‘I’d better go and hang this up,’ she said.
He stared at her incredulously. Was she aware that no woman had ever broken the sexual mood quite so unashamedly with such a mundane little request? And yet the sheer ordinariness of the situation somehow took him aback.
Women usually did perform for him, he realised. He only ever saw them at their best—all painted and perfumed and ready for love. He couldn’t think of another female who would have worn tights and turned down his offer of another outfit—nor one who would so coolly put the care of her dress before an aroused man. Yet appearances mattered to Aisling, he realised—and part of him reluctantly admired her resolve. Wasn’t it one of the reasons why her business had been so successful? Why she had been able to shake off the shackles of her past?
‘The wardrobe’s through that way,’ he said—pointing towards the bedroom at the far end of the corridor and indicating that she should proceed him. Because he wanted to watch her from behind. Wanted to watch the high, taut thrust of her buttocks as they moved against.
‘Wait a minute,’ he murmured.
‘What do you—?'Aisling closed her eyes. ‘Gianluca!’ she breathed, because he was crouching down to roll down her tights, and kissing the inside of her thighs as he did so. And now he was massaging her ankle with the pad of his thumb and unbuckling her high-heeled shoes. It felt like the most erotic thing which had ever happened to her as he eased the shoes off and put them together neatly, followed by the peeled-off tights, which he placed on top of them. And then he looked up at her, his black eyes glittering, his breath decadently warm against her knees.
‘Go and hang your dress up,’ he instructed as he stood up.
And Aisling knew that this was all part of the fantasy they were acting out. One night of erotic make-believe which she had agreed to—and she had her own part to play. She couldn’t pretend to be some little untutored innocent—even if the dark look of promise in his eyes was making her feel a bit that way.
So she walked down the corridor as unselfconsciously as possible.
‘Lentamente … slowly,’ he commanded huskily as he ran his eyes over her small shoulders, the narrow curvature of her waist—swelling out to the slim bell of her hips. The dark hair fell down her back like a gleaming curtain as she walked with a certain natural grace—yet she did not strut, as a lot of women would if they were being watched by a man.
But when she reached the bedroom, Aisling’s stomach began to knot with nerves. It was like something usually featured in one of those brick-siz
ed glossy magazines you found lying around at the hairdressers’—with a bed the size of a soccer pitch and a disconcerting amount of mirrors.
She sensed rather than heard him enter the room behind her and she forced herself to examine the room as if she were a prospective buyer—anything to buy her time to suppress the debilitating nerves which were suddenly making breathing very difficult.
There was a giant TV screen and electronically controlled blinds, which Gianluca immediately clicked to float down, so that the room was bathed in some surreal, subterranean light.
‘Now.’ He walked up behind her and lifted the silken curtain of her hair to nuzzle at her neck. ‘Are you going to turn around and kiss me?’
She was trembling uncontrollably as she did so, aware that she was almost naked and he was not. ‘There’s a slightly unfair distribution of clothes around here,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Then even it up a little, mmm?’
Her fingers were shaking as she unknotted his silk tie, but he took it from her when she was done and tossed it aside, his black eyes alive with mockery. ‘I’ll send everything out to the laundry,’ he promised. ‘Because I don’t want to waste precious minutes while you press my suit with your need for neatness and order!’
Was he making fun of her again? But somehow it didn’t matter. In fact, nothing mattered apart from what lay ahead. And suddenly Aisling wanted to kick all her usual values into touch—just for that one night. She began to tug at his silk shirt and when a button flew off he gave a low laugh of pleasure—so she tugged even harder and another bounced onto the polished floor.
‘Easy, tiger!’ he teased.
‘But you’re the tiger!’ she retorted, enjoying his instinctive moan as she began to unbuckle his belt. ‘Il Tigre.’
‘You’ve been reading too many press cuttings,’ he groaned. ‘That’s my job.’
‘Just shut up about your job for a minute, will you?’ he said fiercely.
And now he was unclipping her bra—and his mouth was on her breast and she was bucking with pleasure. She was aware that she was making a mewing sound, like a cat, and that she was inciting him with broken little pleas in between kisses.
And suddenly she could hear the rasping sound of his zip, could feel the formidable power of him springing against her bare skin, and she swayed as he began to push her down to the floor. Now was not the time to tell him that she had never done it on the floor of a luxury penthouse before.
But if he noticed her lack of sophistication, it didn’t seem to matter—because he seemed so fired up with excitement that his body was quivering like a tight bow which was stretched to breaking point. He swore again.
‘What is it?’ she questioned, between kisses.
‘I’ll have to go and find a damned condom.’
‘There’s no need. I’m … I’m protected.’
He raised his head. ‘But last time—’