‘You are beautiful,’ he murmured seriously, the words factual rather than said as a compliment. ‘But this you already know.’
It was a statement that came close to implying she was vain, and Jemima resented it, but before she could respond he’d stepped closer so that his body was hard against hers and urgency made it difficult to think, much less speak. She could feel every inch of him, every expansive muscle, his arousal pressed to her belly.
Her hands lifted to his chest, pushing against his shirt, his pectoral muscles firm beneath her curious grip. She undid his buttons one by one, starting at his neck and working down, pausing at the waistband of his trousers so she could lift his shirt out completely. The tip of her tongue darted from the corner of her lips as she concentrated on what she was doing, but before she could push the shirt from his body he’d swooped his head down and sought her mouth with his, his lips mashing to hers, the kiss driven by a mutual, desperate passion.
He took another step forward, so her back connected with the glass window, and he rolled his hips, leaving her in little doubt as to how much he wanted her.
Lust was a new feeling for Jemima. Never had she felt so attracted to a man that she wanted to act on it like this. Her brain had ceased to function; she was operating purely on instinct and her instincts were telling her to enjoy this.
‘I need to...’ What? See him? Touch him? Feel him? Frustrated by her lack of experience, her total inability to put into words what she was feeling and to explain the fever in her blood, she shook her head.
But he understood, of course he did, because the same fever was raging through him. He scooped her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, carrying her easily through the house, kissing her the entire way, and by the time they reached a bedroom and he dropped her onto the mattress she was ready to catch fire completely.
‘I want...’
‘Yes?’ His own voice was roughened by d
esire. ‘What do you want, Jemima?’
There it was again—the mental block, a complete inability to say what she was thinking. She groaned, reaching for him, sitting up and pulling at his sides, but he didn’t move. He kicked out of his shoes, watching her, his chest rising and falling with each of his deep breaths as he shrugged out of his shirt.
He had a tattoo that ran just beneath his heart: ‘come sono’. Her Italian was limited to industry terms and social niceties. ‘“I am me”?’ she said aloud, her eyes chasing the cursive ink.
‘“As I am”.’ He stepped out of his trousers and now a kick of fear hit her gut. Not fear of what was to come, but fear at how out of her depth she was. Her pulse lurched wildly through her body and she knew she should say something. But ancient feminine instincts gave her confidence and had her pushing to the end of the bed so that his legs straddled hers, his body so big, his presence overpowering. His fingers curved through her hair, and then her lips sought his flat chest, pressing to the ridges there as she scrambled onto her knees on the edge of the bed so she could trace one of his nipples with her tongue, flicking it curiously before transferring her attention to the next one.
In the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware of how new this was, and yet she didn’t feel anything except pleasurable anticipation and relief. She wanted this. She wanted it so badly. Soon, her virginity would be gone, and she’d know the pleasure of a man’s body... She couldn’t wait.
His chest moved rapidly with each curious little exploration of her tongue. Power trilled in her veins—the knowledge that she was driving him as wild as she was set her pulse skittering.
CHAPTER THREE
OVER DINNER SHE’D admired the strength of his arms but now, without a shirt, she saw for herself that he was muscled in a way that suggested he worked out often. There was a sense of power and control in his every movement. His chest was ridged with muscles and his flesh showed a deep tan, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors.
He reached down, his fingers tangling in the elastic of her thong, sliding the underwear over her legs in a way that was so sensual and tantalising she couldn’t bear it. She ached to reach down and remove it herself to speed this up not because she wanted it to end—she already knew she didn’t—but because she needed it to begin. She needed him as though he were oxygen.
His mouth on her breast was completely unexpected. His tongue curled around her nipple, perhaps retaliating for her own leisurely exploration. But his was so much more skilled, so much more thorough. It wasn’t a fair match at all.
His tongue swirled around the dusky peach areola and then he drew it into his mouth, sucking there until she was moaning, moist heat slicked between her legs. His other hand curved around her breast so his fingers could torment that nipple, alternating between a light, barely there brush of his fingers to a tight squeeze that sent arrows of desire firing against her flesh.
‘Please,’ she moaned, no longer aware what she was asking for, knowing only that she needed something he alone could provide. He was still wearing boxer shorts but he pressed his arousal to her womanhood and she writhed at the pressure, the unexpected intimacy of that gesture. His body thrust against hers as though they were already making love, and she ached to be. She ached to feel him inside her.
She’d always wondered if it would hurt—losing her virginity—but in this moment she was far too caught up in the hedonism of sensation to anticipate anything other than wild, utter bliss.
Her nails dug into his shoulders and her lips kept searching for his. His kiss was a temporary balm to the wildness in her veins but not enough—there would never be enough. She needed complete surrender—his? Hers? She didn’t know.
‘I need you,’ she groaned, her hands moving down his back, her nails scraping against his flesh and pushing into the waistband of his shorts so she could curve her grip around his buttocks and hold him tight to her sex. She lifted her hips wordlessly, instinctively inviting him to sweep away her invisible barrier, to become one with her.
‘I wanted to do this the moment I saw you,’ he muttered, moving to stand, pushing at his boxers impatiently. His eyes were fixed to her face with something like impatience—or possibly accusation—something she didn’t understand and couldn’t fathom. He reached to his side, pulling a condom from the bedside table, watching her as he opened the foil square.
She stared at him, transfixed, as he rolled it over the length of his cock, so big and hard, so fascinating. Her throat was dry, her heart pounding, and for the first time since agreeing to this she felt doubts creep in.
Not doubts about wanting him.
Doubts about the fact he didn’t know about her inexperience.
She didn’t need to be a mind-reader to recognise that Cesare Durante was a man who was used to sophisticated lovers. She was pretty sure springing her virginity on him would be poor form.
Her cheeks warmed now with the beginnings of embarrassment rather than desire, and she pushed up to stare at him, disbelief that her conscience was getting the better of her making her frown.