by Sarah Morgan
He continued to touch her, stroking beneath her breast, down her rib cage, low to her hip, then up again. And as he stroked slowly back up, he rediscovered her breast, lingered over her taut nipple.
She felt sensitive, so sensitive and Sam writhed at the merciless attention. Her lower abdomen felt so tight it was almost uncomfortable and she shifted again on his lap, moving her hips in a restless, unconscious rhythm.
“Cristiano,” she groaned against his mouth, not sure if it was a plea or a protest. He was making her feel at so many levels, and she could think of nothing but feeling more.
With one hand he began to unfasten the first of the dozen tiny buttons on the back of her dress while he caressed her hipbone and thigh with the other. It was maddening, the touches. While her dress began to slowly open, Cristiano teased and tormented her inner thighs. She clenched and unclenched her legs, felt wanton for wanting his hand between her thighs, then frightened of giving herself up to him.
Patiently he worked his way down the back of her gown, lower and lower. Sam could feel the cool air on her shoulders and back. She hadn’t worn a bra as a bustier had been stitched into the bodice to provide shape and support and now that he’d opened the gown at the back he could peel the bodice away from her breasts.
He drew her to her feet, stood her between his knees and slowly tugged the gown off her breasts, over her waist and down her hips.
She was wearing a very simple cream lace garter and panty and nothing else. Sam blushed, looked away, incredibly self-conscious.
Cristiano caught her chin in his hand and turned her face to his, forcing her to look at him. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
“No—”
“Yes.” He drew her toward him, folding her into his arms so that her breasts were crushed against his shirt. “Yes, Signora Bartolo. Trust me on this one. I know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FROM there, things moved quickly, although Cristiano had fully intended to take it slow. And he had been taking it slow, even after he’d peeled her gown off, exposing Sam’s gorgeous full breasts and her small waist and the rounded hips that made her all woman.
Lying back, he drew her down next to him, sliding his hands from her breasts down her ribs, over her hips and up again. She arched as he swept the warm soft length of her, arched and whimpered as his hands explored the small of her back and then the ripe curve of her pert derriere.
As she pressed herself against him, he groaned deep in his throat. Santo Cielo, did this woman have any idea what she was doing to him?
He wasn’t a saint, not like her. He did what he wanted, took what he needed, gave what he could. No more, no less. He didn’t live for others, had given up years ago trying to please others, and yet with Sam it was different. Luscious English Samantha made him want to turn the world upside down to please her.
Her skin glowed hot beneath his hands and he measured each of her ribs then down over her flat taut belly. Wife, he thought, fingers brushing the apex of her thighs. My wife. My woman.
She shifted as his fingers explored her, shyly opening her knees for him and the blood roared in Cristiano’s ears, drumming through his body. He was so hard he hurt, so turned on he felt dangerous. There was no more slow and gentle. He wanted her. Needed her. Was determined to possess her, thoroughly, completely so there could be no doubt she was now his.
Cristiano didn’t remember shedding his clothes but they were gone and he was rolling her beneath him, his hand parting her knees, teasing the satin skin of her thighs and then the even softer satin skin between her thighs. She was wet, warm and so damn willing.
And it wasn’t until he’d entered her, thrusting into her very tight body and he heard her gasp, that he realized he’d hurt her and his desire to possess her faded in the face of her pain.
“Sam,” he whispered, holding still, afraid to move for fear of inflicting more hurt. “Bella, what did I do?”
Her small hand stroked his back. “Nothing.”
But he felt the tension in her, her slender thighs taut on either side of his hips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, smoothing her long blond hair back from her face as he kissed her mouth and then her jaw and the soft skin beneath her ear. “I’m sorry. I thought you were ready.”
Her blue gaze met his and there was no anger there, no blame, either. “I was ready.”
“But I did hurt you.”
“It always hurts the first time, doesn’t it?”
For a moment he didn’t understand and then still buried in her body, awareness dawned. He pushed up on his elbows to take the weight of his body off her. “You’re—”
“Yes, but it’s okay.” She reached for him, clasped his face in her hands and brought his head down to hers. “I couldn’t be one forever,” she murmured against his mouth.
“I should have known,” he protested. “You should have told me.”
“Told you what? That I’m a virgin?”
“But you’ve been married.”
“Yes, twice. Well, three times in a way.” She tried to make a joke of it so they could move on. “Says a lot for my sex appeal, doesn’t it?” But before he could answer, she kissed him again, kissed suggestively, tracing his lip with her tongue until she felt the spark between them again, the sharp electric heat that was both hot and maddening.
His body throbbing in hers, he began to move, slowly, giving her time to adjust to him and little by little she could take him even deeper and she did. He seemed to want as much of her as he could, as much of her as she’d give.
Sighing, she wrapped her legs around him, felt him bury deeper, felt the last lingering discomfort give way to pleasure and interest.
As he stroked her with his body, Sam pressed her face to his chest, she wrapped her legs around his hips and breathed him in. She loved the feel of his skin on hers, the warmth, the pressure, the sensation. It was all wonderful, she thought, his scent, the hard planes of his muscles, his strength.
She loved the way he drove his body into hers, and as he moved in her, with her, she discovered how the pleasure just grew. She’d never been this close to anyone, couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else but with Cristiano it felt right.
Being in his arms, with his body joined with hers, she felt safe, cherished. Loved.
And the feeling of love intensified, tightening, strengthening until it exploded, shaping and reshaping into something bigger and brighter than she’d ever felt.
It was an orgasm, she knew that much, but it wasn’t what she’d thought it would feel like. She’d always thought an orgasm would feel well, physical. Sexual. But this pleasure, this release, was gorgeous and emotional, sensual and spiritual. She’d never felt so close to anyone as she did to Cristiano just then, and as she shuddered in his arms, her body rippling around his, she was part earth, part universe, a comet streaking across the sky before dropping like stardust into the sea.
She was still sensitive, still shuddering at the intense pleasure when Cristiano groaned and came deep inside of her.
Cristiano held her close against him and he was so quiet she thought he must have fallen asleep but when she stirred to go to the bathroom, Cristiano took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissing the back of her hand. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
She turned on the bed, looked down at him, moonlight playing across the bed. “You didn’t hurt me. You made me feel wonderful.”
“I’d never hurt you, Sam. You’re to be cherished.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “I’m glad you were my first lover. I hope you’re my last. I can’t imagine being with anyone else now.”
He made a rough sound, primitive and raw, and dragged her closer to his side. “Good,” he grunted. “I shouldn’t like to think of my wife fantasizing about other men.”
Early that morning they made love again, Cristiano taking time to teach her, encourage her, compliment her. “There are no rules between a man and woman in bed. If yo
u trust one another, respect one another, everything’s good, everything’s right. It’s a matter of being comfortable and communicating.”
“You know a lot about sex,” she said, trying not to be jealous of the history he had before her but not quite succeeding.
He smiled and drew her on top of him, introducing her to yet another position. “What can I say? I’m Italian. We enjoy women. But now you’re my wife.”
Later they ordered breakfast in bed and napped after their late breakfast and then Cristiano carried her into the shower where he introduced her to a few more new things.
Later, taking him in her hand, she relished soaping him up and down, using the excuse of showering to get to know his body better.
But when her soapy hand brushed one of his thighs he stiffened, caught her hand, moved it away.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked.
“No.” He adjusted the shower nozzle so the water didn’t splash her face or in her eyes.
“Do they ever hurt? The burns?”
“Yes.” It was his turn to lather his hands and begin applying the suds to her body.
“Is that why you don’t want me to touch you there?”
“No.” Dropping his head, he brushed his mouth across her lips. “I just don’t think you need to touch something like that.”
Sam grabbed the soap away from him, pushed him back from her so she could see him clearly. “We’re talking about you. Your legs.”
“Exactly.”
“I like your legs.”
“Sam, bella—”
“No. No, bella, no Sam. Listen to me—”
“I am and you sound like my nanny now.”
She ignored his complaint, moving closer to him so she could kiss his shoulder. “I like you,” she murmured against the muscular plane of his chest, “and I like your legs, so I’m going to touch you where I want, and how I want, because that’s what you do for me.”
Then without waiting for permission, she slid her hands across the front of his thighs, feeling the thick scars and the uneven texture, the skin a complex map of seams, hollows and ridges, before circling to the back of his legs. The skin had been burnt there, too, but the scarring wasn’t quite as thick and she felt the long thin surgical scar she’d seen that afternoon at the cottage.
Cristiano stood stiffly while she touched him, his head averted, silently suffering through her gentle exploration. But as her hands circled back around, hands clasping his shaft, he became very hard, very fast and after a minute of gritting his teeth, he turned her around, parted her legs, made sure she was wet and then with a slow, smooth thrust into her, introduced her to yet another of his favorite positions.
Finally worn-out, they both slept and when they woke, Cristiano let Sam have the bath to herself for a long hot soak in the tub. When she emerged, still wrapped in two fluffy towels, he surprised her with a large wrapped gift box.
“Something special for you to wear tonight,” he said.
Sam tore open the wrapping paper, pulled off the top of the box and pushed aside the lilac tissue to discover a puddle of blue-gray fabric, a beaded evening bag of the same color, and a pair of high heel sandals that laced around her ankles.
The dress was little more than a silk slip with delicate spaghetti straps and a softly shirred bodice that plunged deeply, nearly all the way to the high empire waist. Sam dropped her towel, stepped into the dress and after adjusting the slender straps, let Cristiano zip it at the back for her.
It was a perfect fit. The color made her skin glow creamy-gold and the short hem, hitting several inches above her knees, highlighted her slender legs.
Sam had pulled the towel off her still-damp hair and she started to pin it up but Cristiano pulled her hands away. “Leave it down. Let me see you. I love to look at you.”
“My hair will be too curly if I don’t style it.”
“I love the curls. You—your hair—it’s all perfect.”
Coloring, she shook her head, feeling shy despite the intimacy between them. “I’m not perfect, Cristiano. Far from it.”
“In my eyes you’re perfect.”
“Maybe it’s because you don’t know me very well yet.”
He took her hand, drew her to him, shaped her hips to his so that she felt him, and felt his hunger and desire and pleasure. “I will always think you’re perfect because I know you are perfect for me.”
The compliment warmed her, but it was the caress of his hand beneath her dress where he cupped her breast, and then pinched her nipple that inflamed her.
Sam stood on tiptoe and kissed him, a deep, erotic kiss where she sucked the tip of his tongue the way he’d kissed her yesterday and sliding her hands down his chest, over his flat abdomen she stroked his erection through his trousers. She could feel him grow beneath her touch, feel him strain against the fabric and emboldened, she unzipped his pants, took him out, caressed him with her hands and then kneeling, put her mouth on him, trying something new of her own.
It was much later when they finally left their room to have an early evening drink in one of the hotel’s elegant lounges.
Even though she was sitting with a famous, gorgeous man in a sophisticated bar, Sam had never felt more comfortable in her life.
Cristiano somehow knew how to put her at ease. It was just the way he talked to her, looked at her, smiled at her. Even from the beginning he’d made her feel special, different, and now after thirty-six hours alone in a hotel room with him, she felt even better.
She smiled shyly at him, the bar’s great chandeliers splashing light here and there like a glittering ball gown. He was, she thought, smiling even bigger, perfect for her, too. Not because he was rich, or famous, or even heartbreakingly gorgeous, but because he treated her so well and he made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
And no one, not even dear good Charles, had ever made her feel beautiful.
Kind, yes. Patient, yes. Gentle, yes. But sexy? Interesting? Fun?
Cristiano reached across the table, ran his thumb along the curve of her lips. “You’re smiling.”
“I know.” And she could even feel her eyes smile. “I’m just so happy.”
For a moment he said nothing and then he said in a surprisingly husky voice. “You should always be happy. You deserve to be happy.”
With two hours still before their dinner reservations Cristiano slid his arm around Sam and they went for a leisurely walk through the Hermitage’s Italian loggia, and then on to the Hotel de Paris where they were to have dinner later at the famous Le Louis XV.
Le Louis XV was the most prestigious restaurant in the city. Between Alain Ducasse’s superb menu and the restaurant’s opulent golden interior, it was impossible to dine at Louis XV and not be dazzled.
As they were escorted to their table at ten, Sam noted that the restaurant was packed, every table full, and there were dozens of chic people still hoping to get lucky and get a reservation for the night.
Dinner was lovely, Cristiano couldn’t have been more attentive and after they’d finished their meal, they shared the restaurant’s classic dessert, Crepes Suzette which had been created nearly a hundred years earlier for Edward VII, the then Prince of Wales, and his mistress.
On their way out, several people stopped Cristiano to congratulate him and or wish him well. By the time they escaped the restaurant and stepped outside, Sam marveled at Cristiano’s patience with the interruptions. He was obviously used to being a public figure. It was new for her, and frankly uncomfortable, but she admired the way he handled himself—cordial, sincere, even if not particularly loquacious.
Back in their suite at the Hermitage, they made love slowly taking time to build the pleasure and tension, and after they reached orgasm, Cristiano drifted off to sleep, his arm wrapped protectively around Sam. And even though Sam was tired, and not surprisingly, sore, she couldn’t sleep.
She was too warm on the inside. Too full of thoughts and memories. Memories of her life before Cristia
no and it stunned her, how much he’d changed her life in less than four weeks.
She’d fallen for him so hard. And already she trusted him so much, depending on him for a dozen things she’d never depended on anyone for. At least not since her parents died.
She felt a niggle of alarm. Everything was too good, too happy, too lovely. This couldn’t be real. Happiness like this never lasted. It was romance—passion—maybe just plain old lust, but it wasn’t love. Couldn’t be love. She didn’t know Cristiano well enough, or long enough. Their attraction was chemistry and sex, very good sex, but wasn’t that all it was?
No. This wasn’t sex. She knew it wasn’t just sex. She admired Cristiano, had only fallen for him after she’d seen how he interacted with Gabriela. She loved his strength and patience with his sister, loved his determination to take care of her and protect her.
And that was why she was afraid. Because all the good feelings, all her tenderness and love made her realize how starved she’d been for love.
Scarcity.
Lying close to Cristiano, Samantha admitted how empty she’d been, how hopeless she’d become. Looking back on the past eight years she could have been a feudal peasant during a time of plague or famine. She keenly felt the lack of all she’d been deprived of.
It wasn’t that she wanted to feel sorry for herself. She was grateful for Charles. Charles had been wonderful, so kind, so caring—generous to a fault—for wasn’t it his generosity that put him in danger?
After he died she tried to do what he would have wanted. She tried to follow his example, tried hard to be as good, and selfless, and kind as he had been. But she wasn’t by nature so altruistic. Not that she wanted to be selfish, but she’d had so little of her own, so little time and attention, so little emotional support that on the inside she felt downright drained. Depleted.
Scarcity.
She’d become a woman who thought in terms of hunger, who trusted nothing, was famished—starved—for more. And she hadn’t even known she’d been so starved until now when she’d had this heady taste of comfort and warmth and sensation.