“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”
“I will,” she whispered against his bronzed skin.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
She sensed his confidence falter and so kissed him hotly on the mouth.
His arm snaked around her waist. His hand dipped to grip one buttock. And they were lost again. Gasping, moaning, tongues tangling, writhing in each other’s arms. One minute they were standing, the thick length of his arousal pressing against her abdomen. The next they were in bed, the swollen head of his shaft at her entrance.
He laughed lightly. “I’ve not done this before.”
“Neither have I.”
Heavens! She would never forget the look on his face when he eased into her body. It went beyond the lustful glint in his eyes, beyond the rakish grin of satisfaction. He wanted her. Her. Not just her body. She could see it clearly. He was the book, and she could read this particular page.
“Wrap your legs around me, love.”
She did, the movement drawing him deeper inside her. When he withdrew, she felt bereft. But he knew how to read her, too, knew she liked feeling full, liked the way he edged deeper each time.
“One long thrust, and you’re mine,” he panted. “There’ll be no going back.”
She didn’t want to go back, only forwards with him.
“Do it now, Dante.”
“I imagine it will be easier if I kiss you, if I distract you momentarily, but for some reason, I want to watch you when you take me to the hilt.”
“Watch me, then.” It was the least she could do after the pleasure he’d given her, and she wanted to watch him, too.
He fixed her with his heated gaze as he withdrew, pinned her to the bed as he thrust so hard she took all of him, every delicious inch.
For a second, she thought she might cry. It wasn’t the sharp pain that brought a rush of emotion, for it soon subsided. It was the overwhelming feeling of love for this man.
“God, Beatrice. Everything about you is divine.”
He started moving, slow pulses of his hips at first, but soon he was pumping fast and hard. The bed creaked. The frame hit the wall. Mr Ashwood could probably hear their passionate moans across the hall.
Dante didn’t treat her like an incapable virgin. Perhaps it was his huge appetite for pleasure, but he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. And she certainly couldn’t get enough of him.
She came again, jerking beneath his expert strokes.
He withdrew, groaned in ecstasy as he emptied himself on her abdomen. He fell onto his back, dragging breath into his lungs, a grin filling his handsome face.
They lay there, slowly climbing down from dizzying heights. And yet her need for him had not abated. She laughed aloud, for she could not contain the euphoria.
Dante looked at her and laughed, too. “Was it what you imagined?”
“So much better.” Insecurity surfaced. “I doubt you’d say the same.”
He rolled onto his side, draped his leg over hers. “Beatrice, I’ve never made love, but I made love to you. I usually gather my clothes and leave, but I want you again so desperately I can hardly think straight.” He brushed her hair from her cheek. “You touch me like no one has before. You reach places I didn’t know existed.”
Her heart soared. “We don’t need to sleep. We might indulge ourselves again. There must be more you can show me.”
He explained she would be sore, then climbed out of bed, fetched a damp linen square from the washstand and wiped her clean. She caught his hand as he washed traces of blood from her sex, took the linen and cast it aside.
“Touch me, Dante.”