Sara Craven Tribute Collection

Her serious mistake was standing in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder negligently propped against its frame. He was fully dressed, but tieless, and his shirt was open at the throat.

He said softly, ‘Buon giorno.’ And began to walk towards her, discarding his jacket as he did so. ‘I thought you would sleep until my return, cara.’

‘Your return?’ Her voice was a stifled croak. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Your refrigerator was full of food, but nothing for breakfast, so I went shopping.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘We have fresh rolls, orange juice, cheese and some good ham.’ The green eyes glinted as they surveyed her. ‘All of which we will have—later.’

Flora realised he was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He reached down and took the soap from her unresisting hand.

‘Stand up, mia bella,’ he directed quietly.

Somehow she found herself mutely obeying, her eyes fixed on his face, aware that her throat had tightened with mingled panic and excitement.

Marco lathered his hands with the soap and began to apply the scented foam to her skin, starting with her shoulders and working his way downwards, massaging it into her body very slowly, and very thoroughly.

His gaze was reflective—almost dispassionate—as he worked—like a sculptor judging his latest work, she thought confusedly as her senses began to riot.

Everywhere he touched her—and he didn’t seem to miss an inch—was tingling and burning. An agonised trembling had ignited deep inside her.

Her breasts were aching with desire as his fingers lingered over their rosy tips. She quivered as he moved with exquisite precision down the length of her spine to her rounded buttocks.

When he touched her thighs, and the soft curls at their apex, Flora had to bite her lower lip to prevent herself from whimpering out loud.

When he’d finished, he took the hand spray from the shower unit and rinsed away the soap, just as carefully. The water droplets felt like needles piercing her over-sensitised skin as they cascaded over her small round breasts, making the nipples stand proud.

At last, when she was beginning to think she could bear no more, he turned off the spray and reached to the towel rail for a bath sheet. He took her hand and helped her out of the water, then wrapped the soft towelling round her.

‘Dry yourself, carissima,’ he ordered softly. ‘I would not wish you to catch a chill.’

Chill? Flora thought, as she started, dazedly, to pat herself dry under his unwavering scrutiny. She was already running a high fever. Her legs were shaking so much that she thought she might collapse and her blood was on fire. And he had to know this.

When she had finished, she paused, her eyes asking a question. He nodded, as if she had spoken aloud. He took the edges of the bath sheet, using them to pull her gently towards him. His arms enfolded her and his mouth came down on hers in a slow, deep kiss that sent her already reeling senses into free fall.

When he raised his head, his own breathing was ragged. He drew the edges of the bath sheet apart and began to kiss her body, his lips drifting soft as thistledown from her throat down to her breasts, then travelling over her ribcage to the faint concavity of her abdomen.

He sank down on one knee, his hands holding her hips as the trail of kisses continued downward. When he reached the division of her thighs, and parted them, she gave a little startled cry as she felt his mouth on the burning core of her, the silken eroticism of his tongue as he pleasured her tiny secret bud.

She wanted to tell him that he must not do this—that he should stop. But she could not speak.

She was conscious of nothing but the exquisite sensations rippling through her as he continued his intimate caress. Every atom of her being was focused almost painfully on her growing delight. And then, almost before she was aware, her body imploded into orgasm, the pulsations so strong she thought she might faint.

There were tears running down her face. He wiped them away with the edge of the towel, then picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the door.

‘Where are we going?’ Her voice was a breathless squeak.

‘Back to bed.’

‘But we were going to have breakfast.’

‘I think now that is going to be—very much later.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, fiercely, sensually. ‘Don’t you agree, mia cara?’

Flora pressed her lips against the triangle of hair-darkened skin revealed by his unfastened shirt. ‘Yes, Marco.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Oh—yes—please.’

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_7d3206ec-e324-54ee-a5b2-d1e5ee6ed150)

A LONG time later, lying in his arms, Flora said dreamily, ‘I think we’ve missed breakfast—but it could always become lunch.’

Marco tipped up her chin and looked down at her, brows raised austerely. ‘You mean I am not enough for you? You want food as well?’

She gave a soft giggle. ‘I think I need to keep my strength up—if this is how you mean us to spend our time.’

She felt the arm that encircled her harden with sudden tension, and realised, with shock, that she’d spoken as if they had a real relationship. That she’d made unwise assumptions about a future which almost certainly did not exist.

She turned away quickly as her face warmed in helpless embarrassment. ‘Anyway—I—I’ll get us something to eat…’ she added with determined brightness.

She pushed away the covering sheet, then hesitated as she remembered that her robe was in the bathroom.

It was ludicrous, she thought with bewilderment. This was the man with whom she’d been intimately entwined for the best part of twelve hours, who had explored and kissed every inch of her body, and yet, in the space of a drawn breath, everything had changed. And suddenly she was reluctant to walk around naked in front of him.

Lack of inhibition was different when it was fuelled by passion. She’d given herself to him again and again in unthinking delight. Learned to bestow pleasure as well as receive it.

But now reason had intervened.

And it was still nothing more than a one-night stand, no matter how she might try to justify it. There’d been no commitment of any kind between them. It had been—just sex. A transient pleasure. And now the sex was over she felt awkward and bewildered—unsure how to behave.

Because Marco, in so many ways, was still a stranger to her, she acknowledged unhappily. Someone who had walked into her life a few days ago and who would soon be leaving in the same casual way.

And it was naïve of her to have supposed—or hoped—that anything that had happened had any real importance in the great scheme of things.

As a lover Marco was gifted, patient and imaginative, luring her into areas of sensuousness she had not know existed.

But she knew that no amount of pleasure would ever be matched by the pain of watching him leave.

It’s so easy for a man, she thought sadly. He can just get dressed and go. Whereas I—I’ve slept with Marco once, and now I want to make him a meal. Next I’ll be wanting to have his baby.

Behind her, Marco moved. ‘Is something wrong?’ He brushed his lips gently across the small of her back. ‘You are not having—regrets?’

‘No—of course not.’ She spoke bravely, not looking at him. ‘I was just wondering—where I’d left my dressing gown.’

She heard the smile in his voice. ‘Does that really matter?’

She said shortly, ‘It does to me.’

There was a silence, then he said slowly, ‘Cara, are you trying to tell me you are—shy?’

She bit her lip. ‘Is that so extraordinary?’

He said, ‘A little, perhaps, considering what you and I were doing to each other a little while ago.’ He paused. ‘Would it make things easier for you if I promised to shut my eyes?’