filling them both a cup while he wondered what Matteo wanted.
Mind you, he owed his cousin a call—he had, after all, put paid to the spending habits of his best customer. Matteo, no doubt, wanted an update.
He reached for his phone and immediately thought better of it. He was already late for the office and it wasn’t as if there was anything pressing or that there weren’t any number of bright young things who wouldn’t be happy to cover for him for the day. Besides, right now bright autumn sunshine was flooding the room with light. Late September and the weather was still holding. Any time now the storm clouds of a European winter would come sweeping down from the north, and the heavens would turn grey and dark and open up and turn Venice from a watery wonderland into a rain-lashed water world.
Maybe he should to take a little time out while his guest was here before that happened. A run out to the island of Murano wouldn’t take that long. It would make for more photo opportunities of them together for a start. And then afterwards there’d be time for a late lunch and a long afternoon siesta. He might not be Spanish, but there were plenty of reasons to like the practice. Making love in the middle of the day was one of them. Thirty nights could stretch a little that way.
But not if she was going to spend it all sleeping. He pulled off the covers and slapped her bare rump, almost tempted to linger at the sight of her creamy flesh. ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I’ve got plans for you.’
