His finger traced a nipple, running around the edges of her flesh, following the line of her dusky areola with lazy intent. His eyes didn’t drop, though, and she felt as though he was seeing all the way into her soul.
‘You surprised me, and I’m never surprised.’
He moved his body so that she was trapped between him and the bench, so his hardness was against her, and she surrendered to him completely.
‘You were a virgin,’ he continued simply, moving his attention to her other breast, teasing it with the same feather-light inquisition, the same insufficiency of feel. She wanted him to cup her breasts, to take their weight in his hands; she wanted him to overtake every single one of her senses.
‘And you didn’t realise.’
‘It didn’t even enter my head.’ His hands curved in the waistband of her yoga pants so he could cup her bottom and hold her against him. She gasped, his arousal so firm at her belly, his touch so commanding, so strong, that she made a primal sort of noise deep in her throat, her needs overpowering her.
‘There are dozens of stories about you—your lovers, your lifestyle—but aside from that, you are not a child. No, you are very sensual woman...your body catches fire when I touch you.’
She shivered as he did just that, moving his hand to her womanhood and brushing his fingers over the sensitive flesh there. She tilted her head back and then his lips found one of her breasts, his tongue flicking her nipple until she was moaning, incoherent with the pleasures he promised.
‘How is it possible you hadn’t done this?’ He moved to her other breast, but this time he rolled her nipple in his mouth before sucking it—harder, more forcefully, exactly how she needed it, the pressure setting off an intense cascade of feelings that had her pushing out of her yoga pants without realising what she was doing, needing him in a way that defied reason or sense.
Her hands moved to his waist, pushing at his belt, and he made a husky noise as he lifted his mouth to claim hers, his own hands working furiously to free himself from the confines of his fabric. He layered protection over his cock, and at the same moment Jemima lifted up onto the kitchen bench, he pulled her onto his length, entering her in one firm thrust so she cried out with the relief of his body’s return, her muscles squeezing him tight in welcome, her flesh lifting with tiny goose bumps as he moved deeply, perfectly, completely at one with her and her needs.
Her hands tore through his hair, and she arched her back on an instinctive wave of pleasure, her soul tormented by this in a way she knew she could become addicted to.
His body was so broad, so strong, so completely dominating, and his hands ran over every inch of her, touching her—feeling, worshipping with his touch, until she was like dynamite, lit and ready to explode.
And then, at the moment when she felt as if she would burst, he
cupped her bottom and brought her closer to him so he was buried inside her and his kiss was like a command, their bodies melded together. When she tipped over the edge of pleasure into a world that was all sensation, they were so close that she could feel his breath within her soul, she could feel his heart beating against her ribs, and then she felt his own explosion of pleasure, his body racked with the same madness that had commanded hers, his breathing as ragged and urgent, his cries deep and guttural but no less spontaneous.
There was only the sound of their tortured breathing as sanity began to return. Jemima blinked slowly, as though she were waking from a dream when she hadn’t expected to be asleep, looking up at him and seeing him through new eyes.
Through eyes that were fogged by desire and satisfaction. By the newness of this. ‘Is it always like this?’ she asked quietly, hearing the words and wincing at their naivety.
He lifted his head so he could better see her eyes. There was a query in his expression.
‘Sex,’ she muttered, swallowing her self-consciousness.
His lips lifted in something close to a smile. She studied the lines of his face, the squareness of his jaw, the strength of his nose, the cleft in his chin. It was a face that looked as though it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. It was a face of perfection.
‘Like what?’ he prompted, his fingers lifting to one of her nipples, twisting it lightly, indolently, with arrogant possession.
Embarrassment grew stronger. ‘So...’ The word trailed off into nothing. Mortification made it difficult to frame her enquiry. She wanted to know if it was normal to feel as if she needed to rip his clothes from his body whenever she saw him, to fill her with dreams that were positively X-rated, to make her body ache for him in the day when he wasn’t near her, and heat with desire at the slightest touch. But what if he didn’t feel anything like that for her? What if she alone was mired in an onslaught of unexpected sensual enslavement?
‘Sex is thrilling and addictive,’ he said, his cock jerking inside her in a way that made her breath snag, because he was growing hard again and her body was tingling with renewed needs. ‘But I find this generally fades.’ He flicked her nipple with his fingers. ‘I have never met a woman I couldn’t get out of my system in a night or three.’ His eyes probed hers—no, they lanced hers—a look of defiance and determination in his expression. ‘This will fade, uccellina, and we will both go back to our normal lives soon enough.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
IF ONLY.
Cesare scowled as he scanned the contracts, aware that he was fighting a tic that had him looking at his wristwatch every few minutes.
In the five days since Jemima had arrived at the hotel in Cannes, Cesare had forced himself to stick to his routines. Hell, he hadn’t anticipated that would be difficult. He’d flown his helicopter to Rome, arrived at his desk at the usual time, stuck to his meetings and his schedule, because why the hell wouldn’t he? He hadn’t missed a single day of work since he’d founded Durante Incorporated. It didn’t matter that he owned the company and was now one of the richest men in the world. It didn’t matter that he employed an army of executives who were undoubtedly more than capable of keeping things going—if not for ever, at least for a few days.
A few days?
The idea spread like wildfire in his veins. A few days with Jemima. No constraints. No having to get up in the morning and leave her sleeping, her beautiful body naked in his bed, her soft murmur of complaint as she felt him roll away from her, as though protesting the necessity of his departure.
As though she wanted him to stay.
What would it be like if he took the rest of the week off? If he woke her up by kissing her breasts, slowly dragging his mouth down her body, his tongue tracing lines across her flesh, tasting her, teasing her, delighting in her responsiveness.