The Italian's Pregnant Prisoner

by Maisey Yates

  But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t. If she was going to take this night, then she had to be committed to her plan. To her freedom.

  Freedom was the one thing she’d never had. Her life on her own terms. She couldn’t steal it from herself. Not before she had ever had a chance to hold it in her hands.

  But she had never had a chance to hold him either. And now it seemed imperative. Necessary. Like the thing she needed more than air...

  He bit her bottom lip and desire arrowed down straight to her stomach, down farther between her legs. She remembered this. It had rested in the back of her mind, a half-faded memory for five years. But now it was back. Bright, sharp and clear.

  This thing that she had felt only ever with him. This thing that was like a wild, untamed beast inside of her. The only thing that ever was. The only thing that ever had been.

  She had been hidden away, kept apart from the world on the estate, locked away from the world in a tower. And the only wild, untamed thing in her had always been for him.

  It was astonishing how true that was now. How quickly she was transported back to that time. To her bedroom. When the only good and wonderful thing in her life had been Rafe. He had been worth everything. Worth risks she knew both of them took great pains not to dwell on.

  They had of course spoken of the need for them not to get caught. But it had been like children sneaking around. Rather than two people who were in very real danger should they ever be discovered.

  But there was no one to discover them now. There was no danger. Those things that had made it feel all the more special, forbidden, were gone now. There were no walls. No one was in chains, so to speak. They were here of their own free will. Making this choice.

  She was not the only available body that he might find pleasure in. She was not a trapped girl who had met no other men that appealed to her.

  No, she hadn’t dated anyone but they just hadn’t called to her. Not in the way that Rafe did.

  No one ever had. No one.

  She reached up, ready to unpin her hair, which he had always liked. Something he had always asked of her.

  He gripped her wrist. “No.”

  “But—”

  “There will be none of that. Leave it up.”

  Those words scraped her raw. Left her wounded. She couldn’t quite fathom why. Except that maybe, no matter what he had said, he didn’t want to be so conscious that it was her. He couldn’t see her, after all. And asking her to keep her hair up was truly like asking her to stay shrouded in darkness.

  She would have to decide, she supposed, if that wounded her enough to make her walk out.

  No. It didn’t. Because this wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about her feelings. It certainly wasn’t about trying to recapture something that had happened between them long ago. This was a step forward. The closing of the door. She had to allow it to be that.

  She had to allow it to be unique. Its own experience. And if he wanted to keep her hair up, then that was fine by her.

  Her hair was another thing that had had far too much importance attached to it for far too long.

  Maybe that would be another change she would make when all this was done.

  She had left it unchanged for all these years, after all. And she knew why. It had nothing to do with her father. As Rafe had said long ago, her father’s obsession with it had been nothing short of creepy.

  This was for Rafe. Her hair was for Rafe. He had loved uncoiling it from its bun, loved wrapping it around his hand. Loved running his fingers through the silken strands. She had left it for him. For five years, she had left it.

  Perhaps when this was over, she would not feel that compulsion.

  Clearly, he didn’t require it of her anyway.

  “Take your clothes off,” he said, his words cutting through the silence like a knife, slicing straight down into her soul.

  She hesitated. Only for a breath.

  “All right.” She reached around behind her back, and gripped hold of the zipper tab.

  “I want you to tell me what you were wearing,” he said, speaking slowly. With supreme authority.

  “To...to tell you?” she asked, the words choked.

  “Yes. Tell me in great detail exactly what you were wearing tonight. A gown, I assume, and with an interesting material. Not silken. A thin layer over something heavier. Yes?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “Describe it to me as you remove it.”

  He was standing in the center of the room, his expression impassive, his dark eyes resting behind her. Even if he had been looking directly at her, she knew that he wouldn’t be able to see.

  “It’s...it’s red,” she began haltingly. She started to try to jerk the zipper down, but it was as halting as her words. “It has a V-neck, thin straps. It conforms to my figure. Hugs my hips. And follows my body closely all the way down past my knees. It flares out there. Like a mermaid’s tail.”

  “Very interesting. And what is underneath this gown?”

  She let the straps fall around her waist, a whispering noise as it fell away from her curves and pooled at her feet.

  “Underneath...” She swallowed hard. “My bra is red. It matches the gown. It’s made of lace.”

  “I see. And would I be able to see those beautiful nipples through it? They were very pale. I recall that clearly. All of you is very pale. Your nipples...they are a particular shade of pink that I find extremely arousing. Like candy. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it.”

  She swallowed hard, trembling now. “Yes. You would be able to see them.”

  “If I could see,” he said, his tone dark.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “If you could see.”

  “Please tell me that your underwear matches. That they are red and lacy, and that I would be able to see your beautiful golden curls through the fabric.”

  She could hardly breathe. She felt dizzy.

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard again. “The fabric is transparent.”

  She had never played the part of seductress. Those weeks in her room he had been seducing her. And while she had certainly begged him to take things further—to take them all the way—he had still been the one in control of the situation. It felt different now. The air between them an electric shock. And his expression... Growing tighter, growing more tense as the moments wore on. His hands were curled into fists at his side, and he might have been made of stone.

  Beautiful stone that looked as though it would be hot to the touch. There was a strange power in this moment. In him demanding that she paint a picture in his mind. She could have told him anything, but she found that she wanted nothing more than to give him honesty. Because here, in this strong man, was some sense of vulnerability. He was stronger than her. More experienced than her. As he had always been.

  But she had some power. She did.

  Because he had given it to her.

  Even now, with things as they were between them, he had handed her this.

  “I want you to remove the bra,” he commanded.

  Without thought, she obeyed.

  “Now tell me,” he said, his voice rough now. “Are your nipples tight? From the cold air? From my voice? From your arousal? Knowing exactly what I will do next. Because you know me, and you know I am insatiable when it comes to those breasts of yours. I’m going to suck one of those sweet buds into my mouth, lick you, taste you.”

  She shivered. “Yes.”

  “Yes, you want me to taste you? Or yes, they are tight?”

  “Both,” she whispered, the word husky, her voice unrecognizable as her own.

  A smile curved his mouth, and she would be tempted to describe it as cruel.

  “The panties next. Push them down your hips slowly.” He smiled wider. “You did not tell me about your shoes.”

  “Stilettos. Red. Like the dress.”

  “And are you still wearing them?”

  “You didn’t tell me to take them off yet.”
<
br />   His mouth twitched. “Good. Leave them on.”

  She complied with his wishes, pushing the thin scrap of fabric down her legs slowly, then kicking them off to the side. And she prepared for more commands.

  “Now tell me,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Are you wet for me? There between your thighs, are you wet and aching for my touch? You have been touched by me there before. Remember. How I would put my hand between your legs and stroke you, draw the moisture out from inside of you and rub my thumb over your clit? Do you remember that?”

  “Yes,” she answered in a rush.

  “And is that what you want from me now? My tongue sliding through those slick folds? My fingers deep inside you?”

  She had tried. On more than one occasion to replicate the kind of pleasure he had given her with his hands with her own. It was never the same. It didn’t work like that. She hadn’t felt that kind of pleasure in five long years. And what he was saying now went beyond this kind of elevated need for closure. All of these excuses she had been giving herself. Yes, this went far beyond that.

  This was just about want. Pure, undiluted sexual need. Something she thought she had lost touch with.

  But apparently, Rafe had simply been holding on to it for safekeeping.

  “I want that.”

  “Good.” He turned away from her. “You can leave the shoes on. And I want you to walk with me to my bedroom.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HE BLAZED THE trail to the room, and she followed, her high heels clicking on the glossy marble floor.

  He pushed the door open, revealing a large, pristinely made bed that took her breath away. Because they would be in that bed together. And there would be nothing stopping them this time. Nothing stopping them from consummating this need that had blazed between them for so long.

  Before there had always been something else. Always something stopping them. Some kind of obstacle. But that was gone now. There was no need to stop. No pretense available.

  She sucked in a sharp breath and walked toward the bed, standing at the foot of it.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Just in front of the bed. At the foot of it.”

  He oriented himself, then walked toward her. Following her voice and her instructions unerringly.

  “What color is your lipstick? I hope it’s red. Red like everything else.”

  Her heart slammed against her breastbone. “It is.”

  “I want it all over my body,” he rasped. “I want you to be able to see exactly what has happened between us. Come here.”

  She complied, taking two steps to close the distance between them.

  “Kiss me,” he demanded. “Right here.” He lifted his hand and pointed to his neck. Just at his throat. She leaned forward, pressed a slow, firm kiss to his skin there.

  She moved away, looking up at him.

  “Have you left a mark?”

  She surveyed her work, the red smudge left behind on his skin. “Yes.”

  “Good.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Now. You will undress me next. Start with my jacket. Then my tie. Then my shirt.”

  Charlotte felt dizzy and breathless, but desperate to obey. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders, not caring where it landed. Then she undid his tie, the black silk sliding easily to the floor.

  With unsteady hands, she undid the top button on his shirt, then pressed her fingertips tentatively to his chest, and then leaned in, kissing him there, just above his heart. “I’ve marked you there too,” she said softly.

  She undid the next button, then moved lower. The next button. And she followed the path, moving lower still, inhaling the scent of his skin. And then, she was lost in memory. Because this was still Rafe as she remembered him. She had unbuttoned his shirt many times.

  Had seen him naked.

  Yes, he was more heavily muscled now, with more hair on his chest. But he was still Rafe. And she remembered this. Remembered him.

  The way his skin tasted. How starving she was for him all the time. How she couldn’t get enough.

  She untucked his shirt from his pants, spreading it wide, then kissed him, just above his belt before taking hold of it with trembling fingers and working it through the buckle. She had done this before. For him. She had forced him to accept it, actually. Because while he was playing the part of chivalrous knight, pleasuring her in various ways without technically taking her virginity, he had taken nothing for himself.

  And so she had insisted. And once she had started, he had not been able to stop her. More accurately, she didn’t believe he had wanted to.

  He had played at honor back then, or at least at control, but he had certainly enjoyed surrendering it to her when she had gotten down on her knees. She hoped it would be the same now.

  She pushed his pants and underwear down his hips, revealing that hard pillar of masculinity. Her heart thundered, her entire body seizing up tight. She remembered this too. Remembered him. The shape of him. The way he had felt in her hand. Hard, hot and endlessly enticing.

  She reached up, curving her fingers around his hardened length and letting out a long, slow sigh of satisfaction. He jerked beneath her touch, and she smiled. And suddenly, the years melted away. As she leaned forward, sliding her tongue over him before taking him deep into her mouth, it was easy to imagine that she was back in her tower room during one of their hot, illicit nights.

  He reached down, gripping her hair, which was still firmly coiled in the heavy bun at the back of her head. And that reminded her. The sharp tug bringing her back to reality, the realization that her hair was bound. That reminded her that this was not five years ago. And they were not the Rafe and Charlotte that they had once been.

  That filled her with an unaccountable sadness. But on the heels of it came a strong sense of empowerment. Because she had as much power here as he did. Because there was nothing looming over them. They had this night. All night.

  For anything—everything—that they wanted.

  After so long, she was essentially made of want. She would take every last one of the hours before them to satisfy it. She gripped the base of his shaft and took him deeper, and he tugged harder on her hair, pulling her mouth away from him.

  “Enough of that,” he said. “This, I have had from you.”

  “And somehow...you’re tired of it?”

  He pressed his thumb to the center of her bottom lip. “I will have your mouth on me later. Believe me. But for now, I wish to be inside you.” He paused for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “Have you left lipstick there, as well?”

  Her cheeks heated, and she examined him. “Yes.”

  He growled, a feral, untamed sound, and bent down, wrapping his arm around her waist and hauling her up against him. Then, he walked them both backward, tumbling with her onto the bed.

  The rest of his clothes, and both of their shoes, were discarded onto the floor, and he kissed her like he was a lost soul on his way to hell and she might provide the necessary ingredient to his salvation.

  “You’re so soft,” he said, abandoning her lips to press a kiss to the tender skin on the side of her neck. “So warm. I imagine you are flushed from arousal. I remember how you used to do that. Your pale skin turning pink, starting at your cheeks and moving down your neck.” He pressed his thumb against her pulse again. “Yes. And your heart would beat fast, just like this. And then...” He moved his hand down to cup her bare breast, that deft thumb of his sliding over her nipple. “Yes. Your nipples were always so responsive. So tight. Just for me.”

  She gasped as he pinched her lightly, then replaced his hand with his mouth, flicking the tightened bud with his tongue before sucking her in deep.

  It was a sensory overload. After so many years without physical contact, it was almost too much. But he was merciless, and when she let out a sob that was wrenched from deep within her body, one she could not have controlled if she had wanted to, rather than easing off, he pressed his fingers between her legs, push
ing through her slick folds.

  His thumb moved in a circular motion over her clit as he pushed his middle finger inside her and she saw stars. Then, he added a second finger, the fullness unfamiliar. He had never done this before. Part of sparing her innocence and all of that. But there was none of that happening tonight.

  Thankfully.

  She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. And she ignored the uncomfortable lump created by her restrained mass of hair. Ignored the pins digging into her scalp. She didn’t care about any of that. Didn’t care about anything but the intensity of the pleasure burning through her like a wildfire.

  Orgasm was closing in on her; she knew it. But she wanted to hold it off for as long as possible. Wanted to exist on this knife’s edge until she couldn’t possibly stand it any longer. That was what she had wanted back then too. To extend her time with him. Because once she was satisfied, he would leave. Lingering too long a risk that neither of them could take. And so she had learned to hold back. To find pleasure in the exquisite torture that came with denying herself release.

  In the interest of having Rafe’s hands on her for longer. In the interest of staying lost. Of no longer existing as Charlotte Adair, daughter of a notorious crime lord, but as a creature made entirely of pleasure. Of need.

  But it had been so long. And it was too much. She couldn’t bear to hold it off, not for one more moment. And so she gave in. Diving deep into that pool of pleasure, into that release that only Rafe had ever given her. She was breathless. Weightless. Thoughtless for an extended space of time. Made of nothing but deep, pulsing satisfaction that pounded through her like waves on the rocks.

  When her release ended she looked up at Rafe. His eyes were closed.

  Then he lifted his hand to his lips, and sucked the two fingers that had just been inside her into his mouth. Fire, white hot and savage, burned through her. She wasn’t sure if it was shame or if it was need on a level she had never known before. Certainly, there was embarrassment, because that had been such a base and carnal act.

  And yet, she understood it. Because hadn’t she been compelled to taste him? As she had once done. She wanted more than a few quick strokes of her tongue. She wanted all of him. But he was right. There would be time for that later.