Bought by the Italian

by Annie West

  He tugged her nipple harder into his mouth, sliding one hand down to where she burned like a furnace against his erection. Her silk panties were wet. He pressed his thumb hard and she writhed, shouting his name.

  On and on it went, as if the climax had been years building, not mere weeks.

  But Gennaro understood. He was the same. If he could unzip his trousers without coming it would be a miracle. She was so hot and alluring. Irresistible.

  His hands were unsteady, his fingers fumbling. But eventually he managed to undo his trousers, rip aside the fabric. One quick tug and her underwear fell away, torn through.

  ‘Gennaro.’ It was a sweet whisper but it was the final confirmation he needed to be absolutely sure. One hard thrust and he was there, right up to the heart of her, surrounded by silken heat and the final reverberations of her orgasm.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders and her legs tightened around him as if to keep him close.

  Like he was going anywhere!

  He looked into her face, unreadable in the scant light. But he could make out the gleam of her eyes as she watched him. He heard her laboured gasps, felt her rock her pelvis against him.

  Then it was upon him, an unstoppable force, making him surge against her, striving for a place only she could take him. The night was silk and darkness and tight, rhythmic throbbing. It was peaches and wine and hot woman. It was pleasure so sharp, so deep it teetered on the brink of pain.

  And, finally, it was white hot light and rapture burning him alive as ecstasy consumed him, consumed them both. Their cries were raw and shocked.

  Gennaro surrendered to delight, knowing nothing ever had surpassed the sheer intensity of this moment.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chiara clung to Gennaro, her body in lockdown after the most cataclysmic orgasm of her life.

  He stumbled back inside and collapsed onto the mattress. Even his sudden weight on her, forcing the last air from her lungs, couldn’t rouse her. She’d died and gone somewhere else. Somewhere bliss reigned.

  Her bones had dissolved so that when Gennaro rolled onto his back she simply went with him, tight in his embrace.

  It wasn’t just her bones that had dissolved. It was her brain too. That realisation came slowly, as the flush of arousal finally died and something like normality returned.

  Except what was normal? Her wildly mixed emotions before? Or this luxurious lethargy, this sense of completion and more, of rightness, as she lay with Gennaro?

  His breathing was harsh, tickling the hair on her forehead. His heart pounded beneath her ear, matching the beat of hers.

  As if they were still together, joined as one.

  Dismay pierced her, a sharp stab to the ribs, dragging the air from her lungs.

  What had she done? She’d told herself she was finished letting him make a fool of her. Yet one touch, one kiss and she’d gone up in flames.

  ‘Chiara? Are you all right?’ The sound of his voice, that husky post-coital rumble she knew so well, exacerbated her distress.

  She rolled away, flinging herself out of his arms, scrambling to find purchase with hands and legs that wouldn’t coordinate. She needed to get off this bed and—

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Firm fingers gripped her upper arm.

  His touch made her frantic. She had to get away. Clear her head. Think. She couldn’t think with him touching her. She didn’t trust herself.

  Despite his grip she slithered to the edge of the mattress. She was almost there, almost touching the floor, when a solid weight pinned her to the bed, crushing her.

  A solid, hot weight.

  Gennaro, lying over her, encompassing her.

  For an instant panic struck and she thought she couldn’t breathe, then she realised he must be propping himself over her so she didn’t take his full weight.

  ‘You’re not running away from me now. Not yet. Not till we’ve talked.’

  ‘Talked? Is that what you call it?’ She tried to sneer but it emerged as a gasp.

  To make things worse, despite the clothes they still half-wore, there was far too much skin to skin contact. His trousers must be around his ankles for she felt the strong, hairy length of his legs against hers. Worse, her dress was rucked up around her waist and her bare backside cradled his groin.

  Chiara bit her lip as she felt him stiffen and grow. She pressed her pelvis down into the mattress to avoid the intimate contact but he merely shifted his slick weight over her.

  He said something under his breath. Something soft yet pithy. Chiara moved and heard the break in his breathing, felt the tension in the body blanketing hers. She stilled, telling herself she didn’t want this.

  Pity she didn’t believe it.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Chiara.’ He sounded strangled. ‘But you have to promise not to run.’ His lips were against her ear, a caress that remarkably was just as arousing as the feel of his erection against her naked buttocks and his iron-hard thighs capturing hers.

  ‘Why? Because you bought me?’

  ‘Because we have things to discuss.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I tried talking to you before, remember? I begged you to explain.’ That still rankled. More, it tore a gaping hole in her heart that she’d had to plead with the man she loved and still he’d been unmoving, unwilling to explain.

  ‘You’re not leaving till we’ve had this out.’

  ‘You’re an arrogant bully, Gennaro.’

  ‘But you still want me.’ Slowly he slid his length, hot and solid, against her flesh and a quiver of arousal shot through her. Chiara squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t want him. She shouldn’t.

  A hand insinuated itself under her hip bone then down, covering her mound. One finger found her clitoris, circling with intent, and the fires that had burned to cinders suddenly reignited.

  ‘Oh, yes, you want me,’ he gloated as her pelvis tilted into his touch. ‘You’re just scared to admit it. Scared to face the truth.’

  The fact he was right didn’t help. Chiara’s breath came in little pants as he pressed against her from both the front and the back, teasing, tempting her.

  ‘I’m not scared of you.’ Her voice was thin and far too high, a mere wisp of sound, but it was the best she could do.

  ‘Prove it then.’

  Suddenly, remarkably, he was gone. She lay, gasping and shivering on the mattress, a waft of cool evening air brushing her bare skin. Yet the imprint of his touch lingered. She felt… unfinished, needy.

  Damn the man! What had he done to her? Had he cast some spell so she couldn’t even walk away and stay away?

  She lifted herself on her hands and there he was beside her, lying on his back, arms behind his head, eyes dark as the sky just after sunset, watching her.

  ‘Go on then, Chiara. Prove you’re not scared of me. Take what you want instead of pretending this doesn’t exist between us.’

  How any man could look so arrogant lying there in a jacket and shirt, with his trousers around his ankles she didn’t know. But Gennaro achieved it. It wasn’t just because of that imposing erection. It was more. That fearless, challenging look. The nonchalance of his arms behind his head. The very stillness of him.

  She should take her chance and go.

  She should walk away.

  But he was right. She wanted him. Again. Still.

  Always.

  The curse of it was she didn’t just want his body. She wanted his love. How pathetic was that?

  She set her jaw. No way was she giving him the satisfaction of knowing. But, she discovered, leaving him now was impossible.

  Holding his gaze she got to her knees, gripped the bunched skirt of her dress and with a swift upward movement, drew her dress, her precious new design, up and over her head, flinging it in an arc of red silk chiffon into the shadows.

  Gennaro made a sound deep in his throat. A raw sound of approval that made her chin lift. His eyes glowed, hot and needy and his erection stirred. He shifted restlessly.

>   For a whole minute Chiara knelt, holding his gaze, feeling her feminine power run strong within. He might have bought her and forced her here. He might be bigger and stronger, and damn him, he might still hold a place in her heart, but he was at her mercy too. Her nakedness gave her strength.

  He swallowed hard, his gaze dipping to her breasts and she felt them tighten to throbbing buds, eager for his touch. The pulse between her legs pounded insistently.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, she made her way to him. Despite his relaxed pose his muscles were bunched, tension rising from him like a force field.

  Chiara smiled as she straddled him. Not where he wanted, but close enough to tease. Then, still holding him with a look she reached down to his shirt. With one almighty tug she ripped the two sides apart, buttons splattering the floor. She shoved aside the fine weave cotton and splayed her hands over his hot flesh, like damp satin against her palms.

  Bending, she drew in his spicy scent, nuzzled him, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs. Slowly she licked, tasting salt and man, deliciously familiar. She stopped, flooded by remembrance, then forced the memory aside, determined to concentrate on the present.

  She sucked his nipple into her mouth and he bucked beneath her, his breath sharp. Yet still he kept his hands anchored behind his head, as if giving her permission to take control.

  Slowly she explored his torso, kissing, nipping, licking. Letting her nipples swing and slide against him, feeling every jerk and indrawn breath as he fought not to respond. But his eyes closed and his brow creased in a frown of pain from holding back. His mouth was tight, his jaw locked, only the throbbing pulse at his throat moving.

  She kissed lower, to his navel, his hip bone, and his erection surged higher. Needy. She ignored it. He didn’t deserve that. Not after what he’d done to her. Instead she rose on all fours to trail her tongue along the seam of his lips. Instantly they opened and he lifted his head, kissing her back. The unfamiliar brush of his soft beard teased.

  Chiara retreated. She didn’t want his kiss. It made her lose her mind. Already her body ached at the emptiness within. She was wet and pulsing with need for him. That was enough. That was more than enough.

  This was her choice. Her pleasure.

  Dimly it struck her that it would be fine payback if she got up and left Gennaro now. But she couldn’t do it. She wanted him too much.

  Grabbing his shaft she eased herself down, pausing for a delicious moment of anticipation. Then she bore down steadily till they were hip to hip and she felt him high inside her, big and powerful and just perfect. Pleasure radiated through her.

  The moment strained against time. Her breath held and so did his.

  But she couldn’t sustain it. The need to move was too strong. Chiara raised herself and found slitted indigo eyes watching her. That look seared deep, right to her soul, and she faltered.

  When she found her rhythm again it was to discover he no longer lay passive. His hips moved to the beat of pleasure she’d created. She was glad, for no matter what she’d told herself, this had always been about them.

  Hurt lanced at the realisation there was no them. Not anymore. Between them they’d destroyed the trust and hope they’d once had.

  ‘Chiara? Tesoro. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She planted her hands on his shoulders as she rose then fell again onto him, her eyelids drifting low at how good they felt together.

  This would be the last time.

  Suddenly his hands were on her hips, urging her on.

  ‘Come to me.’ His voice was gravel and suede and so seductive. Despite her earlier determination, she found herself leaning down as he arched up to take one nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard as he powered up and her slick, hot flesh slid against him. Another surge of movement and another and Chiara couldn’t hold back. Those easy, deliberate moves became abrupt, uncoordinated. But he held her through them, giving her what she needed, caressing her breast.

  Then came a roaring, blinding flash of heat that rolled on and on. Or maybe the roar was from Gennaro, pumping hard and recklessly within her. She felt his breath against her breast and he came like a force of nature, tumbling her back into ecstasy just as she’d climbed the heights and thought it was all over.

  But it wasn’t over. It would never be over.

  Their hearts pounded in unison and they trembled together. He wrapped his arms around her slumped, sated body, cradling her as if she was utterly precious.

  The last thing she remembered was the hot track of a single tear, running down the side of her nose to her mouth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dawn light bathed the room when Chiara woke. She was curled beneath a blanket, spooned up against Gennaro, his naked warmth against her back and legs. At her nape she felt the gentle exhalation of his breath.

  She felt… just right.

  Wide-eyed, she stared out the window, watching the flush of colour across the vista of remarkable saw-toothed peaks. It was a perfect morning, clear, not a cloud to be seen, as if the world was new and fresh.

  The snow caps turned gold and peach, the shadows in the folds of the mountains deep indigo. The colour of Gennaro’s eyes.

  Her heart squeezed and her breathing faltered.

  She’d thought herself free of him but a single night, less, a few hours, had cured her of that deception.

  Even her volcanic rage at his manipulation hadn’t kept her safe. It wasn’t just that she still wanted him sexually, though the depth of that need had shattered her. It was that she cared for him. Cared what he thought of her. Cared enough to wake with a heart at once elated by last night and bruised by the reality of what must follow.

  Chiara lay unmoving, watching the sunlight creep higher, washing the mighty Dolomites in colour, wishing the sunlight could wash away the darkness between her and Gennaro.

  But last night had solved nothing. If anything it had highlighted her weakness. She’d kept Gennaro at bay in Rome with the help of a heavy schedule and her brother’s security team. But one meeting and she’d fallen for Gennaro again like a ripe plum, despite her protests.

  Which left her where, precisely?

  She shivered, then stilled, fearing she’d wake him. Her mind was such a mess she needed to be alone to sort out what to do. All she knew with certainty was that she couldn’t stay here. Her feelings were too close to the surface. She felt too vulnerable, and too needy.

  Carefully she sidled off the mattress, holding her breath till the blanket Gennaro had pulled over them in the night settled and she saw he hadn’t moved.

  She padded across the floor, picking up her crumpled dress and lifting it over her head. It slithered down over sensitised skin like an echo of last night’s arousal. She didn’t have any underwear, just the dress. She’d heard her panties tear when he ripped them away on the balcony. She wouldn’t waste her time searching for them.

  Yet she lingered, looking at him. His hair tousled dark chocolate with hints of caramel. His nose strong, his lips sensuous, even in sleep. His broad shoulders looked powerful against the softness of the bed and she thought of how he’d held back, letting her set the pace and take what she wanted as she rode him last night.

  No. It didn’t mean anything. It was just sex.

  It hurt to think that might be the only real thing they’d ever had between them. At this moment she had no idea if she believed he’d betrayed her or not. But the things he’d said, the hurt he’d inflicted…

  Swiftly she scooped up her discarded shoes and her bag, then tiptoed to his trousers, discarded in the night. As she suspected, his keys were in his pocket. Her fingers closed around them and she told herself this was what she wanted. The chance to escape.

  Chiara refused to let herself consider why she didn’t feel triumphant as she left the building and crossed the gravel drive. It wasn’t that she’d forgiven him for kidnapping her. But her fury had softened. Things didn’t seem as simply black and white as they had last night.

  The early m
orning chill and the rough surface beneath her feet were reminders of reality, shredding the haze of wellbeing that had encompassed her as she woke.

  She flung her shoes onto the back seat. If she was driving this monster car, so much more powerful than her little city runabout, she wouldn’t hamper herself with heels.

  Even then she took a moment to draw in a deep breath. It was scented with the mountains – earthy with a note of sweetness from the flowers strewn across the silvery green grass. The nearest stand of trees was down below. Up here the air was crisp and clear and heady.

  She swung her gaze back to the resort. It really was perfect in this setting, a beautiful design. But her eyes were on the vast expanse of glass in the room where Gennaro lay. How long before he woke? What if he saw her now and—

  No. Imagining things had changed was pointless.

  Chiara slid into the car, buckled her seatbelt and surveyed the controls. Surely this couldn’t be too hard. She’d seen her brother drive a manual car often enough. Clutch, brake and accelerator. Foot on the clutch while she started the ignition.

  The air splintered as the car roared like a vengeful dragon woken out of hibernation. Chiara started, her hands damp and pulse fast as she eased back on the accelerator, worked the handbrake and there, she was moving. Shooting forward rather than moving slowly. The car jumped and she remembered to work the clutch.

  Pulse pounding, she brought the car to a halt at the lip of the slope. Her heart rose in her throat as she surveyed the sweep of road, a series of hairpin bends looping down and down to the valley below. In this unfamiliar car-

  But she’d had her licence for years. And she knew the principles of driving a manual. She’d be fine.

  Lifting her foot off the brake, she nosed the low-slung car down the first slope, eyes glued to the snaking curve just ahead.

  *

  Gennaro woke to the throaty growl of an engine. And to the realisation he was alone. Snapping his eyes open, he jerked up, scanning the room. No Chiara. No dress. No shoes.