His hand caught in her hair. ‘Imma...’ He swore softly.
* * *
Imma felt her stomach clench. Her power to arouse him was shockingly exciting, and he was fiercely aroused. Fingers trembling slightly, she tugged at the waistband of his boxer shorts, heat flaring in her pelvis as she slid them over his hips.
She watched his jaw tighten, the muscles of his arms bunching as she ran her tongue around the blunt, rigid tip, taking it in her mouth. The feel of it jerking and pulsating in her mouth made her head swim.
He groaned, his fingers twisting in her hair, and then he jolted backwards, lifting her face and lowering his mouth to hers, kissing her with a hunger that made liquid heat flood her pelvis.
As her hands reached for him, he batted them away. ‘My turn,’ he said hoarsely.
His eyes were dark and molten with heat. Pulling her to her feet, he dipped his head, kissed her again, taking his time, running his tongue slowly over her lips then between them, tasting her, slowing her pulse.
She felt his hands on her back and then he was unzipping her dress, sliding it over her body, his hands moving smoothly around to cup her breasts, his thumbs grazing the already swollen tips until she was shaking inside.
And then he was nudging her back onto the bed, his mouth on hers, dropping his head to take first one and then the other nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the tight, ruched skin as her hands clutched his neck and shoulders.
She reached for him again and this time he caught her hands, pinning them to her sides. Deliberately he slid down her body. A shiver of excitement ran through her.
‘Let me taste you,’ he whispered, and her head fell back, her whole body quivering as he parted her with his tongue.
Her body arched, pressing against his mouth. She had never felt anything like this. She was moaning, shifting restlessly against him, desperately seeking more, her body no longer her own. There was nothing except him...nothing but his warm, firm mouth and the measured, insistent press of his tongue.
Helplessly, she pushed against him, chasing that fluttering, delicate ripple of pleasure, and then her pulse quickened and she felt her body tighten inside, tensing as the ripple became a wave and she cried out, shuddering beneath him.
Releasing her hands, he moved up the bed, licking his way up her body to her mouth. ‘I want you, Imma.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘I want you too. Inside me.’
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she was straddling the rigid length of him, hard and hot against the ache between her thighs. Reaching over, he fumbled in a drawer, lifting her gently as he rolled on a condom.
Squirming against him, she moved her hands across his body, over his stomach and down lower, taking him in her hand. He pulled her against him, his fingers tightening around her waist as he lifted her up and pushed into her slowly, easing himself in, inch by inch.
His face was tight with concentration and with the effort of holding back. ‘Look at me,’ he whispered.
Their eyes met and, gripping her hips, he began to move. She moved with him, and their bodies sought and found a steady, intoxicating rhythm that sent arrows of heat over her skin.
Reaching out, he cupped her breast, squeezing her nipple, and then his hand moved to the swollen bud of her clitoris, caressing her in time to his body’s thrusts, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
She rocked against him, feeling the heat rising up inside her again, gripping him with her muscles, holding him as the friction grew. Her skin felt hot and tight. She was hot and tight inside. And suddenly she flexed forward, as though she was trying to climb over him.
He pulled her back, his eyes locking with hers, and then he pushed up one more time and she felt her body arch as he tensed, his hands clamping around her waist, her gasp of pleasure mingling with his groan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS LATE when Vicè woke, the distant sound of a motorboat in the bay dragging him reluctantly from his cocoon of warmth. For a moment he clung on to the last shreds of sleep, and then slowly he opened his eyes and turned his head towards the open French windows.
He had forgotten to draw the curtains, and outside the sky was a marbled swirl of the palest blue and gold, as beautiful as any Renaissance ceiling. But no sky, however beautiful, could compete with the woman lying beside him.
Imma was asleep, her face resting against his shoulder. Her left hand curled loosely on his chest, the other was resting on the pillow, leaving one rosy-tipped breast bared to his gaze.
His heart began to beat faster. With her tousled hair and long dark lashes brushing her cheeks she looked like a painting. There was a softness to her in sleep, a hint of the vulnerability beneath the poise that made him want to pull her close and hold her against him.
He tensed. It was the first time in his life he had felt that way about any woman, and yet even though it was new and unfamiliar he didn’t feel panic or confusion. Instead it felt completely natural, like smiling.
But was that so surprising, really?
He might have acted unfairly—ruthlessly, even—but he wasn’t a monster, and seeing her cry had horrified him. Naturally he had wanted to comfort her.