Her eyes went to his hands now, as his long, strong fingers curved around the silver coffee pot handle—hands that had stroked her body, fingers that had expertly caressed her body’s innermost secret recesses, drawn from her a shuddering ecstasy that had made her cry out aloud in gasping breaths her neck and spine arched impossibly.
She remembered her own hands digging into the supple sinews of his broad muscled shoulders as he brought her to a peak of pleasure that she had never known...only to realise she had not even begun to feel all he could make her feel as her body bowed, lifting for him, and he plunged deep within her in total, absolute possession...
Memory scorched within her, sending blood rushing to her face. She looked away immediately, willing her high colour to subside, digging her nails into her palms.
‘Cream with your coffee?’
Luca’s deep voice penetrated her agitation, and with forcible effort she turned to him, making her face expressionless.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He handed her a cup, pushing the jug towards her, and she thankfully busied herself pouring in cream, stirring as she did so, watching, as if it were a fascinating movie, how the rich cream swirled into the dark, aromatic coffee.
‘Sugar?’
Luca’s deep voice came again, but this time Ariana shook her head.
‘Sweet enough already?’
His jibe was open, and it made her eyes flash to him. ‘And I have reason to besweetright now because...?’ she retorted, just as jibing.
Something darkened in his slate-grey eyes and she saw a momentary tightening of his mouth.
‘Perhaps because I’ve thrown you a financial lifeline to save your business?’ He matched her retort.
She was silent, jaw set, knowing she could not answer back this time. She lifted her cup with a jerky movement, took an unwise mouthful of hot coffee. But she made no show of how hot it had been. Made no show of anything she felt.
He was speaking again, his voice silky. ‘So a little more appreciation of my...generosity...would not go amiss, hmm?’
His eyes were resting on her as he sat back, crossing one long leg over the other, making himself comfortable as he held his coffee cup, stirring the cream in a leisurely fashion.
What was in that gaze except a toxic taunt...? Oh, dear God. That rush of colour threatened yet again. There was a hint of what she knew must come... Both reminiscence over that fateful, torrid night of sex in New York and anticipation of a repeat performance.
Was he expecting her to reply to what he’d just said? The words choked in her throat and she dropped her eyes to her coffee cup, busying herself with taking another sip, less scalding this time.
He let her drink uninterrupted, and as she did so she could feel the caffeine start to hit. Bringing everything into focus. She lifted her eyes to the man sitting opposite her. His own eyes were still resting on her. In the soft light she could not make out their expression. But she did not need to. She knew what would be in them.
She set down her empty coffee cup, got to her feet. His eyes followed her as she crossed the narrow space between them. He put down his own cup, got to his feet as well. Less than a metre from her. She caught the scent of his aftershave—the same as he’d worn in New York.
For a second she felt faint... Then she forced herself to speak. To say what she must say. Or lose what was most precious to her...
‘You said...’ Ariana heard her own voice as if it came from a long, long way away ‘...you wanted my...appreciation.’
He looked at her, his gaze unreadable, but she saw the tightness of his mouth, the steeling of his jaw.
‘Tell me,’ she went on, and she could hear the husk in her voice, knew why it was there, ‘if I show you my...appreciation...what will you do for me? Will you write off the loan you hold over my head? So that I need not to repay it?’
He was standing stock-still, but he lifted a hand, reaching forward. His forefinger brushed down her cheek. Slowly, consideringly. It felt like a burning brand, searing her skin.
Branding me. Owning me. Body and soul.
He gave her his answer, his voice an open taunt, ‘Perhaps that depends on just how appreciative you are.’
His long lashes dipped over his eyes, then lifted, and in their pitiless depths she could see all that she feared.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, and now he drew his forefinger down her throat, ‘you might give me a demonstration?’
She felt his finger like the blade of a knife. As if it were drawing blood. He wantedherto make the move. Wantedherto commit the act that he required—her abject surrender. Her complete humiliation.