by Sara Craven
As she was made to discover the heated excitement that the deliberately sensuous brush of his bare skin against hers could generate. And was reminded, as he pulled her even closer to his hard loins, exactly how it had once felt to have all that aroused male potency and strength sheathed deep inside her.
And how, for one brief second of time, she had wanted it to last for ever.
Yet giving herself now would make her all too vulnerable to discovery, she thought, clinging to her last shreds of reason. Could lure her into betraying that she had more at stake from this encounter than any mere initiation into the deep waters of sensuality.
And if pride, maybe, and an atom of self-respect might be all she could salvage from this welter of confusion and unhappiness that was threatening to overwhelm her, then she would settle for that.
Yet how could she battle her own needs when his hands were renewing their lingering, pleasurable exploration of her body, tracing her bone structure as if he wished to commit it to memory and gently moulding every delicate curve and hollow?
When, wherever she felt his touch, her skin warmed and blossomed in helpless pleasure, making her senses swim?
She felt him lift his head and knew that he was looking down at her. She was glad that he could not see her eyes as his fingertips stroked her breasts, coaxing the rosy nipples to aching, unresisting life, making them stand proud for the homage of his lips.
And as they touched her—as she found herself pierced by a pleasure that bordered pain—Marisa turned her head away, pressing a clenched fist against the swollen contours of her mouth, biting at the knuckle.
This isn’t making love, she thought desperately. He’s just testing your will—your capacity for endurance. So, fight. Fight, damn you. Don’t let him know—don’t ever let him see. You can’t…
Renzo’s mouth enclosed each tumescent peak in turn, suckling them languorously, teasing them softly, exquisitely with his tongue. His fingers slowly traversed the flatness of her stomach, to outline the angle of one slender hip and close on it in a gesture so frankly proprietorial that she almost flinched.
Again she felt him pause, as if sensing—even gauging—her resistance, and his hand came up to capture her averted chin, compelling her to face him again.
She felt him smooth the hair back from her forehead, then brush a soft caress across her inimically closed eyelids, before returning to her mouth. And as he kissed her Marisa could taste the scent of her own skin on his lips.
His hands were moving again, sliding round to her back, his fingertips unhurriedly stroking the shivering skin up to her shoulderblades, then back down the graceful length of her spine to the sensitive area at its base, massaging it gently, before slipping down to caress the slight swell of her buttocks, his touch gentle, but deliberately inciting.
And for a shocked instant, in spite of herself, Marisa found her body arching towards him in shivering response, feeling his dark chest hair graze her swollen nipples in a torment that was as delicious as it was calculated.
‘Carissima.’ She could feel his smile whispering the words against her mouth. ‘Tesoro mio.’
He shifted his position slightly, putting her back against the heaped pillows as he bent to her, kissing her throat, her shoulders and slender arms, while his fingers travelled down to the hollow of her hipbone and lingered there.
Marisa could feel the dark headlong rush of desire scalding her body as his hand descended slowly to seek the silky mound at the junction of her thighs, his touch like gossamer against the downy flesh. Persuading her, she realised, to open herself to the ultimate intimacies.
Realised too that her resistance was ebbing under the insidious pressure of this skilful, studied arousal.
That all the deep, hot places of her womanhood were melting in this musky, wanton surge of passion, yearning to offer up their secrets to his possession. And that Renzo would already know this. Would know exactly—oh, God—how to slide his hand between her slackened thighs and caress her moist inner flesh. How to find that tiny hidden nub that was somehow the centre of all delight and coax it to swell and harden under the delicate, practised play of his fingers as they stroked, circled and tantalised, just as her nipples were doing under the renewed cajolery of his tongue.
And Marisa was lost. She couldn’t think or reason any more. Nothing seemed to exist but the sweet, terrifying anguish of this assault on her senses. The response that was being wrung from her shaken, defenceless body.
Her body was beginning to writhe, her hips lifting against his questing hand in mute pleading for—what?
For him to stop—to somehow end this shameful pleasure? To release her from this rack of delicious sensuality?
Or for him never to stop?
Her head turned restlessly on the pillows as she tried to stifle the moan of longing rising in her throat. The sound that would betray her utterly—telling him without words how desperately she needed to feel him inside her again. To feel him filling her, and offering the completion that had been denied when he’d taken her before.
And Renzo was whispering to her, his breath fanning her ear, his voice slurred and heavy as he told her that she was beautiful—that she was all the sweetness of the world—and, yes, it would be soon. It would be everything…
And in that moment she felt it, that first faint stirring deep within her, as if she was being drawn out of herself towards some distant unknown peak, with every nerve ending, every drop of blood concentrated, blindly focussed on that small, rapturous centre of sensation, aching and erect under the subtle, relentless glide of his fingertips.
Then, between one breath and the next, Marisa found herself overtaken, her shuddering, gasping body consumed by pulsations of pleasure spreading through every vein, every bone, every inch of her heated, shivering skin, each one more intense than the last. Until at their highest and fiercest pitch she thought she might faint or die, and heard herself cry out, her voice ragged with fear and wonder.
And when the hot, incredible trembling at last began to subside, she found herself wrapped closely in Renzo’s arms, her sweat-dampened face buried in his shoulder and his lips against her hair.
Ashamed that, after all, she’d rendered him such an easy victory, but knowing that even if she wanted to she did not possess the strength to move away.
And that she did not want to…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BUT at last it was Renzo who moved, reaching over the edge of the bed for his discarded robe.
Her body still quivering softly, Marisa opened weighted eyelids and stared at him, feeling suddenly bereft. Surely, surely that could not be all? a voice inside her begged. There must be more. There had to be…
Aloud, she said huskily, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere, dolcezza mia.’ The reply was soft—almost soothing. When he turned back to her she realised he was tearing open a small packet taken from his pocket, and swiftly and deftly making use of its contents.
And in some dazed corner of her mind she thought, But that can’t happen. He shouldn’t be doing that. Not if we’re going to…
Then he was drawing her once again into his arms, his mouth opening hers to admit the heated glide of his tongue. His hands stroked the length of her glowing body, then slid beneath her, lifting her towards the hardness of him that had already parted her unresisting thighs. He entered her with one sure, powerful thrust.
And all thought of protest died for her. Because, defying logic, reason and even common sense, this glorious and all-consuming sensation was what she’d been living for all these long, sterile months.
In spite of its comparative inexperience, her body, still blissfully euphoric in the wake of her first orgasm, was too relaxed to offer any impediment to his possession and she accepted him—welcomed him into her with joy.
It was so different, she thought, her mind reeling. So utterly—wonderfully different from that first time. Yet how could it possibly seem so right when everything between them was still s
o terribly wrong? And always would be…
And then, as Renzo began to move inside her, she abandoned all pretence at rationality and let her body think for her instead.
‘I don’t hurt you?’ The question seemed torn from him as he looked down at her, the golden eyes searching hers. ‘Maria Lisa—tell me—promise me that I do not…’
‘No.’ She breathed her answer, an instinct she’d not known she possessed prompting her to raise her hands and clasp his shoulders, to move her hips in slow, deliberate allurement. The ultimate physical reassurance—the candid offering of her entire self for his enjoyment.
At his instant, fervent reaction she closed on him hungrily, drawing him into her without reserve, holding him, then giving him release so that he could drive forward again, slowly and rhythmically, each time penetrating her more deeply, and surprising her into a gasp of raw pleasure.
Oh, God, he felt so amazing—so incredibly, dangerously beautiful…
At the same time her intuition told her that Renzo had himself well under control, patiently reining back his own needs in order to allow their bodies to became fully attuned to each other.
Until she realised her own responses, her own demands, should fully match his own, and they were finally joined in a harmony as old as the stars.
And even though she told herself it was—it must be—too soon, she could already feel within her, like a ripple on a tranquil sea, the renewed, irresistible build of helpless sexual excitement.
Felt it, reached for it, strained after it, half ashamed of her own greed, a tiny, frantic sob rising in her throat.
And in the next instant she found herself totally overwhelmed once more, her body throbbing in the harsh, almost feral throes of ecstasy as she moaned her pleasure aloud.
She became aware of Renzo rearing up above her, his head thrown back, throat muscles taut, as he gave a hoarse cry of rapture and his body shuddered into hers with the force of his own fulfilment.
Afterwards they lay motionless, still entwined, the only sound their ragged breathing as they struggled to return it to normality.
Marisa lay, eyes half-closed, her body still lost in its exquisite lassitude. She thought drowsily, I’m not the same person, not any more. I’ve been transformed.
She looked down tenderly at the dark head pillowed on her breasts, longing to hold him there for ever, to stroke his dishevelled hair, to kiss his eyes and mouth and whisper everything that her heart was crying out to tell him.
But she did not dare.
Because her mind was slowly and gradually beginning once more to deal with reality. Making her face a few essential truths.
Because nothing had changed at all. Not herself. And certainly not the situation that she was in.
Because sex, however magical, made no actual difference. And she must never fool herself into believing that it might.
So she did not try to stop him when eventually he eased himself away from her and left the bed to cross to the bathroom, but lay quietly, staring into space.
Asking herself how many more nights like this she could possibly endure. How deeply enmeshed in this web of passion and desire he’d spun round her might she become before she committed the cardinal sin of telling him that she loved him?
Might he even become so essential to her that there would come a time when she would not want to leave? A time when she would sacrifice every hope for the future and choose instead to remain here in his house, the obedient, docile wife, performing the domestic duties he’d outlined so succinctly to her only last night?
Careful never to be too curious about his absences. Scrupulous about ignoring the inevitable gossip that would reach her whenever he strayed too openly. And grateful for the occasional night when he would turn to her for his amusement.
Was it worth submitting to that kind of heartbreak? she asked herself wretchedly. Could she bear to watch herself slowly disintegrate in hurt and loneliness in this half-life he’d offered her?
No, she thought, shivering. I—I can’t do that. I won’t…
She made herself move, retrieve the covers from the foot of the bed and pull them into place, sheltering under them just before Renzo, yawning, came sauntering back into the room.
His brows lifted when he saw the straightened bed, but he made no comment as he slid in beside her, pulling her into his arms.
‘Why don’t we get a little sleep, carissima?’ he suggested softly. ‘Then see what the rest of the night brings.’
Novelty value…
The words seemed to beat in her head.
‘No,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I’d prefer not to.’
‘You don’t need to sleep?’ Renzo whistled softly. ‘You have miraculous powers of resilience, mia cara. I wish I shared them, but being only a man,’ he added ruefully, ‘I need a little time to recover.’
‘I meant,’ she said thickly, ‘I’d rather be alone.’
There was a fractional pause, then he said gently, ‘But sleeping and waking together is all part of marriage, Maria Lisa.’
‘For other people, perhaps. Not for us.’
Renzo released her, lifting himself on to an elbow as he stared down at her. ‘What are you saying? Have I displeased you in some way?’
‘I want to know why you did that,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Why you used—that thing when you’re supposed to be making me pregnant.’
‘Ah,’ Renzo said softly. ‘I understand. But there is plenty of time ahead of us for that, cara mia.’ He stroked the curve of her cheek. ‘And maybe we should learn to be husband and wife before we attempt to become father and mother.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘My grandfather, Nonno Santangeli, had a saying—First the pleasure in bed, later the joy in the cradle.’ He added softly, ‘After what we have just shared I thought you might agree with him.’
‘But I don’t. My recollection of the agreement between us is quite different.’ She swallowed past the unbearable tightness in her throat. ‘You seem to have forgotten that I’m here for one purpose only, signore, and not as your—plaything.’ She added flatly, ‘You have—someone else for that.’
‘Dio mio, not that again.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I have told you—it is over. And it should never have begun, except…’ He paused. ‘Well, that does not matter. My concern is that you should believe me—and try, if you can, to forgive.’ He added wryly, ‘Or do you mean to punish me for the rest of our lives?’
‘SignoraVenucci may have been sidelined,’ Marisa returned icily. ‘But I’m sure there are plenty of other candidates waiting to take her place. Only I’m not one of them. I’m looking forward to my independence, and I won’t be cheated out of it for a day longer than necessary just so that you can change the terms of our deal and use me as a substitute mistress.’
I can’t believe I’m doing this—that I’m lying to him, saying these vile things, when every word is like sticking a knife into my own flesh.
‘You believe that is what has happened here?’ His voice changed—became harsh, almost derisive. ‘My recollection is rather different. I think we used each other, Maria Lisa, and perhaps you cannot forgive me for that either. For showing you at last what your body was made for.’
‘Mille grazie,’ she said. ‘It’s always good to be taught by an expert.’ She paused. ‘No matter how that expertise was obtained. And by demonstrating that you can make me—amenable, you’ve mended your damaged pride in the process. Congratulations, signore. Everything’s worked out for you.’
‘I am glad you think so.’ There was a silence, then he added with a kind of terrible weariness, ‘How can this be? How can I be apart from you for minutes, no more, yet find a different girl—this stranger—on my return?’ He shook his head in bitter disbelief. ‘Santa Madonna, how can I be in heaven at one moment and hell the next?’
‘Because you forgot why you married me,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice level. Unemotional. ‘Why you forced me to come back to you. But I haven’t. And until you rememb
er the terms of our agreement and decide to follow them, maybe you should spend your nights in your own room.’
‘I have an even better suggestion,’ he said with icy savagery. ‘Why, signora, do you not simply provide me with a list of the days each month when you are most likely to conceive, so that I can restrict my visits to those occasions only?’ He paused. ‘In that way we will both be saved time and trouble.’
He flung back the covers and got up, reaching for his robe and shrugging it on.
As he fastened the belt, he looked down at her. ‘You accused me of cheating you, Maria Lisa,’ he said quietly. ‘But I say you are the cheat—because you are deliberately denying yourself warmth and passion. Turning your back on the sweetness we could make together.’
She looked past him. Kept her voice cool. ‘I’ll survive.’
Will I? Can I? When I already feel as if I’m fragmenting—breaking into tiny pieces. That I’ll never be whole and entire again without you…
‘And so shall I,’ he said. ‘As you say, there are plenty of other women in the world. Maybe I will find one who does not drive quite so hard a bargain. Who may even wish to be with me for myself.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But no doubt I am asking for the moon.’
And he turned away, walking across to his own room and closing the door behind him.
She nearly went after him. Nearly followed to tell him that she hadn’t meant it—any of it. To beg him to come back. To hold her close and keep her safe. And to be there—at her side always.
Except that wasn’t on offer.
There was sex, of course. The master with his latest pupil. He’d probably been sufficiently intrigued by the frenzy of her response to continue her lessons if she asked.
But how could she settle for a single course when she wanted an entire meal? A feast…?
And eventually there would be compensation, she thought achingly. A permissible focus for all the love dammed up in her heart, and one that she could even acknowledge, as she’d recognised that far-off day in the piazza at Amalfi.