An Inheritance of Shame(23)

She lay on top of him, shuddered as she felt his hands slide under her T-shirt, his thumbs brushing across her breasts. She arched into the caress, shifting so she could feel his arousal pressing against her belly. Angelo kissed her, his mouth moving from her lips to her throat, and then the V between her breasts, the pleasure of his touch so intense it felt almost painful, and yet she still wanted more. Needed more.

With one trembling hand she reached down to undo the button on his jeans. Angelo wrapped his fingers around her own, stilling her hand.

‘Lucia, no. Per favore, not like this.’

‘Yes, like this,’ she shot back fiercely. ‘Exactly like this.’

He shook his head. ‘You are sad, grieving—’

‘And you were sad and grieving the last time we slept together, Angelo. It helped, didn’t it? I helped you forget for a moment.’ He stilled, his hand still wrapped around hers, but his grip had slackened and she pushed his hand away, undid his zip. She stroked the hard length of his erection through the silk of his boxers. ‘Help me forget,’ she whispered. ‘Help me forget, even if just for a moment.’ She stroked him again, saw him close his eyes, his jaw clenched.

‘If you want me to make love to you, I will,’ he said raggedly. ‘But not here, on the hard sand.’

She let out a wild, trembling laugh. ‘Have you become so particular, in the past seven years?’ Her creaky, sagging bed had been the setting for their last encounter; he hadn’t complained. He hadn’t said anything at all.

‘Come back to the villa,’ he said, and he rose from the sand, buttoning up his jeans before reaching for her hand. Reluctantly Lucia took it. Now that the rawness of the moment had eased she was conscious of how much she’d revealed, from the confessions she’d sobbed out to the tears on her cheeks, and the shameless, desperate way she’d reached for him. Yet even so she still wanted him. Needed what he could give, if just for this one night.

They walked in silence back along the beach, up the stairs to the veranda and then inside to the sterile stillness of the villa. Angelo turned around to face her, his expression watchful, guarded, and Lucia knew he’d suggested they return to the villa not because he had a preference for satin sheets but because he wanted to give her time to change her mind.

Well, she wouldn’t. He’d turned to her for comfort and pleasure once; she’d do the same to him. Maybe then it would feel finished between them, a final, equal exchange. Maybe then she could move on.

She lifted her chin. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

Surprise flared silver in his eyes and his mouth quirked in a small smile. ‘You are constantly amazing me.’

She ignored the warmth that flared through her at his praise. ‘Don’t patronise me, Angelo.’

‘Trust me, I am not. Perhaps tragedy has made you stronger, Lucia, for you have far more spirit now than I ever gave you credit for when we were children.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Tragedy had made her stronger. She was glad he saw it. ‘The bedroom,’ she prompted, and he smiled faintly even as he watched her, still wary.

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘A decision like this should not be made in the heat of the moment—’

‘And it’s not the heat of the moment right now,’ she answered. Still he stared at her, his eyes dark and considering.

‘I don’t,’ he finally said in a low voice, ‘want to hurt you.’

Lucia swallowed past the ache his words opened up inside her. He’d hurt so many times in the past, but this time it would be different.

‘You won’t,’ she said. This time she wouldn’t let him. She knew what she wanted, what to expect. This time she would be the one to walk away.

It should be simple. He wanted this; clearly, so did she. So why, Angelo wondered, was he not sweeping Lucia up the stairs and into his bed?

Because her tears had been too recent, her grief too raw. Yet he’d turned to her in his own anger and pain; would he not allow her to do the same?

Still he hesitated.

‘Don’t tell me you have la gola secca, Angelo,’ she mocked softly. Her eyes glittered sapphire and she walked towards him, determination evident in every taut line of her body, her hips swaying, the silky T-shirt and skirt highlighting the lush curves he’d had his hands on only moments ago.

‘No, not a dry throat,’ he replied, gazing down at her. ‘I’m not afraid.’ He just wanted to give her the time to acknowledge la gola secca of her own. He didn’t want this to be rushed, regrettable. He still didn’t know all he wanted from Lucia, but he did know it was more than that.