The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (Italian Billionaires #1)(43)

A small cry left her. Her legs nearly gave way but stiffened again as he parted her soft folds and thrust a finger deep into her moist heat.

And then she heard the ragged sound of his breath as he inhaled. Slowly, he withdrew, gentled his hold, and began to ease away from her.

The muscles of her arms flexed to hold him. “No,” she whispered, “Please stay.”

“I can’t,” he said in soft reply.

To succumb in the heat of the moment might be easy. Was that not what she had said? She had been wrong.

To find words that signaled surrender and force them past the tightness in her throat was near impossible. It was difficult because she was not overwhelmed by the hot, passionate need that surged in her veins. Rather, she decided in that instant to seize what she wanted and might never experience again, yielding to it without regret or reservation.

“Please. Make love to me.”

He tilted his head to see her face. “You’re sure?”

“You said you would not refuse if I asked it.”

The words were only a breath of sound. As they lingered between them there in the afternoon stillness time ceased to exist. There was only the two of them and that vital moment.

“Nor will I,” he answered, the words soft yet as strong as a vow.

He slid her robe down over her shoulders, bent to lift her into his arms. A few steps, and she felt the mattress of the bed give beneath her, heard the thud as her travel bag that lay upon it was pushed aside so it hit the floor. His damp Speedo was dispensed with in an instant. Then he was beside her, denting the surface of the bed so she rolled toward him, gathering her close until she was pressed to him from her breasts to her ankles. She felt his hot, rigid flesh and reveled in its promise, pushing closer still. He whispered her name and other phrases against her hair while his arms hardened around her.

Then his mouth was upon her again, driving her mad with his careful attention to her slightest response. He made red moist peaks of her breasts, caused her stomach muscles to flutter with the heat of his breath. He blew into the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs, delved among them with his tongue, murmured such compliments for the pink tip of flesh he found there that she blushed. He applied incredibly perfect adhesion to it so she writhed, moaning as she came apart in his arms.

Swiftly, he rose above her, parting her thighs. His heated length sank into her liquid softness. He was still as she gasped, stiffening at the sudden fullness, the heat, the glory.

“Perfetto, d’accordo, tesoro mio?”

“Si,” she said on a gasping sigh, though she understood only one of the musical words he spoke against her hair. “Perfect.”

And it was; it was as he withdrew and filled her again and yet again, in a slow dance that stretched time and strained nerves, muscles, and good intentions. She moved with him, against him, sliding her hands over him, grasping his arms, his waist, his hips while her breathing grew labored and perspiration slicked her body and mingled with his, aiding their endless, endless glide.

They moved in wonder, in magic union  , until the tension building inside her spiraled up suddenly, bursting in silent wonder, spreading such beneficence along her nerves that tears sprang into her eyes. Her body pulsed around Nico with powerful inner contractions. He groaned as he caught her to him in an iron grasp while his own orgasm broke from his control. Locked together, they savored the moment while straining heart to heart, body to body, mind to mind.

In time, he subsided beside her. He didn’t lie back, but propped above her on one elbow. With hooded eyes, he spread his hand on the surface of her abdomen, slid it upward to cup her breast, bent his head to taste the nipple, drawing on it a little so it beaded instantly under his tongue. When he straightened again, he sighed. “Ah, you are so lovely, cara mia, so responsive, that I forget myself.”

“Do you?”

“I do and I did, carissima. I used no protection, had none with me, mi dispiace.

Her smile was wry as she allowed her gaze to move over his face. “It never crossed my mind either.”

“I can, if you like, arrange for your protection even now. This I owe you.”

“You mean a morning-after pill.”

“As you say.”

He was anxious that there should be no consequences. It should not have mattered. She should even have been glad of his consideration.

Instead, she was vaguely insulted, even saddened. And she realized that she didn’t care if she was pregnant. Despite all the changes it would bring, and even the hardships, she would like to have his child as a remembrance of this time and place.

“I did ask you to make love to me,” she replied, lowering her lashes. “If anything should come of it, I will not hold you responsible.”

“You absolve me of responsibility for my child.”

His voice was low and without inflection; still, she flinched. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“How can you ask it when you know—” He stopped, pressed his lips together.

“Your sense of duty, yes. You would want to know.”

“Of course, I would wish it. I would want to see that you have the best of care, the best doctor, the best hospital. I would need to know that you aren’t overworking out of sheer, pig-headed independence, also that you eat as you should and have all the comforts you need. I would want to see that the child had everything—”