The Italian's Seduction

by Karen Van Der Zee

  “I don’t think about it.” His tone was expressionless.

  “How can you not think about it?”

  “It’s easy. I have lots of other things to think about.”

  “Don’t you have any idea what you’d like your life to be like in ten years or twenty? Nothing to hope for, nothing to look forward to?” How could anyone live that way?

  “Hopefully I’ll still have money in the bank and won’t be languishing in jail.” His tone was dry.

  “That’s pretty impressive all right.” Her voice mocked him. “When my dreams include the wish not to be in jail, I’ll know I have arrived.” She paused. “I do hope you’re not one of those companies with crooked executives and crooked bookkeeping?”

  He laughed. “Not to worry.”

  “So, you hope not to be in jail and still have money in the bank. It’s a vision of sorts, I suppose. Do you see yourself living alone? With one woman? Or just flitting from one relationship to another?”

  He grimaced in distaste, clearly not enthralled by the scenarios she’d brought up. “I was hoping you’d given up on the subject.”

  She put her spoon down. “No. I want to know what you think.” She couldn’t believe she had the nerve to be so persistent when it was obvious he wanted the subject dropped.

  He shrugged. “I try to live in the moment.”

  “But you plan for your business, make projections, set goals.”

  “Yes. However, in my personal life this has not proved to be a successful strategy.”

  She pushed her plate away, folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “You don’t want to talk about this, do you?” she asked softly.

  “No.”

  The word hung in the silence between them and she felt suddenly oddly nervous. She hesitated. “So, a few weeks ago, when you said you wanted me, you were strictly talking about living-in-the-moment stuff?”

  He met her eyes. “That’s all I know how to do.”

  She held his gaze. “And when it’s over, it’s over.” It was a statement, not a question, because, of course, she already knew.

  “Yes, it is, Charli.”

  The breeze felt cool on her face. Wrapped in her kimono, Charli sat curled up in the wide window seat in her bedroom and stared out over the dark sea, taking a deep breath, smelling the salty water.

  Too wound up and restless, she’d lain awake for more than an hour and she couldn’t stand being in bed any longer. It had been a wonderful evening. The romantic restaurant, the delicious food and Massimo sitting across from her—it had all been magical. Now all she could think about was Massimo and that she wasn’t just attracted to him in a superficial physical, sexual way—she was falling in love with him in a big way.

  And falling in love with Massimo was not a good thing.

  All this past week, ever since his angry words on her apartment balcony, she’d been thinking and wondering. And what she had realized tonight was that Massimo was afraid to think about the future.

  Afraid. Surely he did not seem like a man afraid of anything, yet she’d sensed it on some intuitive level. He lived in the moment. That’s all I know how to do, he’d said.

  Coffee had arrived and she’d dropped the subject.

  After dinner, they’d walked through town to the water’s edge and strolled along the palm-lined promenade, somehow reluctant to go home to two teenage girls. Crossing a street, he’d taken her hand, a protective gesture that had touched her. She’d not pulled away and they’d held hands for the rest of their walk. It had seemed right. It had felt good. Everywhere in town young couples had walked hand in hand, or sat on benches, kissing passionately. Amore everywhere. Italians were affectionate, amorous people and clearly had no problem showing it to the world.

  She thought about what he had said. That he was worried about his sister. And that he made no plans for the future because he didn’t know how. That when he said he wanted her it had nothing to do with the future. It would be a temporary thing.

  At least she knew exactly where she stood with him.

  Arriving home after their walk through town, she had thanked him for the dinner and spontaneously stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek—a gesture that had somehow seemed right at the moment. She’d immediately withdrawn, wished him buona notte and gone to her room.

  The night air was cool and breezy and she loved sitting here with the window open. Movement caught her eye. To her left, part of the terrace was visible and Massimo was out there, standing at the wall, looking out into the night, awake as she was. He was barefoot, wearing jeans only, as if he’d hastily put them on. His broad back and wide shoulders gleamed in the moonlight and she felt heat throbbing through her. He was a beautiful man standing there so quietly in the night. Thinking about what? she wondered. About a future he didn’t dare dream about?

  He must have sensed something because suddenly he turned, looked toward her room and saw her at the window.

  For a moment he stood very still, looking at her. Then he slowly lifted his hand in greeting. With a little wave she acknowledged his gesture, then she drew back and slipped off the window seat.

  Her heart racing, she crossed the room. Don’t think, she told herself. Don’t think. Go to him. She opened the door quietly and found her way along the dark corridor. The marble was cool on her feet. No sound came from Valentina’s room. The girls must have finally fallen asleep.

  What if I’m wrong? What if I’m making a terrible mistake?

  She rushed across the living room, her bare feet on soft silk rugs. The large glass doors stood open.

  Massimo was still standing at the wall, tall and lean and utterly male. She moved across the terrace toward him and nothing now could make her go back. He turned his head when he heard her.

  “Can’t sleep?” he asked as she came to stand next to him.

  The deep timbre of his voice slid through her blood like rich red wine. She shook her head. “No.”

  They were silent. She was aware of her pulse throbbing, of the vibrations between them.

  “You look so beautiful in the moonlight,” he said softly, his dark gaze caressing her face. No man had ever looked at her quite like that. Was it the Italian in him? Did it matter?

  “Moonlight magic,” she said lightly. She wasn’t beautiful, had no illusions about that. Certainly not as beautiful as the gorgeous Giulia. Now why had that thought popped into her head? She did not want to think about Giulia. This was not the time.

  “You believe in magic?” he asked, smiling a little.

  “Yes,” she heard herself say, not knowing why she said it so convincingly. She didn’t know much about magic, but surely not to believe in it would devalue this moment.

  His eyes were dark and full of shadows. “It is very difficult for me not to touch you. Not to kiss you.”

  The air throbbed between them with a sweet tension. She said nothing, just looked at him with her pulse racing.

  “It is not such a good idea for you to be here, Charli.” His voice was very low.

  She swallowed. “I want to be here.” And she did, more than anything. Against all her own good judgment, she wanted to be here with him.

  He touched her hair, twirled a curl around his finger. “You’re playing dangerous games with me.”

  She was inches away from his naked chest, longed to put her cheek against the warm skin, feel his heart beating. “Yes, I know I am.”

  He was silent for a moment as if considering what to reply to what she had just said.

  “You told me you’re not interested in an affair,” he said carefully. “That you don’t like controlling men.” He gently straightened the curl between his fingers, holding it out from her head.

  “I’m not going to allow you to control me.” Oh, how brave she sounded. How terrified she was.

  Dark shadows danced in his eyes. “I don’t want to control you, Charli. I never wanted to control you.” He released the curl and she felt it coil back into its natural shape again
st her ear. “All I’ve wanted is to make love to you.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed softly. “What kind of question is that?” He trailed his finger from her temple across her cheek in a featherlike caress. “Because you stir up my fantasies with your smile. Because your eyes are blue as the sky and make me feel like flying.” He traced his finger around her mouth. “Because you have beautiful lips made for kissing.”

  How very poetic. If an American had said those words she would have laughed. She did not feel like laughing. She felt a deep, wondrous thrill of desire.

  “I like the way you enjoy your food,” he went on. “I like the way you are with my sister and you don’t think she’s a nuisance. I like that you are charmed by this little old town, that you’ve made friends with an old housekeeper without even speaking the same language.” He paused. “Ti penso sempre,” he added softly.

  I always think of you.

  “But you stopped trying to seduce me.” She sounded a little breathless, which was not surprising. His touch, barely noticeable, was setting her on fire.

  He gave a crooked little smile and dropped his hand away from her face. “Believe me, it’s not easy. Not at all a natural thing to do for an Italian.”

  “So why did you?”

  “Because that’s what you said you wanted.”

  A simple answer. A simple truth. She had asked him to. And he had obliged. He had not forced his will on her, and how easy it would have been for him to get her into bed with him. He’d known that, surely, yet he hadn’t. Something warm and light began to glow inside her.

  “Maybe I was wrong,” she whispered.

  He took her face in his hands, very tenderly. “Do you know what you are doing, cara?” he asked gently.

  “Yes. It’s called living in the moment.”

  “Charli…” hesitation in his voice. “I don’t want to hurt you. I can make no promises.”

  “I know that.” When it’s over, it’s over. She swallowed, wanting to say the words, knowing it was like leaping into dangerous uncertainty, yet wanting to do it anyway. She closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to his.

  “When it’s over, it’s over,” she whispered against his lips.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN ANSWER, he softly stroked his lips over hers, then eased into a heart-thrilling kiss that was pure seduction. She opened herself to the sensation, feeling the intoxicating heat spreading through her body like smooth, golden cognac. How could he do this with just his mouth, the stroking of his tongue? He took his time, kissing her with exquisite perfection, as if performing a dance to erotic music that went on and on in his head.

  She responded to his kiss, answering a need of her own to join in the dance, feeling shivers of sweet desire curling through her.

  Finally he lifted his face away from hers and slipped his hands down to her shoulders, skimmed over her breasts with barely a touch and came to rest on the belt tied around her waist.

  His eyes locked with hers. “You’re not wearing a nightdress under there.”

  “No.” She swallowed. “I…never wear any.” She liked feeling her skin against cool, smooth sheets.

  “Ah, a sensualist.” He loosened the knot of the belt, his eyes still gazing into hers. “I want to see you,” he said huskily.

  Her breath caught as she felt him slide the kimono off, his hands caressing her arms. The silky fabric slipped down her body and pooled around her feet. She stood naked in front of him, her heart racing, her legs trembling.

  He stroked her cheek, then feathered both hands down her throat and across her breasts, then trailed down her waist and hips, exploring her shape. Moving up again, he cupped her breasts, letting their weight rest in the warmth of his hands while brushing his thumbs over her nipples.

  “How beautiful you are,” he said softly.

  The slow heat of arousal simmered in her blood. “Say it in Italian,” she whispered, and saw his answering smile.

  “Come sei bella,” he said, and it sounded like music. He bent his head and kissed her breasts, first one then the other, his tongue gently stroking her already eager nipples. She shivered as the sparks of electricity skittered through her bloodstream and rested her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

  “I think we should go inside,” she said, suddenly feeling a bit too naked and too exposed out in the open on the terrace. “What if the girls wake up?”

  He straightened to look down into her eyes again. “I suppose you’re right.” A cool waft of air stirred the tousled lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. She slid her hands down over his chest, feeling the tickle of hair against her palms.

  “I want to see you too, Massimo.”

  He gave a crooked smile. “Fair is fair.” He bent down, picked up her robe and draped it over her shoulders. Then he lifted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and carried her into the house. She wrapped her arms around his neck, reveling in the sensation of being carried as if she were something precious that needed protection.

  His bedroom was bathed in moonlight and the curtainless windows offered a view of the dark Mediterranean.

  “No one can see us here,” he said as he lay her on the big bed. He went back to the door and locked it, but did not remove the key. “Just in case.”

  Approaching the bed again, he reached for the zipper of his jeans. No belt.

  No shorts, either, she realized as he lowered the zipper and stepped out of the jeans and tossed them on a nearby chair. Her mouth went dry at the sight of him, all bronze naked male desire. He took her breath away and she stared at him, feeling desire flare higher and hotter.

  “You have seen a naked man before?” he asked, his tone amused.

  She tried to find her voice. “I don’t remember.”

  “Good.” He lay down next to her on the bed and she shifted a little to give him room. He turned on his side and drew her against him and she sighed as she felt every inch of her warmed by the long length of him, felt the heat of his erection against her body.

  Her face lay nestled in the crook of his neck and she breathed in the scent of him, his closeness thrilling her senses, making her feel heady.

  “How does this feel?” he asked. “Skin against skin.”

  “Wonderful,” she whispered, loving his voice, his care, his attention.

  “Tell me what you like.” His fingers began a slow, sexy dance along her neck and back.

  “I…I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  He gave a low chuckle. “Do you have preferences, certain things you find especially pleasurable in lovemaking? I will do what you like.”

  “Oh.” She felt like a total idiot. “No…I mean—” She stopped. Her brain was mush. She couldn’t think. “I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

  He tilted his head to the side and cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t know what pleases you in bed?”

  She swallowed. “I’ve never been asked that question before. I don’t know the lingo.”

  “Ah,” he said softly. “You poor woman. You’ve never been properly made love to. I’ll have to do something about that.”

  She was probably quite deprived in the sex department, she decided, realizing that a self-absorbed control freak like Richard couldn’t possibly have been a natural talent in bed. Not like this man, who seemed to want to play with her as if he had all the time in the world.

  Problem was that she wasn’t sure if she had all the time in the world. His hands were setting her on fire. She stirred restlessly, wanting more. Not that she had the lingo to express exactly what and how. He was stroking her body in the most erotic tantalizing way, finding sensitive places she hadn’t known she had, promising delights yet to come. Like reading an expensive menu in a foreign language.

  “You do what you think I’ll like,” she said a little breathlessly. “You’re the Italian and I trust your judgment.”

  Even in the semi-darkness she could see the laughter flashing in his eyes. “Are you sure? I
wouldn’t want you to think I force my preferences—”

  “Shh,” she said, tugging his face down to hers again. “Make love to me. Show me how it’s done Italian style.”

  “Si, signorina.”

  And he began to show her in exquisite detail, evoking in her the desire to respond with a passion of her own, to give him back in kind. She loved the muscled hardness of his body, and the way the warm skin felt under her hands and mouth. He tasted of passion and desire, of things forbidden and secret. She reveled in the sound of his ragged breathing, the soft growl of need as he responded to her touch. And on the fringes of her consciousness she was aware of never having experienced such utter, intoxicating pleasure.

  And Massimo was giving it to her with generosity and skill, attentive to her needs, taking pleasure from her pleasure.

  Her own passion surprised her—the wild abandon as she moved her body with his, only feeling and breathing and sensing. And, as the tension grew, his kisses and caresses grew more erotic, deeper, faster, his lips and fingers exquisite torture, until the feverish hungering inside her became unbearable.

  She tugged at his shoulders, raised her hips to him. “Please,” she whispered. “I can’t—” The feeling of him sliding inside her was pure agonizing ecstasy. Then he began to move and every last remnant of sane thought left her mind. She wanted, ached, needed—primitive desires overwhelming all reason. She arched against him, gripping his hips, wanting him deeper, deeper.

  There was only Massimo, their glorious lovemaking and the pure magic of it all as they clung together until the tension shattered, spinning them together into blissful release.

  Heart pounding, skin damp, Charli lay spent in Massimo’s arms. Delicious languor stole over her and she closed her eyes. She was glad he said nothing and was just holding her. It felt perfect just like this. She sighed. Perfect.

  “I talked to your mom the other day,” Bree said over the phone. “She’s getting excited about the party. Thirty years of marriage, I can’t believe it.”

  Charli had called Bree because it was her birthday, and a phone call was more personal than an e-mail card. In Italy it was almost midnight and the sky was full of stars. Massimo had gone inside to find another bottle of wine and she’d taken the opportunity to call Bree.