He slipped the tunic down further. Slowly. His nerves screamed at him to hurry, to tear the garment from her, but he wanted to savor every moment, every inch of newly exposed skin. She freed her arms, but the fabric caught on the hard peaks of her breasts. She waited. He sat back on his heels, entranced by the way the fabric hid the beautiful mounds, yet hinted so clearly at their shape. His fingers curved instinctively as if already feeling their roundness, their weight. He met her gaze, seeing the shallow rise and fall of her breath as she grew ready for him. The shiver that rippled through him had nothing to do with the mountain air. It had everything to do with the longing in his flesh, his heart, his very soul.
Perhaps it was foolish to want a woman so much, yet want her he did. She took a long, deep breath, the movement freeing one taut nipple. He licked his lips and promised the throbbing in his loins there would soon be release. Her breath caught as he reached forward to free her other nipple from the clinging fabric.
His hand lingered, his fingers brushing her lightly, like a blind man learning about a precious object by touch alone. His thumb caressed her breast. She leaned forward from the waist to kiss him again. Her mouth was an oasis of freshness and delight in a thirsty land. He cupped both her breasts and molded them in his palms, intoxicated by the smoothness of her skin, by the valley where they rose from her ribs, by the slope from her throat.
At last she pulled back. “Wait,” she whispered.
In a few seconds he saw the glimmer of her naked limbs as she slid the rest of her clothing from her and moved lower to lie beside him. She stretched a hand to his waist. “Come,” she whispered. “Come to me.”
He wanted to touch every part of her, taste her.
He rose to his knees and swung around, across her shoulders. He rested on his palms and felt her hands cradle his balls, while he suckled her breasts. He drew each nipple in turn into his hungry mouth, circling it with his tongue, driven by her cries and moans.
He moved back, letting his engorged cock brush her mouth. Immediately her tongue licked him, trailing fire along the length of him from the weeping tip to the root. He threw his head back and groaned in ecstasy. Her fingers scraped across the hot skin of his belly, and skimmed his ribs to play with the pebbles of his hard nipples.
He lowered his head and saw her legs spread wide, the dark triangle hiding the creamy softness of her cunt.
He lowered his face and nipped at the soft flesh of her inner thigh, putting his mark on her where no one else would see. In response she pulled up her legs, and he hooked his arms around behind her knees, holding them apart, baring the sweet moistness of her lips. For a long moment he looked at her, completely open to him, and inhaled the perfume of her arousal. Then he bent downward, pinning her thighs against his shoulders. All the time he nuzzled her folds, sucking and nipping, tasting the cream that oozed from her, she kissed and licked his cock, giving tiny murmurs of delight.
He brushed his lips against her swollen clit, sucking it into his mouth and at the same instant, she drew his cock deep into her throat.
Emma lay a willing prisoner beneath him in the ghostly light of the stars. His hands held her legs apart so he could eat her. His cock was heavy within her mouth, pinning her down, the pale, gleaming mass of his body arched over her. Although she was naked her flesh was warm, pulsing with life in every inch, the blood pounding in her veins.
Others had said they wanted her. Some said “make love”; some said “go to bed”. Whatever words they used, all she had ever felt was a faint quiver of desire, with no thought of losing herself. When Marco told her the same thing, using words that resonated in her core, she was bowled over. Reason, self-preservation, common sense, they all dissolved in a hot rush of desire. And she melted, merging every part of herself with him.
She ran her hands up the muscles of his thighs as he straddled her and let her fingers skim the hard curve of his buttocks. All of him was taut steel, quivering with tense strength and power. It made her body soften even more, anticipating the powerful thrust of his cock into her velvet sheath. Her inner muscles throbbed and tightened.
Her mouth still full of his cock, her cunt still fluttering from the torment of his teeth and tongue, she lightly traced the line of the crack of his ass with her fingertips and felt him nip harder at her cunt in response, making her juices flow even more. Her hands parted his cheeks and she used her forefinger to stroke the skin in the valley, letting it rest on the round, tight hole.
He gave a groan as if in pain, but she kept her finger in place. He thrust his tongue further into her vagina and she rewarded him by circling the puckered opening. He tightened his cheek muscles and trapped her fingers, raising his head from his ministrations between her legs.
“God have mercy,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Do you know what you are doing to me?”
She made an “uh-huh” sound around his cock, then released it so she could speak. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No. Yes.”
“Make up your mind.” She smiled in the darkness.
“This is what I want.” He bent his head again pushing her legs even wider apart if it were possible, his hands a vise around her ankles. “Come, come,” he said. “You are to come for me. Let me see it. Let me feel it.”
His beard scraped her soft, moist flesh, adding to the myriad sensations that assailed her. His tongue teased her, and when she gasped, he plunged it into her and withdrew, sucking her swollen clit before every thrust.
She was powerless to resist as he brought her to climax, the sensations ripping through her, making her cry out and clutch at him as the wave from within her washed upward, and took her out to a space where there was no feeling, no thought but the exquisite moment. Every inch of her cunt and her belly quivered, shot through with an aching delight, until she thought she might break apart.
As the storm subsided, she lay limp and stunned for a half-minute, her heart thudding, her body sensitive to every touch. Before she could come down completely from the sensual heights, he moved to straddle her face to face, spread her legs and drove his stake-hard cock into her. It filled her and stretched her, brushing against the mouth of her womb.
Astonished, she found herself trembling on the brink of another orgasm. Her hips arched off the floor to meet him, to drive him deeper still. She wanted to feel his hardness far inside.
She wound her arms around him and held him. He moved slowly, forcing her to wait, then increased the rhythm, making her gasp with every thrust. He brought her to the limit again, holding her poised on the brink before plunging into her one last time.
When she could think and breathe once more, he was still sheathed inside her, holding himself over her body. She moistened her lips. His cock was still big and firm. She squeezed her inner muscles and he started and moaned.
“Have pity.”
“You had none on me.”
With one hand he pushed her sweat-dampened hair out of her eyes and moved her head, compelling her to look at him. “Forgive me. I was under the impression that was what you wanted. Was I wrong?”
She had no desire to banter, to tease. What had happened between them was too profound, too intense.
“No,” she whispered. “You weren’t wrong at all.”
He pulled himself out of her and gave her a long, tender kiss. “I want to stay with you more than anything, but I must leave you, bella donna.”
She sighed. She knew he had to deal with Giovanni and had to conduct his long-planned ambush. She reached for him and trailed her fingers down his face, tracing the line of his lips. “Stay safe. Come back to me.”
With a final, tender kiss he rose to his feet and pulled on his discarded clothes. “If I know you are waiting, I’ll make sure it is swift and decisive.”
Within five minutes he was the bandit leader again, hard-faced, armed, resolute.
He cast a glance in the corner where the dog lay alert. “You’re on guard,” he said. “Look after her for me.”
He bent over her for a last, lingering kiss. “I will return for you, bella donna.”
Emma watched him move away from her. At the open wall of the hut he paused, outlined in starlight, then faded into the night.
Chapter Nine
Marco disappeared from her sight and left a cold emptiness by her side. Emma had never known anyone who could take all life and warmth with him, just by leaving her alone. But the imprint of his body remained, like the faint tenderness where his beard had rubbed her. The lines of his limbs were etched in memory and her hands longed to touch him again. He had branded her deep inside with the shape and heat of him, and she felt abandoned by the loss of him.
Suddenly, without his presence, the dark shadows in the corners of the hut became menacing. The stars still shone through the broken roof, but with a harder, more metallic sheen. The breeze chilled her skin and lifted a strand of hair from her cheek. She shivered and felt around for something to cover herself.
She heard Mickey move over against the wall and then saw the grey bulk of him edge toward her. He pushed his nose against her neck and, as if satisfied that she was still alive and breathing, lay down beside her with a satisfied grunt. She pulled some kind of fabric over her, whether it was her discarded skirt or the sheet she had used as a towel she couldn’t tell.
She turned on her side and put one arm over the dog. “You’re not much of a substitute for a lover,” she murmured. “But we’re stuck here together for a while.”
The dog licked her face. “Stop that,” she said, pushing his nose away. “You’re far too big and slobbery.” She wiped her face on the cloth that covered her breasts.
The cover and the dog’s body warmed her. She fully intended to stay awake, to listen for the sounds of the ambush, but her limbs were heavy and her eyes closed of their own accord. “I’ll rest for just a few minutes,” she whispered in Mickey’s ear.
It was the sudden movement of the dog that woke her. She had been dreaming she was adrift in a flimsy boat in cold water, huddling from a violent storm under a ripped tarpaulin. Each new blast of the wind ripped the sheet, leaving her increasingly terrified and exposed. When she opened her eyes she did not know where she was, surprised to feel solid earth beneath her. Then the rough walls of the hut brought memory back in a rush. The stars had faded, replaced by a pearly light that heralded the dawn. Mickey was on his feet, stock-still, a low growl rumbling in his chest. She must have been asleep for hours and the ambush was over, already decided for one side or the other.
In the cold light she searched for her clothes and pulled them on, leaning against the wall to spare her injured ankle.
Mickey’s ears flattened and his growl deepened. She thanked heaven that he had roused her, but how much good was this kind of dog as a protector? She hoped that the Italian variety was bred for more aggression than the Old English sheepdog that he resembled.
A faint movement came from outside, then the sound of heavy breathing. She sank to the floor and placed her hand on the dog’s neck, more for her own reassurance than to restrain him. Marco had said he would return for her. She hoped against hope that it was her lover approaching. Nevertheless, one of the discarded pieces of wood lay under her hand, and she took hold of it, waiting with bated breath.
A man appeared against the grey sky. He was as tall as Marco and her heart leaped in her chest, giving thanks that he had returned safely to her.
The figure leaned against the entrance as if tired or wounded. “Bella donna,” he said thickly. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
She scuttled backward at the sound of his voice, a cold terror in the pit of her stomach.
Giovanni raised a pistol in his right hand and pointed it at her. At the same moment, Mickey lurched forward with a loud bark and flew across the tiny space. Without hesitation Giovanni fired. The explosion was ear-shattering within the stone walls and Emma flinched instinctively, cowering against the wall, covering her head with her hands.
Mickey’s body thudded to the floor as the sound faded, and a well of despair opened in her heart. She scrambled toward the dog, unmindful of the threat of another shot. Big and arrogant, Giovanni took a step over the animal and placed a contemptuous foot on her shoulder, pushing her away. As she fell back she glimpsed a bloodstained bandage circling his thigh.
She landed on her side and struggled quickly to her knees. To her relief, Mickey lifted his head and whined. A dark stain oozed from his shoulder. Not dead, but hurt. How badly?
“Let me see him, you swine,” she spat. “You can shoot me if you want. Much good it will do you.”
“No, that is not my intention. I would rather shoot the dog.” He trained his gun on Mickey again. “You are worth much more to me as a hostage. The dog has no value.”
Suddenly it was all too much. She was tired of being a prisoner, tired of men who placed so little value on life and human dignity. Anger swelled inside her, stronger than she had ever known, clutching her throat, clouding her vision. Heedless of her swollen ankle, she launched herself from her crouching position, fingers crooked like claws. She would gouge his heart out with her bare hands if she had to.
Giovanni’s wounded leg worked in her favor because without it, he would have spun quickly and shot her in mid-flight. Instead, he stumbled slightly and Emma landed on him with all her force. She had seen enough rugby matches to know that you first knock the wind from an opponent, then you bring him down. She heard his head crack against the stone floor as he fell. He lay still, but she sat on him for good measure. Mickey thumped his tail on the ground and she bowed in his direction.
“Thank you for your recognition, kind sir,” she panted. “Very much appreciated. And now, for my next magical trick, I will truss our victim like a Christmas goose.”
First she tucked the pistol into the waistband of her skirt and then began methodically to tear strips from the pieces of fabric that had made her bed. When she had tied his arms and legs, she crawled over to Mickey to check his wound. A thin trickle of blood still oozed, but the serious bleeding had stopped. He had sustained a deep gouge in the fleshy part of his shoulder, but with no damage to the bone.
She scratched him behind his ears. “You are a brave dog,” she said. “Who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Her ankle was aflame and she sat to stretch it in front of her.
“Now what, Mickey?” She massaged her calf. “What do we do with him now he’s our prisoner? I suppose we just have to hope it’s not the Blackshirts who come for him.”
The dog panted loudly in her ear. What the hell was she doing here, wrestling outlaws, dirty and far from home? Two days ago, all she had wanted was to find her way back to Naples and then to England. Instead she’d wandered into some fantasy like the adventure stories that appeal to twelve-year-old boys. The thought of taking tea with the proper ladies of the county society was like thinking of going to the moon.
“Well, of course, Lady Utterley, it was almost impossible to take a bath, since there always seemed to be some lusting Italian lurking nearby. But I do find that sex-starved Italians give a really good fuck, don’t you?”
She spluttered with laughter. She was getting lightheaded.
The dog’s ears pricked and he stared at the gaping hole in the wall that had once been a doorway. Sure enough, there were more noises from outside. This time it sounded like more than one person. Blackshirts? Marco’s men? At least she had a weapon, even if she was unable to stand.
She cocked the gun and held it steady.
In the half-light of dawn, Marco paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. During the ambush he’d received a saber gash on the head, and someone had wound a cloth around it to stop the bleeding. It was only a scalp wound, but like all such, it had gushed a fountain of blood. He rubbed the crust that had dried on his jaw.
He dismissed the last of the stretcher-bearers and wiped his hands for the hundredth time on a bloodstained towel. His people had acquitted themselves well. With the advantage of surprise and the
warning Emma had brought, they had been ready for the force that had meant to fall on them unawares. Then they had overwhelmed the small convoy with no problem. The Blackshirts had been overconfident, believing they had terrorized the whole area into submission. Like all bullies, they were cowards at heart, and those who were not wounded had fled. The others would be cared for and a decision made what to do with them.
Marco removed his foot from the strongbox where it had rested ever since he had begun to tend the wounded. His thigh protested at the sudden relaxation, and he rubbed the muscles to send the blood coursing through his upper leg again. He had not dared let the box out of his sight or touch after the skirmish. For hours he had treated the wounds of his own men and some of the Blackshirts, but the Comandante had not passed through his hands.
He called to Pietro as he passed. “Are there any more?”
“No, dottore.”
“What happened to the Comandante after he was taken?”
Pietro shrugged and a grin spread over his smoke-blackened features. “Who knows? The last I saw, some of the men from the village had him. He was wounded in the chest.”
Marco knew he was not the only one with a score to settle with the commandant.
“Where-?”
“Best not to ask, dottore. They had the castor oil hidden close by.”
Marco sighed. He was bone weary and knew that in any case he would not find out what happened to the man. God forgive him, but he hoped the sadist died, because otherwise he and his people would never rest easy. If they killed the tyrant, the men would be sure to hide the body where it would never be found. Desperate measures for desperate times.
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