His Fantasy Bride (Things to do Before You Die… #3)(5)

She came up from the kiss, gasping, her hands still clutched in the silky hair at the back of his neck. His dark eyes held a dazed expression, which was slowly clearing as he stared down at her.

If she stopped now, then he’d only start talking again, and she still had nothing sensible to say. So really what choice did she have? She had to keep kissing him.

Yes, Gabby, of course that’s why you’re doing this. Liar!

Ignoring the annoying voice in her mind, she tugged his head back down to her, and this time her tongue pushed inside his mouth, purely to stop any words coming out. She sensed a moment of resistance, a tenseness in his muscles, and then he gave in and kissed her back. His hands slid from her waist to cup her ass, and she groaned into his mouth as his fingers dug into her softness.

Damn. It feels so good. He feels so good. How had she ever found the strength to keep him at arm’s length before?

He lifted her without breaking the kiss, pressing her up against the wood of the door, his body hard against hers. As she wrapped her legs around his waist, she felt the push of his erection against her core, flooding her with heat. He was huge and hard, and how the hell had things gotten so hot between them so fast?

Never in the past had either of them come close to losing control. Now she didn’t think she could stop.

A small part of her mind niggled that this was wrong. This would complicate things, but her body was on fire with need. And she recognized that the attraction had always been there. She’d wanted him from the start, from the first time she’d seen him on that golden beach in Sicily. The intensity of that need had scared her, and from that moment, she’d kept herself in tight check.

Because she couldn’t have him. And she certainly didn’t deserve him.

Now she had to. Just once. She had to know what he felt like buried deep inside her. Her hands slid from his shoulders, pushed down between their bodies, over his chest, and she shoved them up beneath his shirt to graze the skin of his belly. Like hot satin.

As her fingers caressed his bare skin, he stopped moving, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. In this position she couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t reach the parts she needed to touch, and she wriggled in his arms.

He seemed to understand, his hands tightening on her, squeezing, then he turned her, backed her up, and rested her bottom on the cold marble of the wide counter that ran along beneath the mirror. He released his hold so he stood in the V formed by her thighs. His eyes were dark, and she could read nothing in them except need. A need that echoed her own. Some of the tension left her. She’d been in no way sure of him. He’d always been in such control, never pushing her further than he believed she wanted to go. A true gentleman.

Today was different. Somehow she had stripped the veneer of civilization from him. A tic jumped in his cheek, and his jaw tensed as he stared down at her. Then with a certain deliberation he reached out and trailed one hand over the curve of her breast, caressing the swollen nipple through the thin material covering it, rubbing with his palm, sending sparks of desire shooting through her. Hooking a finger in the shoulder of her leotard, he raised an eyebrow as if in question but didn’t wait for an answer, just shoved the strap down over her arm, then the other one, so she was naked from the waist up.

“Cristo,” he muttered.

She held her breath as he cupped one pale breast in his big hand. And the contrast was the most erotic thing she had ever seen. Slowly, he lowered his head, stroked his tongue over one taut peak, and she felt the caress between her thighs, growing hot and wet for him.

“More,” she whispered.

His mouth never left her, but his eyes rose to her face, and he peered up at her through a fringe of midnight-dark lashes. He held her gaze as his hand tightened on her breast and he closed his lips around her nipple, suckling her hard. Her breath was coming short and sharp, and her hips rose of their own accord as if begging for his touch. It had been so long, too long.

He lost it then, showering kisses on her breasts, on her throat, nipping with his sharp teeth, sucking, licking. He bit down on her earlobe, drew it into his mouth while his hands played with her breasts, fingers tugging at the nipples, pinching hard, just this side of pain as though he knew what she liked. And maybe he did—maybe he read the small moans she couldn’t hold back.

She shifted her hips against him, rubbed up against the hardness of his erection through the material of his pants and her leotard. There was too much separating them; she needed flesh on flesh, and she pushed a hand between their bodies to fumble with his belt buckle. By the time she finally got it undone, she was breathing heavily, need driving her.

She wanted his hands on her sex, his cock deep inside her, and if she didn’t get it soon, she was going to go insane. He must have read something in her frantic movements, as his hands slid from her breasts, down over her flat stomach beneath the tight material, pushing it out of the way over the sharp jut of her hip bones. He stepped back so she could complete the process, shoving the leotard over her legs, kicking it off, taking her tights and panties with it, leaving her naked. His nostrils flared as he took her in, his eyes narrowing as he trailed a finger over the ruby stud piercing her navel then brushed over the small tattoo at her right hip.

As though he couldn’t stop himself, he cupped her between the thighs, his fingers slipping between the folds of her sex and then into the hot wet heat of her. He flexed his finger, rubbing against her inner walls, sending tingles through her body. Her eyes drifted closed as she concentrated on the sensations coursing through her.