One Summer at The Villa: The Prince's Royal Concubine / Her Italian Soldier / A Devilishly Dark Deal

Thrilled to the growl in his throat as he deepened the kiss.

She wasn’t even aware of her arms moving, but suddenly she had them wrapped around his neck. She’d kissed men before, certainly, but never had she wanted more the way she wanted more of Cristiano. My God, he smelled delicious, all man and sweat and blood and spice. The combination was strangely arousing.

The kiss slid into the danger zone much faster than she could have ever expected. Cristiano’s mouth was ravenous—and, shockingly, so was hers. Was it because they’d just survived death?

She wasn’t certain. And she didn’t seem to care. Cristiano’s mouth was magical, his kiss the absolute center of her gravity at the moment. If she were to let go of him, would she float away into space?

It certainly felt possible.

Her arms tightened around his neck, her head tilting back so he could gain better access. A moan escaped her as his hands slid up her sides, his palms skimming along the outer curves of her breasts. Would he touch her? How would she react? Part of her was begging for him to touch her—and part was telling her that she had to stop this immediately.

She could not lose her virginity to the Monterossan Crown Prince! It was unthinkable. The humiliation of giving herself to a man who hated her would be devastating.

Cristiano’s palms slid back down her body. Then he gripped her hips and lifted her onto the vanity without breaking the kiss. His hands were hot and smooth on her knees as he parted them. Then he pulled her forward, her dress sliding up her thighs as her legs widened around him. When their bodies connected in that most intimate of places, the shudder that went through her was mirrored in him. The only thing separating them was a bit of cloth.

So many sensations careened through her: the hard ridge of his groin pushing against the softness of hers; the sparks of desire zinging into her nerve endings; the delicious pressure building inside her, demanding release.

And more.

The urge to know what happened next, to feel that glorious oneness that she’d heard so much about. To feel it with this man in particular.

The kiss hadn’t stopped for even a moment. If anything, it intensified—

And then his hands were on her bare skin. His thumbs brushed the insides of her thighs, the elastic edge of her panties. Any second he would be beneath the thin barrier of silk and lace, his fingers touching her where no man had ever touched her before.

It scared her. The alarm bells clanging distantly in her head suddenly got far, far louder. This was going too far, too fast. No way could she have sex with this man.

And on a bathroom vanity? Did people even do that?

Oh, God, of course they did. She suddenly had an image burned into her head of Cristiano’s nude body, of her naked and willing, him stepping between her legs like this, pushing into her…

She had to bite back a moan.

It would hurt the first time. She knew that. But after? Would it be as magical as she believed? As incredible as the novels she’d read? As amazing as she’d heard other women say?

She’d never wanted to find out.

Until now.

But it was out of the question. She had to stop him before it was too late.

“Cristiano, no,” she gasped as his mouth left hers, as his lips trailed over her jaw and down her neck. His thumb slipped beneath her panties, brushed over the most private part of her.

“Please stop,” she gasped again, gripping his wrists. Squeezing to get his attention.

And he stopped. Backed away, confusion clear on his handsome features.

“I can’t,” she said, knowing how inadequate it sounded but unable to explain. How could she ever say everything she would need to say in order to make him understand? “I can’t.”

Frustration crossed his face. And, surprisingly, resignation. How many men had tried to convince her, after one kiss, that she should allow them into her bed? None had ever simply given up.

But Cristiano backed away, removing the delicious pressure of his body. She wanted to weep with the loss. And yet she was relieved too. It was wrong to want him. And futile.

“Because I am Monterossan, of course.”

Her throat was tight. “No, not because of that.”

He raked a hand through his hair. She could still see the firm ridge of his arousal beneath his shorts. “Then why, Antonella? I know when a woman wants me. And you do. As much as I want you, God help me.”

God help me.

Her heart ached as she hopped off the vanity and tugged her dress back down. “Maybe that is why, Cristiano.”

“Because you want me, you will deny me?” Fury took the place of resignation.

“No, not because of that. Because you despise me—and you despise yourself for wanting me anyway.”

His eyes glittered hot. “I am a man. I don’t hate myself for wanting a beautiful woman.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Maybe not, but you hate me. I am Monteverdian—and Monteverde killed your wife.”

Monteverde killed your wife.

Cristiano stared after her. As soon as she’d said it, she’d turned and hurried away. Left him standing here, contemplating her words.

The truth in them. Or nearly the truth, anyway. An enemy attack may have been the cause, but he had killed his wife. Killed her by marrying her. If he’d been honest with Julianne—about his feelings, his history and duty to the throne, the depth of conflict between Monteverde and Monterosso—would she have taken the risk?

It was a question he would never have the answer to. A question that both tormented him and drove him.

As if his thoughts weren’t complicated enough, Antonella was adding to the burden. That she’d seen deeply enough into him to recognize his turmoil was not at all what he’d expected. She was not what he expected, if he were honest with himself. In spite of his best efforts to believe otherwise, his view of her was being forced into new parameters.

And he didn’t like it.

Dio santo, his back still stung, he was in a constant state of arousal, and he was angry with himself. And with her.

She was getting under his skin in ways he didn’t like. It was partly sexual, of course. She was beautiful, sexy, and with an edge of innocence he found absolutely riveting. How did she do it, as worldly as she was? It was no wonder men flocked to her.

He’d replayed the last hour in his head until he could no longer view it objectively. She’d been frightened of him when he’d tried to force her from the room. Frightened in ways he could only attribute to some trauma in her life.

But what? Who had hurt her?

Or was it an act? Was anyone truly capable of that level of deception?

If she was, she’d nearly gotten them both killed for it.

He simply didn’t know what the truth was. And what he needed to do was shove all the doubt and thought and even the sexual attraction down deep where it wouldn’t affect him. He didn’t need to know Antonella, didn’t need to understand why she’d looked so terrified, didn’t need to know why she’d cried her eyes out in the taxi, or why she spoke to her brother every day and seemed surprised that he did not speak with his family as frequently.

None of that made her good. None of it excused her from the crimes of her family and their despotic grip on their nation. She was too intelligent to be a pawn.