Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  “Goodnight,” she said, and started down the hall.

  Marco came after her. He clasped her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She could feel herself starting to tremble.

  “No,” she whispered, but he was already turning her toward him, slowly, slowly, his hands warm on her skin, his eyes, when finally she was facing him, so dark and deep that just looking into them made her feel breathless. “No,” she said again, but even as she said it, his arms were closing around her and she was turning her face up for his kiss.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Emily had said “no.”

  She’d said it twice.

  He had not imagined it—but now she was in his arms. Her face was turned up to his. Her lips were parted, her breathing erratic. He could feel the race of her heart against his chest.

  Still, a gentleman would have hesitated. A gentleman would have asked, “Are you sure?”

  But he was not a gentleman.

  He had never been one, not really. What he was now—a man who owned homes on two continents, and an island and a plane—was what the world saw.

  Inside, where it counted, he was still a street kid who’d grown up poor and damned near homeless; he was a guy who’d fought no-holds-barred battles to get where he was today.

  So, no.

  He wasn’t a gentleman.

  That was his secret.

  He dressed like one. He lived like one. The hand-tailored suits and handmade shoes. The elegant homes. The Ferrari, the Mercedes, all the cars, all of it.

  Elegant on the outside.

  Lean and hungry on the inside.

  It was the reason he went after whatever he wanted without hesitation. He knew, he had always known, that no one would simply give him what he wanted.

  He had never wanted anything, any woman, as he wanted Emily.

  He was a man on fire, in desperate need of possessing her, and he took her mouth with a hunger that had been building inside him from the first moment.

  She made a little sound.

  Protest? Dio!

  Despite what he was, who he was, he had never taken a woman who didn’t want him. If he had to let her go, if he had to stop kissing her…

  It wasn’t a whisper of protest.

  It was a sweet, soft cry of need and he groaned, took her face in his hands and changed the angle of the kiss, took it deep, deeper until the taste of her flooded his senses.

  She slid her hands under his jacket, felt the thunder of his heart against her palms.

  He wrapped his arms around her, his hands cupping her bottom, and lifted her against him.

  She gasped at the feel of his erection pressing against her.

  He told himself to slow down. He was out of control, going too fast. Much too fast. He had to slow things down.

  But how could he?

  Her tongue slid against his. Her hips rocked against his. Her arms locked around his neck; her head fell back and he buried his mouth in the hollow of her throat, tasted the dampness of her skin, felt the throb of her pulse beneath his lips.

  “Cara,” he said, his voice low, hot, dangerous. “Cara mia, wait.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Don’t you want this? Oh God, Marco, I didn’t—”

  “I want this more than I have ever wanted anything. But—”

  “But?”

  “But you deserve more. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She made a sound that might have been a laugh.

  “The only way you could hurt me would be if you stopped.”

  Her words sent a shudder through his body.

  He lifted her higher. She wrapped her legs around his hips. He felt her dress ruck up, felt the hot core of her against him. One big hand cupped her bottom; his fingers spread, curving over her thong.

  She gasped.

  He muttered one raw, potent oath and tore the scrap of silk away.

  She whispered something as his hand swept across bare skin, satin smooth, silky, hot.

  So hot.

  Not just there.

  Here, he thought, closing his eyes as he moved his hand between her thighs. Dio, she was hot here, as well. And wet. So wet…

  He parted the soft folds of her femininity. Found the bud that flowered within. Closed his eyes as she shuddered and cried out.

  She was responsive to his every caress. So responsive that he had to grit his teeth and fight what he felt welling inside him. Could a man come just from this? From the taste of a woman’s mouth, the scent of her arousal, the sound of her cries?

  He had always prided himself on his control. In business. In sex. In all aspects of his life. Where was that control now? He was a man standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that once he launched himself into the unknown, there might not be a way back.

  Slowly, he told himself, go slowly.

  He stroked her again, his fingers whispering over her clitoris. She dug her hands into his hair.

  “Marco.”

  Had his name ever sounded so right?

  “Marco.” Her voice trembled. “Please. Please. Please…”

  She moved against him. Against his hand.

  His mind blanked to everything but this.

  This, he thought, as he reached between them and zipped open his fly.

  This, he thought as he stumbled back against a silk-covered wall.

  This, he thought, and he drove into her.

  She came instantly, her muscles convulsing around him, his name a cry that pierced the silence.

  The night spun around him.

  “Oh God,” she sobbed, “oh God, oh God, oh God…”

  He clasped the back of her head and brought her lips to his, kissed her as he rocked into her again and again. He felt the second orgasm race through her, heard her cry his name against his mouth.

  He wanted the moment to last forever but it couldn’t, it wouldn’t; inside his scrotum, his belly, he could feel his own release building, the ultimate essence of life.

  “Now,” he groaned, and she buried her face against his throat, bit him with the fierce delicacy of a tigress as she came again, as he gave himself up to the whirlwind and exploded inside her.

  A final tremor swept through her. Boneless, she collapsed against him and he stood absolutely still, just holding her, feeling her, breathing her in.

  After a very long time—an hour, a lifetime—she lifted her head. He kissed her, a sweet kiss that made her sigh.

  Slowly, he eased her down his body. Her feet touched the cool marble floor. She swayed and he gathered her against him.

  “Cara,” he said softly. “Cara mia.”

  She shook her head. Her hair tumbled forward, hiding her face. Tension gripped his body.

  “Sweetheart. What is it?”

  She shook her head again. He slid one hand over her cheek. Her jaw. Cupped it, lifted her face to his.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  His heart constricted.

  “Was I too fast? Too rough?”

  Another shake of her head. Her hair slid across his fingers, silken and scented. He caught a strand and brought it to his lips.

  “You were—you were wonderful.”

  He felt a little stab of pride at her softly spoken words.

  “You are what is wonderful, cara.”

  “But I—I shouldn’t have—” She paused. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t—”

  “That you would not what?”

  “Do… this.”

  “And what is ‘this?’” he said softly.

  “Marco. Don’t tease me.”

  “You promised yourself we would not make love.”

  Ridiculous that his words should make her blush.

  “Emily.” He put his hand under her chin, tilted it up until her eyes were level with his. “Such a wonderful thing to tell me, sweetheart.”

  “That I didn’t intend this to happen?”

  “That you knew that it would happen. No, don’t look away from me. You knew. So did I. This was inevitable.”
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  “We’re—we’re strangers. We’ve only known each other for three days.”

  “Four,” he said solemnly. “It’s past midnight.”

  He’d wanted to make her laugh. At least he’d succeeded in making her smile.

  It made his heart turn over.

  Her hair was a tangle of silk. He’d kissed off her lipstick; her mouth was the palest pink and slightly swollen from the demand of his.

  He could feel his body hardening again.

  She had the look of a woman fresh from her lover’s bed and that was where he wanted her.

  In his bed.

  In his arms.

  “You’re right, cara. We only just met.” His mouth brushed hers; she sighed in a way that made him lose his train of thought. “But does that matter? I knew what I felt for you the minute I saw you standing on a rain-soaked street corner. ‘Look at that,’ I thought. ‘Such a beautiful woman and she is waiting just for me.’”

  She smiled again. It made his heart flutter with pleasure.

  “What you thought,” she said, “was that someone had to rescue me. You were my knight. You took pity on me.”

  “What?” he said in mock horror. “Pity? For a Botticelli Venus, rising from the sea?”

  “Some Venus,” she said, and when her lips curved in another smile, he used it as an excuse to gather her closer.

  “I understand, Emilia mia. You are not a woman who makes love with a man she hardly knows.”

  “Don’t,” she said again and he thought that if she said this was not making love, it was sex, he would—he would have to repeat what they had just done because she was wrong.

  “You make me sound like a—a model of virtue!”

  “You are a bright, beautiful small-town girl, making her way in a world that is new to her without succumbing to its temptations.”

  “I’m not a small-town girl. Not really.”

  “Dallas is a big city, cara, but it could not have prepared you for New York or the kind of neighborhood in which I found you.”

  Emily’s chin came up. Dio, he loved the way she did that, all her determination and independence shown in one small, perfectly feminine gesture.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be desperate for a job?”

  “I know precisely what it is like.” His voice hardened. “I know what it is like to have to take work you hate. To sweat and struggle because you have no one to help you. No one who can pay your bills or see that you don’t have to worry about putting food in your belly.”

  “See? That’s what I mean about our being strangers. I have family. And they would have helped me if—”

  “If they could. I am sure that is true, cara. But clearly they couldn’t.”

  “You don’t understand. My relationship with them is—”

  “Difficult? Ah, sweetheart, I am sorry.” His hands cupped her shoulders. “But you have me now.” His gaze drifted the length of her body; he felt his muscles tighten, his blood start to thicken. “And we have more important things to do tonight than talk.”

  He bent his head, kissed the place where her throat and shoulder joined. How could a simple kiss be so electrifying?

  “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

  His laugh was rough and low and sexy.

  “I am indeed. Why would I want to talk about anything but you and me and how you look right now? So beautiful. So well-loved—and yet, not loved enough.”

  “Marco. Please listen to me.”

  “I am listening.” He laid his hand over her breast. “I can feel what your heart is saying, that you need me to make love to you again.”

  She wanted to deny it but he was right. She needed the strength of his embrace, the heat of his body, the taste of his skin. She wanted him, all of him. It was a wonderful feeling. A terrifying feeling. To give herself over so completely to a man when she had never, ever dreamed of doing something that would leave her so vulnerable, so exposed.

  He lifted her face to his and kissed her. She told herself not to respond but, God, the feel of his mouth on hers, the touch of his hands…

  “How does this thing fasten?” He turned her so that her back was to him. “Hooks? Buttons? Ah. A zipper.”

  “You’re impossible,” she said, so softly, so sweetly that he felt his pulse thud.

  “Not wanting to make love to you again is what is impossible.”

  The gown slid slowly off her shoulders, exposing golden, silky skin. He swept her hair aside, bent his head and pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck.

  “I love the taste of you,” he said thickly.

  And she loved the feel of his mouth on her flesh. The delicate nip of his teeth. She moaned, leaned back against him and turned her head so she could offer him her lips. He captured them with his, swept the tip of his tongue into her honeyed mouth and as he did, he slid his hands inside the gown and cupped her breasts.

  Her moan of pleasure sent a jolt of need straight to his balls. He closed his eyes as his fingers moved over her lace-covered nipples.

  The front clasp of the bra came apart in his hands and joined the silk thong he had torn away only moments ago.

  Her gown began slipping down her body. She caught at it but he clasped her wrists and the gown fell to her waist, her hips, her thighs.

  It fell to the floor and pooled at her ankles.

  She was naked now.

  Almost naked.

  All she wore were the impossibly skinny heels and the filmy black stockings.

  Marco stood behind her, holding her, still fully dressed. She could feel the faint roughness of his jacket. His trousers. She could feel his erection, hard and demanding at the juncture of her thighs.

  Everything about the moment was exciting and erotic. That she was wearing so little and he was wearing so much, that she could feel all that masculine power pulsing against her…

  She began to tremble.

  “Do you like me to do this?” he whispered, his lips at her ear, the warmth of his breath like flame against her skin. “To touch you like this, inamorata?”

  His hands cupped her breasts again. There was nothing to separate her warm skin from his caress. His thumbs moved over her nipples, the sensation sharp and exquisite. Could she come only from his touch there? From his teeth clamped lightly in the nape of her neck?

  “Marco,” she sobbed, “oh God, Marco…”

  What she needed, what he could give her, was in her voice. Marco clasped her shoulders. Turned her to him.

  And felt a punch of hunger that almost stole away his breath.

  She was beautiful. More than beautiful.

  The fall of caramel hair. The pale gold skin. Her eyes, all pupil now, looking up at him through a curtain of spiky dark lashes. Her lush mouth, swollen from his kisses. The ripe breasts tipped by pale pink nipples. The slender waist, flat belly and long, long legs.

  And yet, most beautiful all was the expression on her face.

  Need. Desire. Passion. For him. Only for him.

  Marco, the master of control, knew he was close to tumbling her to the floor, parting her thighs and embedding himself deep within her. He would take her again and again until she was beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond anything but wanting him and his possession.

  No.

  He wanted to give her more.

  Slowly, he told himself, Dio, do not be a boy, be a man.

  His eyes never left hers as he shrugged off his jacket. Toed off his shoes and socks. His hands went to his tie, fumbled with it and somehow, he got it undone. The buttons of his shirt were more difficult. By the time he reached his cufflinks, he was lost. On a low growl, he gave up, ripped them free and tore off his shirt.

  Emily’s gaze dropped to his chest.

  He watched her eyes widen.

  And felt his ego expand.

  He was not a vain man.

  He was muscled and toned, but he had started life as a man who’d built his body naturally
through grueling physical work. Once that was behind him, he’d installed gyms in the homes he owned and put them to hard use.

  For his health, he would have said had anyone asked, but now he knew, crazy as it sounded, it had been because he had waited his entire life for Emily’s eyes on him. For, Cristo, for that delicate swipe of her pink tongue over her rosebud lips as she looked at him.

  Her eyes on him was a caress.

  Slowly, very slowly because now that he was in control of himself he wanted to draw out every moment of what had become the perfect seduction of lovers for each other, he undid his belt. His trousers were unzipped from what had happened before but now he was contained within his boxers and when he kicked the trousers away, he knew that his erection tented the black silk fabric in a way that did nothing to hide his desire.

  He watched her face.

  He had been inside her.

  But she hadn’t seen him.

  He was big. He knew that. He’d never thought much about it although women had said things to him, appreciative things. But this was Emily. Would the size of him frighten her? Would it please her? Her response to him had been so passionate, and yet there was an innocence to her.

  He waited.

  Her gaze swept lower.

  Color flooded her face.

  Dio! He could feel himself swelling though he would not have imagined such a thing possible. Any harder, any bigger and surely he would die.

  “Emily.”

  His voice was rough. Her head came up; her gaze flew to his. He reached for her hand, Brought it to him. She made a little humming sound as her palm curved over the fly of his boxers. Her tongue appeared again, a kitten’s tongue, and slicked across her bottom lip.

  He shut his eyes. Concentrated on—on anything but this. Counted silently to five. To ten…

  And almost went to his knees when her hand reached inside his fly and wrapped around his fevered flesh.

  He groaned.

  She sighed his name.

  Her fingers moved against him in delicate exploration. His head fell back.

  “Does this please you?” she whispered.

  He gave a broken laugh. She started to pull back; his closed his fingers over hers and taught her to let her hand ride him as he would soon ride her.

  He was going to come from this, only from this, from her touch but he didn’t want her to stop, didn’t want this to end…