by Jaycee Clark
His breath was hot as he whispered against her thigh, his hair tickling.
Long supple fingers parted her, slicked over her, up and down, around and around. Her world tilted as he wove the magic within her.
Then he muttered something against her and she almost came when he simply kissed her, loving her with his mouth. His tongue laved, licked, promised and drove her to the brink. He toyed with her, alternating between those wicked fingers and that wicked sharp tongue of his. And he was going so incredibly slow.
“Mia bella,” he whispered against her, inside her as he stroked her deep with his fingers, his tongue making her forget who she was. The climax beat its arrival inside her, like angry waves wanting to crash against the shore, but he knew just what to do, to hold the tide back, to make it linger, to prolong the need.
Christian fisted her hands in the duvet, even as he lifted her hips in his hands. Still he slowly cherished, worked her till she was sobbing. Whispered against her, into her, words she couldn’t understand, until she was begging, so lost in Brayden and what he was doing to her, all she could see was the golden wave he kept just out of her reach.
And she wanted it. Wanted it until . . .
He slid another finger in, just as he suckled her tiny bundle of nerves. The wave roared through her. “Brayden! Oh, God! Brayden!”
The wave rolled over her, sucked her back and crashed over her again. She saw stars, bright bursts of lights.
She felt herself pulsing against him, and still he loved her with his tongue, his lips, his mouth. He soothed her with the same kisses as he had aroused her with.
Finally, he kissed his way up her stomach, circling her navel with his tongue, briefly kissing both breasts as his fingers trailed from under them up the sides to her neck.
His fingers dove into her hair, his palms on her cheeks.
“Ah, Christian. Ti amo, mia bella. Ti amo.”
She had no idea what he was saying, but in his deep baritone voice, she couldn’t care less. It was like thunder promising the softest of summer rains. Gentle, yet cleansing.
His eyes. The emotions burning in them brought tears to her own.
He must have seen them. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, kissing her eyes, the bridge of her nose.
“No,” she whispered and rocked her hips against him.
His shaft was hard and hot against her thigh.
Brayden propped on his elbows and pulled back, his gaze intense. “Are you certain?”
He would stop. If she asked him to, if she wanted him to. She didn’t, and she wouldn’t.
Smiling up at him, she reached between them and wrapped her fingers around him, satisfaction spearing through her at his sharp intake of breath.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Make love to me again.”
Carefully, she guided him to her. Their eyes never strayed from each other.
“I love you,” she whispered, letting go of him.
“This is our night, mia bella. Ours and no one else’s.” He cupped her face again, even as she felt him poised at the edge of her. “Say my name,” he told her.
“Brayden.”
He slid slowly into her, filling her completely with love and hope and promise.
“My Brayden.”
He smiled down at her as he slowly began to move. His eyes that intense blue as he lowered his head, whispering to her. “Desidero fare per sempre l’amore vio.”
She didn’t know what he said, but she understood it.
Her eyes closed on a sigh as she began to move with him.
Brayden watched her, the expressions on her face as they rocked together with ease. An age-old dance that only varied in posture or tempo. Theirs was a slow adagio.
God, he loved this woman. Loved the smell of her, the feel of her skin against his, her touch on him, her lips on his, her tight, wet heat surrounding him.
He watched the wonder on her face, the joy as he built her back up to join him.
“Come with me,” he coaxed, leaning down to kiss her brow, the tip of her nose, to trace her open mouth with his tongue.
He controlled their rhythm, wanting to prolong their lovemaking.
She was his. His to cherish, to love, to protect.
To protect.
She was his.
Without realizing when or how, the tempo increased.
Christian’s moans and pleas filled his mouth, filled his soul.
God, she felt so good, so right. Finally, he felt like he was where he was meant to be.
He would not go without her.
“Come with me,” he said again, moisture wetting his face. It was hot, and Christian was hotter still, her fire feeding his, urging his. The need blazed through him.
Her eyes were pools of mercury, emotions shimmering them to silver.
He leaned over and trailed her ear with his tongue, whispering to her, “Sieta l’amore del mio cuore . . . la mia vita . . . la mia anima.” And she was, the love of his heart, his life, his soul.
He felt her vise around him, tighten, even as she arched and screamed in his ear.
Her scent and yell blinded him to all but being in her. The climax arced through him, so powerful he threw his head back and gave her his heart and soul.
• • •
Brayden was heavy. But Christian didn’t care. She couldn’t breathe, but oxygen really didn’t seem all that important.
He grunted near her ear and she smiled.
In no time, those eyes pierced down at her as he propped up on his elbow, pulling out of her. Ebony tresses stood up all over his head and she giggled.
He only cocked a brow, and wiped his finger across her cheek. Only then did she realize she’d cried.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern and worry shadowing his eyes.
The giggle turned into an outright laugh. “Can you honestly ask me that?” she wanted to know.
His knuckle brushed wetness from the other cheek.
“Joy, Brayden. Tears of hope, and joy, and . . . and . . .”
“And?” he asked, tensed.
“Love.” She pulled his head down to hers. “Love. Amore. I love it when you use those sexy Italian words.”
She felt him relax, his grin hinting at the devilish streak in him. “Really? So now I have to worry about all these Venetian men, do I?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you busy here with no one but me.”
The thought made her heart race. “Wow. You know that many Italian words?”
His eyes narrowed on hers. “Care to find out?” His brows wiggled.
“No, I’m hungry.”
He nuzzled the side of her neck, his teeth gently scraping to her shoulder. “So am I.”
Christian shoved against him. “I mean for food.”
His grin was just as wicked as the twinkle in his eyes. “Dessert should always be eaten first, didn’t you know?”
“And it has been, in case you didn’t notice.”
He settled against her. “Great. Time for the main course.”
She only had time to shake her head before he was kissing her senseless again.
It was as if they couldn’t get enough of each other. Each wanted more touch, more caressing, more kisses, simply more.
And each gave it.
“What did you say to me before, in Italian?” she whispered hot in his ear.
Brayden paused, arched a brow and grinned. “I’m not really sure.”
She shoved against his shoulder. “Excuse me?” Then she laughed. “Here I was thinking it was sexy as hell, and you could have been telling me the canals outside were purple.”
Brayden sighed. He wasn’t good with words, but he remembered. And why could he whisper it to her in a language she couldn’t understand, but hesitated to say it to her?
He cupped his hands on either side of her face. “I said you were beautiful, my beautiful lady.
That I love you.” He kissed her, telling her, “That I want to make love to you forever . . .” She joined in the kiss, twining her arms around him. “That you are my heart.” He kissed down her throat. “My life.” Another kiss. God, he loved the taste of her. “My soul.” He kissed the pulse in her neck and possessively slid his hand down her. “Il mio amore.”
His love.
Brayden rolled to his back, bringing her astride him.
This time she controlled it all, the tempo, the race to the shore, the prolonging.
She enjoyed the prolonging.
It was him who was begging while his eyes burned with a deep blue fire.
His hands traced patterns over her, driving her to distraction. Finally, he reached between them and found her, and she was lost.
Completely and utterly lost.
She was his and no one else’s. He knew now, he’d never make the mistake of letting her go again.
“Il mio amore,” she repeated, her accent pulling a smile from him.
“My love,” he answered her unasked question, and proved the words with his actions.
• • •
A week before Christmas, and still nothing on Josephine.
“What do you mean?” he asked, as he looked up from paperwork on his desk. Damn movers. He had yet to find his Waterford ashtray. He’d have to buy another, but he didn’t want another one. He wanted his.
The man across from him stood, looking at something behind Richard’s head, high above it too. One would think after all the years Ivan Ristovolich had been in his employment, the man could at least look him in the damn eyes.
“Sir, I’ve searched all their holdings, every listing I could break into, no one is listed under any Kinncaid or Bills or even Montreaux. I checked Louisiana, but no one fitting neither her nor Mr. Kinncaid’s description have contacted anyone there,” Ivan said, the edge of desperation clear in his voice.
Ivan was an unnoticeable man for the most part, which was a plus for the tasks Richard had him doing. His Slavic features were as heavy and well defined as his accent.
Some people were easily manipulated with fear. It often amazed Richard how incredibly stupid one could be when they were afraid of something. If only they stood back to think, analyze, they might take initiative. Personally, he never allowed them that time.
Which was why he had to find her—no, needed to find her. He couldn’t allow her to feel safe.
Now the stakes were higher, much, much higher than before. If she decided to tell someone the truth now . . .
Something tingled along his nerves at the thought, but he shrugged it off, rolling his neck.
No, she wouldn’t. Josephine was too scared, too worried about her precious Kinncaids. There was no doubt in his mind who they would believe should she decide to give bravery a try. The Kinncaids guarded her like one of their own.
The silence in his study stretched, only broken by Ivan’s cough.
Richard sighed. “She’ll be back. It’s getting close to Christmas, and they wouldn’t miss their family holiday. The Kinncaids are all about family, if anything.” The leather of his chair sighed as he leaned back and crossed his ankles on the edge of his desk. “Watch their house. Let me know as soon as you find anything out.”
“What do you want me to do?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? He was constantly reminded what a detriment keeping Josephine alive was, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Josephine was Josephine, there was no other like her. He leveled a look on Ivan, noting the way the man immediately lowered his eyes. Power was a heady thing.
Smiling, he sat up. “Why nothing, nothing at all. Just let me know when our prodigal returns, will you?”
With a wave, he dismissed Ivan and turned to look out the windows. Darkness had already fallen, coating the yard and woods in shadows. A flurry of snow late that afternoon had blanketed the grounds in white.
Yes, he had no doubt she’d be home for Christmas.
And when she was . . .
Chapter 15
Washington, D.C.
Dulles International Airport was a nightmare anytime of the year, but three nights before Christmas it was hell. Christian was glad they had come home when they had, and not waited until Christmas Eve.
Brayden had offered to stay in Venice or even Paris another night. But they decided against it and flew home.
Christmas lights glittered from a Christmas tree some employee had decorated. People milled and pushed about. The drone of voices cloaked the roar of the planes taking off and landing. Carols played from speakers, the music interrupted as announcements were made.
It was great to be home.
Someone jostled her from behind and she stumbled. Brayden caught her arm.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Sorry,” the man said, hurrying by with a bag slung over his shoulder.
“Rude ass,” Brayden muttered, scanning the crowd.
Christian glanced around. Brayden was six-four. If there was someone to see, he’d find them.
“There he is,” Brayden’s deep voice said, his hand tightening on her elbow. “Come on.”
The crowd shifted as they walked into the baggage claim area, and she saw Quinlan standing there talking on his phone. She smiled at the familiar sight.
“Isn’t that a surprise,” Brayden said, grinning.
“Well, as the man is fond of saying, ‘When there’s work . . .’”
“There’s work,” Brayden said with her, shaking his head.
Quinlan saw them, waved, and disconnected with whomever he had been talking with. He hurried to them, his long black woolen coat swirling around his legs.
His smile was a single-dimpled one, inherited, Christian knew, from his mother. The youngest Kinncaid stopped right in front of them, hugged his brother and stood staring at her, his head cocked to the side and a question in his eyes.
Christian smiled, anxiety skittering through her, and shook her head. “What? I don’t get a hug, too? Did I get demoted?”
Quinlan grabbed her in a tight hug. “God, it’s good to have you back, sis.”
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Of all the boys, he was the one she felt closest to in a brotherly way. Obviously Brayden was a different case altogether. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she pulled back. “That’s more like it.”
“Let me see your hand,” he said, setting her back and grabbing her left hand. His deep russet brow cocked as he narrowed a look at his brother.
Christian jerked her hand back. “Do you mind?”
He stared a moment more at Brayden, who she saw only smirked back. Men!
“Can we get the bags and go?” she asked.
Brayden hauled her up to his side. “Anything you want, mia bella.”
Heat rushed from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair, prickling her skin. She could only smile, all thoughts completely taking flight.
Quinlan shook his head, still grinning, and said pointedly to Brayden, “Dad’s gonna have your ass. He told Mom if she,” he said, pointing to her, “came home without a ring on her finger, she better by God not have a baby on the way.” Quinlan’s chuckle was rusty. “Muttering something about his offspring not keeping their zippers up.”
“What did your mom say?” Christian asked as they made their way to the metal slide carouselling luggage for its owners.
“Well, I don’t think I was supposed to hear that part,” he said quickly and looked at the bags. “So which ones are yours?”
“Quinlan,” both she and Brayden said.
A flush started from his neck and stained the edge of his ears. “She—uh—Mom said they only took after their father.”
“What?” they asked together. Brayden grinned and she chuckled.
Quinlan laughed again, looking at her. “Glad to hear you laugh again. What did you two do? Take a course on synchronous-rhythmical speaking?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘j
inx’ and a pinky shake,” she told him, reaching around both males and grabbing one of her suitcases.
Before long, all their bags were loaded in the back of Quinlan’s Lexus.
Christian slid into the backseat, both men in the front. Which was fine with her, gave her time to think, settle her nerves before they got home.
“So, what did you bring me?” Quinlan asked, his gaze directed on her in the rearview mirror.
“What makes you think I got you anything?” she asked him.
“’Cause I’m your favorite brother, and you know I love Italian things, and it’s Christmas.”
Indeed. She and Brayden had done practically all of their shopping in Venice. Everyone was getting something from either there or Murano. There had simply been too many beautiful glassworks to pass up the fabled island artisans. She’d gotten Brayden a leather jacket. Knowing her luck it wouldn’t fit, but she’d worry about that later.
“Did you get the tickets?” Brayden asked from the passenger seat, interrupting their play.
“Of course,” Quinlan answered, with that haughty air they all had. Almost as if he were insulted that there might be something he couldn’t do.
Christian leaned back and watched the lights pass by in the night. Christmas was bright and sparkling in the winter air. By the time they were halfway out of the city, heading toward Seneca, flurries danced in the air.
A white Christmas. That would be nice.
Brayden watched the light snowflakes flutter in the beam of their headlights, noting all the Christmas lights rainbowed with other decorations to shout greetings for the merry season. Celtic Christmas music fluted from the car’s speakers.
Tomorrow he planned to take Christian and Tori to see The Nutcracker. They went every year, and this year would be no different. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. This year, there would be that feeling of family with them. Last year, he’d actually thought about that, but had shrugged it off.
But this year. This year everything was different.
They’d bought gifts together. The thought had him grinning. He’d never bought a gift for someone, let alone all his family members, with another woman. It was kind of nice, watching her sign all their names to one card. Even if they were signed: Brayden, Tori and Christian. Since he’d made the issue of them buying gifts together, he figured he’d pressed enough not to bring up how her name was supposed to follow his. That would come later, if not as soon as he wished.