Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride

‘What is it, cara? Is that good?’

‘It’s…It’s…Oh, Cesare.’ She wanted to call him darling—her darling—her sweet and wonderful and beautiful darling—Cesare. But he wasn’t her darling, was he? Not any more. He was just a proud and angry man who was setting her on fire with the mastery of his touch.

‘I should have done this years ago,’ he ground out, and pushed her back against the table, brushing aside all the papers and sliding her bottom onto the cleared space, scarcely aware of what he was doing, only that he was being driven on by a power greater than himself. ‘And then I could have rid myself of your face. Rid myself of your pale, beautiful body. Taken the memory of you and screwed it up into a tiny ball and tossed it onto the fire.’

That didn’t sound like affection—it sounded like the very opposite. Almost as if he despised her. Resented her. It should have killed her desire stone-dead—so why was it only escalating? ‘Maybe you should—’

‘Should what?’

‘Stop what you’re doing,’ she breathed.

‘But you don’t want me to stop, do you?’

‘Cesare—’

‘Do you? You would kill me if I stopped, wouldn’t you, my haunting green-eyed witch? You would rake those talons down over my bare back and draw blood, and then you would suck it off, like a vampire.’

‘Yes! No!’ No—no, of course she didn’t want him to stop, and the visual imagery of his words almost made her faint. He was right. She had wanted this to happen since for ever, and even before that. ‘Do it,’ she whispered. ‘Do it and get it over with. And then leave me with the peace that you so obviously crave, too.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he vowed furiously. ‘I intend to.’

The skirt was tricky, but there wasn’t a skirt in the world which would have defeated Cesare di Arcangelo. Never had his experienced hands trembled so much. He rucked it up over her knees, and then further still, to reveal hold-up stockings clinging to pale thighs, and he sucked in a ragged breath, his resolve almost leaving him, but not quite.

Now he could see the fine triangle of lace which hinted at the soft red-gold tangle of hair beneath, and he touched her there with ruthless precision—lightly grazing his finger against her moist heat so that she cried out.

‘Shut up!’ he bit out. ‘We don’t want any of the secretaries coming in. There is only going to be one woman coming, and it is going to be you, my beauty.’

‘Oh, Cesare,’ she whispered helplessly.

He skated his fingers over the cool silk of her inner thigh and she writhed restlessly, impatiently—Cesare knew then that he had her completely in his power, but that he must use that power wisely.

For once he gave her the orgasm her body was so badly craving might she not just turn around and tell him to go to hell?

His fingers stilled and she groaned.

Or would it make her more compliant if he satisfied her now?

He needed her co-operation just as badly as he wanted to have sex with her if his scheme were to succeed. Wouldn’t leaving her wanting him more make her much more acquiescent to his wishes? For hunger was one of life’s great motivators, and sexual hunger the most powerful of all…

He thought of all the times he had pulled back from the brink that long, hot summer, and it gave him the strength to resist pulling her panties right off and plunging into her there and then.

But she writhed her hips again, giving a little whimpering sound of something fast approaching pain, and Cesare knew that she was past the point of no return. His smile was cruel and triumphant as he acted quickly, swiftly disentangling from her to stride across the room and lock the door. And then he came back and began to unbutton her blouse, and suddenly his triumph became a kind of submission.

‘Oh, cara,’ he groaned as he peeled away the silk to reveal the twin thrust of her lush breasts encased in pure white lace. Like a virgin, he thought helplessly, and bent his head to suckle her through the lace, feeling her buck wildly beneath him.

Blindly, he felt for her again, his hand sliding up her skirt and finding her damp warmth, and suddenly he wanted to taste it. Taste her. He tugged at her panties and she lifted her bottom as he edged them down, over her knees and past her ankles, until they dropped to the floor.

She was positioned perfectly, he realised as he began to trace the tip of his tongue up over her stockings to where lace became skin and then beyond, where the skin was softest of all and exquisitely sensitive. And then the folds themselves—moist, warm, secret entrances to her most honeyed treasure. He felt the tip with a touch so light it was almost a whisper, and he felt her little shudder of disbelief. He moved his tongue, curling the very edge of it around her in a rapid little circular movement which had her groping wildly for his shoulders, tangling her fingers frantically in his hair and crying his name out until he shushed her.

Even before he felt a rush of sweet moistness against his lips he could sense her release, and he held her hips while she began to shudder against his mouth. And then he moved away to take her in his arms, pressing his fingers hard against her while she convulsed around them, and he kissed away her wild cry until—to his astonishment—the cry became real. And tears, great shimmering tears, began to roll down her cheeks. He felt them mingling with their merged mouths—so many different flavours of her—and heard the choking little noises she made as she tried to recover herself.

He drew back from her, his black eyes hooded—for he never trusted women’s tears. They turned them on and off at will, as weapons of manipulation, that was all. As a deterrent they could not have come at a better time, though, for they stilled his own sexual hunger so that he was able to rein it in—a feat of self-control which few other men would have been able to manage under the circumstances.

‘You cry?’ he demanded. ‘I do not please you?’

It was an absurd question to ask—for surely he must have known that he had? Sorcha felt hopeless—helpless, shaky and insecure, and completely out of her depth—as if he had scraped away the top layer of skin and left her raw and vulnerable, unsure what to do next. She shook her head.

He smoothed her hair away from her damp face and frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘That…That…’

She looked almost shy, he realised. Shy?

‘What?’

She felt the blush wash upwards from her neck and she opened her eyes, biting her lip. ‘It was just…Oh! With your tongue…Well, I mean, I’ve never…’

He held her still. Were his ears deceiving him. ‘Never?’ he demanded shakily.

She shook her head.

For a moment Cesare stilled, and then he buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes. It was like music to his ears, though he scarcely dared to believe it. Had she hungered for him so badly over all these years that there had been no other man for her?

He slid his arms around her waist and levered her back up, smoothing her hair and looking into her eyes. ‘You’re trying to tell me you’re a virgin?’

There was a split-second silence, and Sorcha was so tempted to lie. To tell him what he really wanted to hear—and wouldn’t that make it much easier to bear? Then the way that she’d reacted might have been a bit more understandable—if she’d loved and wanted and waited all that time for him to make love to her then who could blame her for what she had just allowed to happen?

But she couldn’t lie. Not to Cesare. And certainly not about something as important as that. She knew how highly he rated purity—wasn’t it the main reason he had asked her to marry him?

‘No, I’m not a virgin,’ she said quietly.

Now she had made him into a fool! Or had he only himself to blame for the sudden leap of hope he had felt? As if she wouldn’t have had a long line of lovers…not when he knew how instantly she reacted to a man’s touch.

His mouth curved. ‘Your lovers must not have been good lovers,’ he drawled. ‘If they did not know how much a woman likes to be eaten.’

‘You are disgusting!’ she breathed.

‘You weren’t saying that a minute ago.’

Distractedly, she tugged at her skirt and straightened her blouse over her swollen breasts. It was like waking up from a dream when she hadn’t even realised she’d been asleep.

What the hell would he think of her now?

Yet he had started it—set the ball rolling with that almost punishing kiss. And you let him. Egged him on. Incited him in a way which was almost wanton. Was it any excuse to say that she hadn’t been able to stop herself? That once she had felt Cesare’s lips on hers it had been like falling down a well straight into paradise?

She ran her tongue over her parched lips. ‘That should never have happened,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Shouldn’t it?’