Between the Italian's Sheets

‘What about this?’ She gestured to the rumpled rug and scattered cushions and containers, not wanting to have to think about them, but years of taking responsibility insisted on it.

He shook his head. ‘It’s taken care of. Don’t worry.’

He took her hand and led her down the sloping gardens. Waiting at the gates was a sleek grey car. Luca held the door open for her and she slid in. He climbed in the back with her. The driver pulled away. It was only minutes to the centre of Verona and his hotel, but all of them were occupied as with light fingers he turned her head towards him and kissed her. She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want him ever to stop.

CHAPTER FOUR

SURFACING from the car into a hazy reality, Emily walked beside Luca into the hotel. When she finally focused on her surroundings she almost stumbled. Opulence wasn’t the word. And suddenly she feared she had no place here in her crumpled skirt and camping tee shirt. It was the early afternoon and they were walking into his hotel for an erotic indulgence. She was so turned on, she could hardly walk for the way she’d gone weak at the knees, and she had the horrible feeling that everyone must know. It was so strong to her that surely it must be obvious to everyone else? She longed to return to the quiet solitude they’d had in the warm gardens. This was sophisticated and exclusive and so not her.

He seemed to sense her discomfort, taking her arm and shielding her from the eyes of those in Reception. Smoothly he guided her through the lobby to the lift. It wasn’t a possessive touch, he didn’t put his arm around her and haul her close, it was merely a light hand at her elbow, and the simplicity and the politeness made the doubts wane. There was respect in his manner and she knew he had every intention of taking care of her. Suddenly nothing else mattered.

He didn’t maul her in the lift either, stood beside her quietly, keeping his hand still light on her arm as he escorted her onto his floor. He swiped the key card and opened the door. She walked in, relieved to be alone with him again but still knocked sideways. He didn’t just have a room, he had a suite. She’d guessed he had money, understood he was a financier of some sort. But she hadn’t realised it was quite like this.

She turned to study him, reassessing. All Italians dressed nicely, didn’t they?

‘Second thoughts?’ He was watching her just as keenly. ‘It’s OK to say no.’

Concentrating on him made the intimidating surroundings disappear. She melted all over again.

‘No,’ she said, then smiled naughtily at the flash in his eyes. ‘I don’t want to say no,’ she elaborated firmly.

She watched, quite pleased as with obvious effort he un-clenched his jaw. ‘Good.’

‘It will be the best, won’t it, Luca?’ She searched for final reassurance. Having had a sample of what could only be heaven, she didn’t want disappointment. She’d had that before. ‘I want the best.’ And she did. To be lost from herself for just a few magic moments. One afternoon where she could forget the past and ignore the future. Let go of worries and responsibilities and be free to feel pleasure. It would be the first time and she’d been waiting for ever.

He closed the gap between them with slow, sure steps. His finger traced her lower lip as it had the night at the opera. ‘Don’t doubt it.’

Her eyelids lowered slowly as the crazy lethargy returned. It was as if her senses were tuning out everything except him—his touch, his voice, his scent and his determination. There would be no saying no. It wasn’t even an option, not for her.

This magic, this mysterious man—she wanted to know no more, except of his body. It had been there, from the first glance, the blink and reassessment that had happened in the quickest instance—one body’s recognition of the other.

She didn’t believe in love at first sight. But now she most certainly believed in lust at first sight. Her body programmed to seek his as her mate. It had never happened to her before. The few dates she’d been on, that past boyfriend—she’d felt nothing. But this, this was as if she’d been branded with a white-hot iron—his.

She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. She still couldn’t. Through her half-closed lids she watched him concentrate as slowly, so slowly, the tips of his fingers moved from her lips, brushing down her jaw, her neck and down the slope of her chest. She went taut with anticipation but his path diverted, going around her nipples rather than directly over them. She hissed out her breath, wanting him to touch her there.

But his fingers skimmed down her sides, and then took the hem of her tee shirt. Carefully he raised it, automatically she lifted her arms to help. In a second he had it off her, and tossed it to the side.

She stared at him, unashamed about the way her full breasts were trying to burst out of her bra, at the way her nipples were pressing hard against the fabric—begging him the only way they could. She just wanted him to touch.

His jaw was clenched hard again. His hands lifted. The light, gentle fingertips went back to her waist, slipping around her skirt to find the zip.

She wriggled her hips to help it slide down. And then she was standing before him, for a second stupidly hoping that it didn’t matter that her bra and briefs didn’t match.