The Italian

by Lisa Marie Rice

He barely remembered what she’d said in his office. His head had been so blasted by lust it was a miracle he remembered even a single word.

  She nodded. Smiled. “I’ve been commissioned by a software mogul—who has more money than sense—to design the interior of a mansion in Boston that looks like a villa in the Mediterranean. So the architect is tasked with creating underground heaters for the lawn and gardens, if you can believe that, and the software mogul wants me to design the interior. From the five minutes I had with him, I gathered he wanted a Roman-emperor look, like in Gladiator, which he’d find embarrassing five minutes after the first person to see it laughs at him. So in order to spare him embarrassment and myself a career fail, I’ve decided to go for a more sober Sicilian-prince look.

  “The software mogul is in the middle of an IPO and says he can’t look at anything until October, so here I am. I’ve already got sketches for the public areas and the bathrooms and now I’m designing a mosaic terrace, with a replica of the lion in the middle and palm trees around the perimeter. He’ll love it. It will have underground heaters too. No snow will be allowed to fall on the terrace.” She shook her head, tipped that long white neck back and took a sip.

  He was entranced. Both at the idea of trying to deal with a madman who wanted to live in a snowless Boston and by this beautiful woman who designed beautiful things.

  She turned to smile at him and his senses simply bloomed and exploded. The curtains snapped and billowed in a sudden lifting of the evening breeze, making the candles flicker. Some intoxicating scent that included “woman” went straight to his brain. His skin prickled as if it were too tight for him and was about to burst open like a ripe fig. His cock too, he realized with a sigh.

  It felt heavy between his legs, like an anvil, only an anvil that moved. Every time he looked at her, blood pulsed, his dick trying to reach out to her, like a divining rod to water after a long time in a dark desert.

  It was impossible not to look at her.

  She had a face made for candlelight. Smooth skin, fine features, enticing dips and shadows.

  It felt as if he hadn’t seen an attractive female face in years. And maybe he hadn’t, now that he thought about it. Really the only woman he saw with any regularity was Rosa, the cleaning lady—efficient, a wonderful cook and with a fierce moustache any of his men would envy.

  Nothing like this woman. There was something about Jaime he couldn’t put his finger on. Yes, she was beautiful. But his life in Milan had been filled with beautiful women and that life was only a few years past, not decades. Milanese women took care of themselves. Most women in the classes he moved in didn’t have a stray hair unplucked or a line on their faces, no matter the age.

  This woman—she had a natural beauty untouched by surgical enhancement but improved by intelligence and humor.

  “What?” Jamie asked, brow raised.

  He shook himself out of his trance. “What?”

  “You were staring.”

  He had been, yes. He sighed. “You’re right, I was. I’m probably unfit company for a lady now. My men are wonderful, they protect me with their lives but they are no substitute for female company. I am devolving badly. When I was a teenager, my cousin lent me a book to read. It was my first book in English. It was called Lord of the Flies, and it made quite an impression on me. I think it was the first time I thought of the law, of how much we need it to protect us against ourselves and our brutal natures. Sometimes I wonder whether I myself am descending into barbarity.”

  Jamie had stopped smiling and tilted her head to look at him. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’re not going to be requiring a conch shell anytime soon.” Her hand reached over, covered his. “Though I must say you don’t have the hands of a judge. You have the hands of a fighter.”

  At her touch, Stefano nearly flinched from the intensity. How could her hand be cool and yet burn at the same time?

  “I am a fighter. It’s how I deal with tension. I’ve always enjoyed martial arts and I get the stress out of my system in the gym. A couple of my men are martial artists and we train together. With one man in particular, a very tough guy.”

  “Maresciallo Buzzanca?”

  Stefano was startled. “Yes. He’s my main opponent. We’re pretty evenly matched. I’ve had a lot of formal training, which he hasn’t, but he grew up in the streets of Vucceria, the toughest part of Palermo. He has killer instincts that usually trump formal training. How on earth did you know?”

  She turned her hand until they were palm to palm, and his cock surged so hard his hips moved. Oh God. He was never going to survive this evening if holding her hand nearly made him come in his pants.

  She shrugged. “I guessed. He has a very tough look about him. He also doesn’t like me.”

  Stefano sighed, unable to take his eyes from hers. “No, he doesn’t like you. He’s frightened of you. He thinks you’re dangerous.”

  Her hand trembled a little. Her face was calm and smooth but that trembling hand showed him she was as affected by their touch as he was.

  “Dangerous.” A short burst of laughter as she looked at their hands together. His, dark and large and hard. Hers slender and pale, an artist’s hands. “Well, I’m not. I don’t understand how anyone could think I was.”

  “Oh but you are,” Stefano replied softly. “You are very dangerous to me, to my well-being, to my mission. I can do what I do only by maintaining a very tight focus. The men I’m fighting are single-minded in their ferocity and I must be too. And yet today—today all I could think about was you. I’d stare at the papers in front of me and all I could see was your face.” His voice roughened. “All I could imagine was doing…this.”

  Chapter Five

  At the touch of his lips, Jamie was lost. A hot wind picked her up and blew her away, together with all her self-control and common sense. All she could feel was his mouth on hers and nothing else beyond heat and electricity zinging through her system.

  It was a deeper kiss than before, tongue exploring her mouth, one big hand covering the back of her head, holding her to him tightly, the other around her back.

  It took her a few seconds to realize what an awkward position that was, and the instant she shifted to get closer to him, he picked her up one-armed and pulled her onto his lap. Automatically her legs opened. Her skirt hitched up, no hindrance at all, and in a moment she was straddling him.

  He was amazingly strong, more powerful than any other man she’d ever touched. His breathing didn’t even change when he picked her up as easily as you’d pick up a small child.

  Sitting on his lap like this, they were as close as if they were in bed together. As their mouths melded, she leaned forward, one arm hooked around his neck, the other on his biceps. The kiss made her dizzy and she clung to him. She could feel his powerful muscles through the cotton of his shirt and the jersey of her dress. They both might as well have been naked. His body emanated heat, especially over his sex, where her heat joined his.

  He was fully aroused. Her skirt had ruched around her hips and she could feel his penis almost as clearly as if her bare skin was touching his. The clothes seemed a pitiful barrier, something annoying, like a mosquito’s buzz. His big hand had traveled down her back and over her bottom, pulling her even closer, the fit so snug her sex opened beneath the thin silk panties, nestling against him so tightly she could feel the pulses of blood that ran up his penis with each stroke of her tongue.

  She could feel, clearly and intimately, what she did to him. Lifting up just a little, she kissed him more deeply, her face over his, his head tilted back.

  How delicious his mouth tasted. She slanted her head for a deeper angle, tongues tangling. The strokes of his tongue against hers were directly connected with her sex. A surge of blood to her groin matched each stroke. His hands held her head and her bottom against him and it felt as if they were doing a little dance, his mouth making her vagina clench against his cock, which surged each time she tightened against him.


  She understood now, only by contrast, how cool she always was with men. Her head usually kept up an internal chatter, an ongoing commentary like in a Woody Allen movie, not always benign.

  Mostly her objections were aesthetic.

  His cologne was too strong, his kisses awkward, the jacket zipper tab dug into her chest…whatever. There was usually enough strangeness for her to always remain outside herself, remain separate from the carnal Jamie who was being kissed.

  This was completely different. She wasn’t outside herself, commenting, she was totally inside herself. And she wasn’t being kissed so much as kissing.

  Amazing.

  Everything about this felt so…so new. And so right. No awkwardness, no feeling separate. She felt complete and at one with this man. Every move she made fit him perfectly, as if they had practiced this a thousand times instead of it being their second kiss. She barely had time to lift her mouth from his for a new angle before he’d changed position himself for a deeper taste.

  Their bodies surged together in natural movements designed to press together as closely as humanly possible.

  Their breathing turned ragged together. She could feel his heart beating in the same frantic rhythm as hers.

  Stefano’s big hand was fisted in her hair. He pulled, gently, just enough to free his mouth. He took in a deep breath, as if he hadn’t breathed for minutes.

  “God, Jamie,” he growled. “We need to stop. If we don’t stop right now, I don’t think—”

  No. Absolutely not. No sentences with the word stop in them. Smooth, restrained Jamie McIntyre, who never had any problems with self-control—well, that woman was on fire. She’d had no idea at all that this level of excitement was even possible. There was no question of stopping.

  She didn’t let him finish, just closed his mouth with hers.

  It was as if she’d thrown a switch. His big body bucked, once, twice. He grunted against her mouth and that huge hand on her bottom landed on her knee, quickly moving up her thigh. His hands hadn’t looked like a lawyer’s hands and they didn’t feel like a lawyer’s hands either. The skin was rough like a cat’s tongue and raised goose bumps everywhere he touched. He smoothed his hand up over her thigh, moving to her groin. He cupped her, fingers pressing down over her sex. Separated from her flesh by only a thin layer of silk.

  His finger outlined her, pressed briefly against the top of her opening, a gentle touch, as if asking permission. Even through the light material it felt like electricity, and she whimpered.

  His hand whipped away and before she had time to lament the loss, she heard a brief ripping sound and found herself directly against the linen of his trousers, penis pressed sharply against her.

  His hips moved and she slid against him, root to tip and back. Oh God, she was a second from orgasm.

  “Now,” he gasped then fused his mouth to hers again.

  Stefano lifted her, his hand moved between them, a metallic rasp, a shift of his hips and she felt the rough hair of his groin and thighs.

  He positioned himself—and with one strong thrust was inside her.

  Stefano thunked his forehead against hers. “Must say this…fast,” he gasped. “Because I could still pull out. I think. Maybe. No sex for three years. I get regular blood tests.”

  It was a sign of her insanity that she hadn’t even thought of that. She breathed in and out, trying to be coherent, a little panicked at the thought that he might actually pull out. “Me too,” she panted. “No sex in a long time. Blood donor.”

  They were frozen. As if the act was almost too much to bear for both of them. Stefano eased her up until just the head was at her opening. “So…we’re okay?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  And he slammed back into her, hips tilting so he could reach deep, deep inside.

  He was huge. With any other man, that sudden hard entrance would have hurt, but Jamie was so excited her body simply opened itself up more than it ever had before, welcomed him without any reticence at all.

  They’d stopped breathing, and now took in deep breaths from each other’s mouths.

  “Dio,” Stefano said and closed his eyes as if in pain.

  “Yeah,” she whispered in his mouth.

  “If I move, I’ll come.” His voice was thick, slightly wavery.

  “I know.” She felt exactly the same way. As if she were a primed stick of dynamite and any movement at all would set her off.

  “What do we do?”

  She had no idea, but her body did. She pushed him even more deeply inside her then lifted back up. The friction was electric, boiling hot. By the time she sank down on him it was too late. Some kind of charge had built up and it exploded. Her vagina clenched once, twice, then she was in full orgasm, exploding around him in tight pulses.

  He gave a low growl that came from his chest, clamped his arm around her back and pushed into her, hard, and started coming in harsh pulses she could feel against the walls of her sex.

  He was moving in her as he came, short pumps that kept her going well beyond her usual orgasm. By contrast she realized now that her climaxes were quick, polite affairs. Vagina clenching a couple of times, a slight release of tension. Pleasant, but not overwhelming.

  This was something entirely different. Her entire body had gone haywire and she’d fallen into herself like falling down a dark hot tunnel of electrifying delight. She was taken right out of herself, picked up and tossed around as if in a tornado.

  She could feel her heartbeat in her fingers and toes and between her legs. She felt stripped bare of a couple of layers of skin.

  Stefano’s movements were becoming irregular, jerky, as if his body wasn’t obeying him anymore. He was pumping hard against swollen tissues so sensitized she could feel him swell even larger, feel that one last pulse.

  Her head dropped to his shoulder as he continued to move inside her, because she couldn’t kiss him anymore. The stimulation would have been too much, skirting actual pain.

  It was a tempest of sensations, and like all tempests it finally ended. His hips stopped moving and his own head dropped to her shoulder. He was panting, holding her tightly against him, slightly softer but still inside her.

  All her senses had spiraled inward in a bright, fast swirl of sensation centered around her sheath. Now she slowly came back to herself, aware of everything. Of the wetness around her groin, the tightness of his grasp, the fluttering of the curtains and candles in the sudden bursts of evening breeze. The sharp smells of the food and wine, the faint notes of music coming from the string quartet that had played throughout their lovemaking.

  His breathing slowed, the sweat that had glued them together drying, that tight clasp easing.

  Suddenly, all the tension went out of his muscles in a whoosh.

  “Dio,” he murmured into her shoulder, then lifted his head to look her in the eyes. He was wary, slightly frowning, utterly serious. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead and she reached out to smooth it back.

  When she smiled, the sober lines of his face broke and reassembled in a grin.

  “You’re not angry with me. Good.” He nodded sharply, as if having just received excellent news. “Because that was…” He waved a large hand between them and she looked down. It was a perfect scene of debauchery, worthy of Titian. Her skirt hiked up to her waist, legs bared. The table could have been a seventeenth-century still life, with the gleaming silver platters, clear crystal pitcher of water, a fruit platter to one side with plump purple grapes and figs so ripe they were slightly open to reveal the dark pink flesh inside. Like a woman’s sex.

  Still Life with Sex, she thought with amusement.

  “Perfect.” She looked up into Stefano’s startled face. “This was perfect. You were saying ‘that was’—and then stopped. So I finished the sentence for you. I wouldn’t change anything. Would you?”

  His jaw muscles clenched. “God no. Though of course I have been known to have manners. To actually let a woman eat dinner before
jumping her like a sex-starved madman.”

  Considering that he’d given her the best orgasm of her life, she was definitely willing to forgive him.

  She ran the backs of her fingers down his cheek. It seemed infinitesimally rougher. Could the sudden infusion of testosterone have caused an unusual growth of beard in half an hour? That thought amused her too.

  The whole thing amused her. And aroused her. And pleased her.

  “You’re smiling again,” Stefano announced in satisfaction. “And you came.”

  “I did.” She nodded. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “No, no. This is so rare for me that I don’t dare let it go to my head. I don’t want to do anything to displease you, because I confess I harbor hopes that we can do that again. Soon.”

  She laughed. It was an odd conversation to be having while joined together so intimately, their juices cooling on her thighs.

  Stefano bent to kiss her neck. A chaste kiss, really, considering everything else they’d done. Goose pimples rose on her skin and she shuddered. Completely involuntarily, she tightened around his penis.

  “Sì,” he whispered, deep voice low and rough.

  Yes.

  She hadn’t known he was asking a question, but her body had. And it had answered him, as if she weren’t the brains in her head but rather the blood coursing through her veins, the skin covering her body, the tender tissues of her sex. Her head had no say in the matter at all.

  It was gentler this time. Stefano latched onto the skin behind her ear, nuzzling gently, licking, giving soft bites. It was as if his mouth, in exactly that spot, doing exactly those things, were the key to her lock. She could feel herself opening up to him in all ways. Not just her sex, which became softer, wetter, more welcoming. But her hands, her legs, her head.

  Her heart.

  She tilted her head to give him better access and he hummed, a low animal sound of pleasure. Glancing down, she could only see odd parts of his face—black, thick lashes, a slash of cheekbone, firm mouth, his skin very dark against hers.

  He was murmuring words, liquid and low, words that weren’t in her Italian vocabulary but were universal. The tone was unmistakable. Men had been using exactly that tone with women for thousands of years.