Bedroom eyes, they said in the magazines. His look told her he could make her come anywhere, anytime, and she couldn’t do a thing about it. He was absolutely right.
“Just looking at you makes me hard,” he said, “but I must remember my promise.”
He stood in a lithe movement and adjusted his clothing.
“You will have your bath,” he said. “But I have one wish.”
“What?” She didn’t care what his wish was. She would dance naked on the tabletop if he asked. And if her ankle would hold.
“I want to see you naked when I return.” He kissed her lips. “Will you do that?”
“That’s easy.” She pulled his head to her mouth again.
Marco tore himself away from her with a groan and opened the door. He called out something in the hallway and she heard a woman’s answering voice. She supposed there had to be servants in the house. Someone had prepared this lovely room. Marco’s footsteps faded and she began to remove her tunic and skirt.
She lay naked, drowsing against the soft bedding, waiting for her lover, watching the shadows lengthen and the outline of the furniture grow blurred. She let her hands drift over her body. She had never felt like this, as sensitive as a bare nerve, as sensuous as a cat. Her body had grown conditioned to respond to the slightest touch, to react to every lustful thought. At last she heard his footsteps outside. He came back into the room and her heartbeat notched up a fraction as it did every time she saw him.
He closed the door behind him and stood looking at her, taking in her nakedness. She wanted to stretch under the caress of his hot eyes, displaying her body for his approval. He nodded in satisfaction, moistened his lips and began to tug his shirt over his head. His eyes returned to her as he undid his trousers and let them fall, and she felt the familiar shiver start between her legs and creep to her belly, her breasts.
He took two strides to the bed and she rolled toward him, taking his cock gently in one hand. She touched her lips to it, delighting in the soft velvet of the skin, tracing the large, pulsing vein with the very tip of her tongue. It hardened and rose under her mouth and she smiled. She had power over him too. He groaned and pressed her head to his groin. “Oh, I want, I want,” he muttered. “But wait, bella donna. Wait a short while.”
He scooped her into his arms and settled her against his warm, naked chest. She rubbed her cheek against him, feeling the soft hair against her skin, and twined one arm around his neck. Her other hand traced around his nipple, making it peak. When he moved, his erection brushed against the cheeks of her ass. He carried her through a doorway.
The deep porcelain tub with high sides sat in the center of its own small room. A window was open to the gardens and the branch of a sweet-smelling bush nodded outside. Soft tendrils of steam rose lazily into the air from the surface of the water. Candles stood ready on the windowsill, and a fresh bottle of wine stood uncorked beside two sparkling glasses.
Marco held her, wreathed in scented steam, and let her dip a toe into the water. The temperature was perfect. She kissed along the line of his jaw and stroked her fingers down his cheek, the strong column of his neck and to the lovely hollow of his throat.
He lowered her gently, until her arms could steady her and she slid into the perfumed depths. He quickly stepped into the water behind her, settling her on his lap. She leaned back against him to let the water lap her breasts. His erection was hard and firm under her bottom, nudging at the cheeks of her ass. She remembered last night when she had teased him in the same spot. Her clit began to throb.
Marco took the bottle of wine and poured a measure into each glass. Reaching over her shoulder he put a goblet to her mouth. She sipped at the fragrant liquid, letting it slip down her throat like molten gold, sending little rivulets of warmth to her nipples, to her lips, to her clit. A soft torpor invaded her whole body and she lay back, her eyes half closed. A bird began to trill outside the window.
Three baths in as many days, all so different. She would never step into a tub again without remembering Enrico’s hovel, the threat from Giovanni, or the sheer delight of luxuriating with Marco.
When she had drunk some wine, Marco replaced the glass and took a large sponge from the side of the bath. Dipping it in the water, he lathered it with a creamy bar of soap and began to skim it over her shoulders. He lightly traced up the side of her neck, over the pulsing artery in her throat and down to her collarbone. At the same time the fingers of his other hand crept between her legs and slid over her clit, seeking and stroking. She tried to turn to face him, but he held her in a vise. When she gasped and threw her head back against his shoulder he removed his hand and seized her leg, lifting it out of the water to wash. He massaged her foot and she groaned. No matter where he put his hands, it increased her arousal. His stiff cock slid between her legs and she rubbed against him, letting it nudge the soft opening of her vagina. If he didn’t give her release, she knew she would scream out in longing and frustration.
He kissed her temple. “I love the way you are always so ready for me.”
“Oh God,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m begging for it again.”
“Begging is good. I like it.”
“I can tell.”
She reached between her legs and took hold of him. “Two can play that game.” She slid her hand up and down the shaft, teasing the tip with her thumb. He dropped the sponge, put his arms round her and grasped her breasts. He groaned and she felt his body tense against her back.
“Who’s begging now?” she whispered.
“Dio mio, bella donna.”
“I can’t see you. Tell me.”
“I shall explode if you don’t let me inside you.”
“I’ll take pity on you.” The truth was that she was barely containing her own explosion. Still with her back to him, she slowly raised her hips and guided his cock into her. Moving with a deliberate lack of haste despite the growing urge in her belly, she eased him inside her and settled between his thighs. His hands squeezed and molded her breasts, his chest shielded her back, his muscled legs supported her ass, his spike-hard cock was deep inside her.
Every inch of her where he caressed sparked with fire.
He moved one hand from her breast and began again to finger her clit. She squeezed her inner muscles in response and felt him swell even more. The delicious warmth began as a buzz between her legs, creeping over her belly, sinking inside her until she saw nothing, heard nothing, her whole being focused on where their bodies joined. At last she stiffened against him and let the wave carry her.
“Now,” she cried. “Oh God, now!”
No more than a heartbeat later, he let out a guttural roar and she felt the hot spurt of his semen against her womb, his thrusts prolonging and enhancing her own orgasm.
They lay together, barely breathing, recovering from the onslaught until the water began to cool. Marco kissed the nape of her neck, wrapped her in a large towel and carried her back to the bedroom. On a side table someone had placed cheese and grapes, bread and wine. The bed had been remade with fresh linen.
He laid her down on the bed and she sat up, pulling the folds of the bath sheet around her shoulders. “Who did all this?” she asked. “It’s as if you have invisible retainers, like a fairy castle.”
Marco laughed and strode naked to the table. She admired the tautness of the muscles in his legs and his ass, the lovely taper of his back, the strength of his shoulders.
“There is a housekeeper and her husband,” he said, cutting a slice of the cheese. “They have been with my family since my father was a boy. They were also in hiding, but they returned. The rest of the house will not be like this room. It needs much work.”
He came back to her and began to feed her the moist, creamy cheese.
She took some between her teeth, savoring it on her tongue. “Delicious.”
“There’s a French painting,” she said, “called the Picnic. It’s of naked people eating on the grass. I always thought it was
pretty fanciful until now.”
Marco nodded. “I’ve seen it. The women aren’t half as beautiful as you. Hair like jet, eyes with the promise of midnight, breasts that drive a man wild.” He bent his head to kiss each of them in turn.
She stroked his hair and ran her hand over his shoulder and down his back, feeling the ripple of the muscles under her fingers as he moved.
“Would you like more wine?” he murmured against the swell of her breast.
“No, thank you.” She sighed. “I could love this life after what happened in the last few days.”
“Whatever gives you pleasure is yours.”
“I know.” He had thought of her during all the events of the last few hours, making sure that he brought her somewhere clean and beautiful. The realization touched her deeply. He was stern when he had to be, and determined in pursuing what was right, but it was the underlying softness in him that left her without defenses. When she was with him and he treated her gently and lovingly, the needs she had suppressed for too long came to the surface and washed over her like a tidal wave. They destroyed her defenses, and left her confronted with the naked truth of her feelings for him.
“Tomorrow we could picnic outside,” he said. “There’s a beautiful grove-”
The word “tomorrow” hung like the sound of a bell in the air. He felt her stiffen and looked up at her. She swallowed the last of cheese.
“Tomorrow I’ll try to walk. I must telephone,” she said. “Marco-” She pushed the dark lock of hair back from his brow. “-you know I must let my father know I’m alive. I have already delayed too long.”
He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. He was silent for so long that she began to search for more words to explain why she couldn’t stay.
Before she could speak, he sighed, his eyes still on their joined hands. “Your father loves you very much.”
“Yes, he does.”
“You love him.”
“I do.”
“You have a home in England.”
“Yes.”
He looked her full in the eyes. “Go to him, but remember I love you too. I could make a home for you here.”
Her heart thudded against the wall of her chest. “I love you, too.” Every fiber of her being urged her to agree, to say she would live with him, would sleep in his bed, share his food, help him rebuild his life. But she couldn’t be sure. The intensity of their relationship, the atmosphere of danger and rampant passion had perhaps led them to believe that what they felt was love, when it was lust, burning clear and beautiful, but lust just the same. She longed to throw caution to the winds, to go with her heart, but she was her father’s daughter and she had her own past that warned her to be cautious, like a stern grandmother wagging her finger at a wayward girl. She needed time and space to consider before she agreed. When she agreed-if she agreed-it would be because she was absolutely sure of her own feelings as well as his.
She swallowed against the constriction in her throat. “Marco, I know about your wife. I know what happened to her. You and I-” she let her hand linger on his shoulder “-we have known each other three days.”
He looked up at her face. His eyes were hooded, his lips set in a thin line. She placed a finger on his lips. “Let me have some time, Marco. Let me go home. In a short while, if I still feel the same way as I do now, I will come back to you.” She smiled at him. “We have a few more hours together. Pour me some more of that delicious wine after all and tell me about your family, about this house.”
He filled their glasses again. “My family has owned the land around here for four hundred years,” he began. “The ancestors of most of the people who work for us tilled the soil and built the terraces…” He went on to tell her about the crops, the vines and the olives, and about all the intricate relationships, the intermarriages, the sense of belonging.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, listening to him talk, occasionally massaging and flexing her sore ankle. She understood completely. Her own family had been landowners for centuries too, ever since one of them had made a fortune sailing with Sir Francis Drake.
Dusk fell and Marco lit candles. The flickering flames sent shadows dancing in the room as he gestured, and emphasized the planes and hollows of his face, making his eyes glitter. She watched him, drinking in the lines of his body, the passion in his voice.
“What about Giovanni?” she asked at last.
Marco’s lips twisted in a bitter grimace. “My mother’s sister’s boy,” he said. “Two years younger than I, but we were inseparable growing up. His father died when he was just a baby and my father took him in like a son. Everything I had, he had too. Education, money, opportunity-” He sighed. “I don’t understand it.”
“Jealousy,” Emma said. “Easy enough to understand really. The younger boy always wanting to be as big, as strong, as clever as his older cousin. Never quite able to make it. Rebellious, plus resentment at being the poor relation, being beholden. Then an opportunity comes to follow a different path, to be successful in a totally opposite way, and it’s too tempting to resist.”
Marco stared at her. “Do you think so?”
“I know so. Seen it lots of times. You don’t make friends by heaping them with material things. I know your family’s intentions were good, but the grateful orphan only exists in novels.”
“You’ve a hard heart.”
“No, just a practical one.” She touched his hand. “But I also understand how it hurts when someone is ungrateful.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Are you speaking from experience?”
Some of the juice from the grapes had clung to her hands and he placed each finger in his mouth, sucking the sweetness. She tried to ignore the desire tugging at her and gently withdrew her fingers.
“Yes. I know someone just like that.” She pulled a cover around her. “They leave poison behind them.”
He looked at her. The weight of his unspoken question hung between them. He reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “After all we’ve shared, I would like you to tell me who hurt you,” he said, his husky voice betraying the depth of his feeling. “We’ll have no chance together unless we’re honest with each other.”
He was right. This was the moment of truth. She had known in her heart that it would come as soon as he’d said, “I love you”. This was the revelation she had thought she might not have to make if she had been able to leave tomorrow with no questions. The last few days were not a case of “Thank you for a wonderful experience Signor Marco. If ever you’re in England look me up.” This hadn’t been a simple fling, nights and days of wonderful sex. Oh, the sex had been extraordinary, but there was more. They both knew they were on the brink of something life-changing, and the realization had already dawned that she’d moved too close to the edge to avoid disaster.
She would have liked him to believe she had no past, that she had come to him like Venus rising from the waves, all pure and unsullied. On the other hand, he knew for a fact she wasn’t a virgin, must have understood that there had been lovers.
She took a deep breath.
“When I was eighteen I was in love. You have to understand that where I come from a girl’s whole life is a preamble to getting married to the right man, living in the right house, and in the right county, like something out of a Jane Austen novel. He was a poor relation, but we’d grown up together, and he’d been treated like a son. Daddy liked him. I thought I loved him.
“A huge wedding was planned, my grandmother’s tiara came out of the vault for a clean and a polish, the invitations were ready. I was to wear my mother’s lace veil.” She swallowed, blinking back tears that she still couldn’t hold back. “Then he ditched me. Wrote me a twenty word note and took off for some job in India, left the country. He didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. I still don’t know if he planned it or if was an unconscious revolt against everything my family stood for, but I was devastated. Imagine the humil
iation-eighteen years old and jilted by someone I’d known forever. I vowed I’d never put myself in that position again. I swore I would marry if and when I had to, but only to secure my inheritance, never for love. Love makes you too vulnerable.”
Marco handed her some more wine and she took a deep draught. He made as if to speak but she held up a hand. “No, let me finish. Almost out of revenge, I set out to break hearts. I was what is known as a ‘goer’. If there was a riotous party I’d be there. I was choosy about my partners, but there were more than I care to admit. Men fell for me, declared their love, but I soon tired of them. When it was finished I never answered their letters or their pleading. I enjoyed the power. I associated with people who didn’t want any commitment and I found myself turning from a jilted, eighteen-year-old deb with a broken heart into a worldly wise woman of twenty-seven.”
She continued to look down, not daring to lift her eyes to see his reaction.
“Is that how you thought of me? An instrument of revenge?” His voice seemed to come from far away.
“Oh God, no! You were so different.” She felt his fingers on her face, wiping away the tears. He gathered her into his arms and rocked her as she cried.
“Now you can take back what you said,” she murmured against his chest. “I understand if you want nothing more to do with me.”
“Cara, bellissima,” he whispered. “I don’t care what men you’ve tortured in the past. Just tell me it’s over.”
“Yes, it’s over. It’s been over for a while, until I met you.” She lifted her face for his kiss.
Soon after, Marco snuffed the candles and lay beside her in the big, soft bed. The sweetly scented night air wafted in through the open windows, stirring the pale curtains.
They lay quietly for a while, with his arms around her. And then he found her mouth and kissed her, not just with his lips but with his whole being, surrounding her and engulfing her in a consuming embrace. She resisted the call of his body for no more than a heartbeat before pressing herself against him and returning his kiss with all the heat and depth of feeling that she knew now had been missing from her life.
Bella Donna Page 14