The Ice Prince

by Sandra Marton

  Draco bent his head and pressed a kiss to each curve of lush flesh within the silken cups. Anna moaned, cupped her breasts, made them an offering to his desire and hers, but he took her hands and brought them to her sides.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  Her jeans rode low on her hips. He undid the button, opened the zipper, his eyes never leaving hers. He saw the color in her face deepen, heard her breathing quicken. She made a little sound, half moan, half sigh.

  He was killing them both.

  What an exquisite way to die.

  Inch by inch, torment by torment.

  There would be no mercy for her, or for him.

  He was already hard as a man could be without groaning but this—this was a special kind of pain, and worth whatever it took to endure.

  He would not rush this night.

  He knelt. Unlaced the laces of her sneakers. Her feet were bare, the arches high and feminine. He curved his hand around one ankle, then the other, and slipped the sneakers off. Then he rose again, hooked his thumbs into the jeans and slowly, slowly eased them down her hips and legs.

  Draco got to his feet, everything in him tight and intense, his eyes narrowing to dark slits as Anna stepped free of the jeans.

  All she had on now were the bra and a matching thong that cupped her like the hand of a lover.

  His hand, he thought. Only his.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw.

  She was half-naked, all hot skin and cool silk. He took one step forward, his eyes on hers, and curved his palm over the bit of silk between her thighs.

  Anna cried out.

  He could feel all his good intentions coming apart.

  “Anna,” he said, the single word hot with warning.

  “Draco,” she whispered, and she smiled, such a sexy smile, so wicked, so filled with the knowledge of Eve.

  He knew she was remembering last night and how they’d said those same words when he’d stormed into her hotel room. He would have smiled, too, but suddenly she was touching him, her fingers at his zipper, dragging it down, and his rigid length sprang free into her hand, her fingers wrapping as best they could around his engorged flesh.

  “Now,” she said, and any coherent thought he might have still possessed flew from his head.

  He swung her into his arms, carried her to the bed. Tore off his clothes. Came down to her and she arched toward him, seeking his mouth, her tongue a sliver of silk against his, her teeth nipping at his lip, her soft cries burning, burning into his brain.

  Draco caught her wrists. Raised her arms over her head, his fingers manacles of steel.

  “What do you want?” he said thickly. “Tell me.”

  “You,” Anna said, “you, Draco, please, please, I want you. I need you …”

  “Only me,” he growled. “Say it, Anna.”

  “Yes, yes. Only you. Only you. Only—”

  She screamed as he thrust into her, hard, fast, deep. Her cry filled the night; he felt her muscles contract around him.

  “Open your eyes,” he said roughly. “Look at me.”

  Her lashes rose. Her eyes wild and hot, filled with him.

  “Draco,” she sobbed, “Draco …”

  He let go of her wrists, slid his hands beneath her, lifting her into his hard body, into the steady demand of a primitive rhythm. She moved with him, her hair flung over the pillow, her hands clutching his biceps.

  He could feel the tension building in his body, in his scrotum. Wait, he told himself, wait for her to come again …

  She did. Once. Twice. He heard Anna cry his name, felt her fingers dig deep into his buttocks. And then he stopped thinking, gave in to the pleasure that was more than pleasure, let it consume him.

  Let it consume them both as they flew off the edge of the world into the black Roman night.

  Time slipped past.

  A minute. An hour. Anna couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Time had no meaning.

  Only this was important.

  Draco, collapsed over her, his skin as slick with sweat as hers, his heart hammering the same as hers, his breathing as ragged as hers.

  Her arms were wrapped around him. One leg was draped over his hip. She had no idea where she began and he ended, and she sighed and thought she could stay like this forever.

  “Too heavy,” he grunted, hearing her sigh, but she shook her head, kissed his shoulder, held him even closer and that was a damned good thing because he wasn’t sure that he could move.

  He sure as hell didn’t want to.

  “Stay,” she murmured, and he grunted again and let his muscles go slack.

  After another minute, or maybe another hour, he said something.

  “Mmm,” Anna said, because she had no idea what it was but she figured that mmm would cover all possibilities.

  He laughed and rolled onto his side, taking her with him.

  “‘Mmm’ what?”

  “Mmm to whatever you asked me,” she said lazily.

  Draco nuzzled a spill of curls off her cheek.

  “I didn’t ask. I said.”

  Her lips curved in a lazy smile. “The authoritative prince.”

  “Damned right.” He rolled again, this time onto his back, taking her with him so that she lay sprawled over him like a blanket. A warm, silken blanket, he thought, his arms tight around her.

  “I said so much for the best-laid plans.”

  “I am,” Anna said primly, “very well laid, Your Highness, and thank you for asking.”

  Draco laughed. “I’m happy to hear it.”

  “So what were these plans?” she said, and kissed his shoulder.

  “I was going to make love to you very, very slowly,” he said, running his hand up and down the length of her spine.

  “Ah. Those plans.” She lifted her head, folded her hands on his chest, propped her chin on them and smiled. “You looking for compliments, Valenti? ’Cause if you are, all things considered, I think we did pretty well.”

  There it was again, that wickedly sexy smile. Combined with the feel of her draped over him, it was causing trouble with his anatomy.

  “You do, huh?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said in her best courtroom voice, “consider the evidence.”

  He shifted, just a little. “What evidence?”

  “The evidence,” Anna said. “You know. Exhibit A. And exhibit—” Her breath caught as he shifted again. “Exhibit B,” she whispered. “Definitely exhibit—”

  He cupped one hand around the nape of her neck and brought her mouth to his. His kiss was sweet and tender; she could feel a honeyed warmth spreading through her body.

  No, she thought as his kiss deepened. Not just through her body. The warmth was everywhere. In her lips, as they clung to his.

  And in her heart.

  The realization made her tremble. Draco rolled her beneath him.

  “Anna. What is it, bellissima?”

  “Draco,” she whispered, and his lips found hers, moved over hers with passion and tenderness. “Draco,” she said again, and then she wound her arms tightly around her lover’s neck, and the world, and reality, fell away.

  Sometime between midnight and dawn, long after the moon had set, Anna awoke to Draco’s kisses.

  “Mmm,” she said sleepily, and he smiled and brushed his lips lightly over hers.

  “Such an extensive vocabulary, il mio amore,” he said softly. “I’m glad we agree.”

  Anna yawned. “Mmm,” she said again, and started to snuggle deeper into his arms.

  “Anna. Surely those mmms meant ‘Yes, Draco. I agree. I’m starving. I can’t even remember the last time we had anything to eat.’”

  Anna blinked her eyes open. “You’re right. I can’t.”

  “Exactly. We need food. Sustenance. That which gives a man energy to survive the difficult demands put on him by a woman.”

  That made her laugh. “Such a sacrifice, Valenti.”

  Draco caught her bottom lip in his teeth, nibble
d gently, then ran the tip of his tongue over the sweet wound.

  “What would you like?”

  Anna toyed with a dark strand of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

  “A Big Mac and fries?”

  He grinned. “How about some pasta? Tomato sauce. Black olives. Garlic. Anchovies. Freshly grated Romano cheese. And whatever else is in the refrigerator.” He raised one eyebrow. “How does that sound?”

  “Like takeout from this amazing little Italian place down the block from my office. One problem, though. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re a few thousand miles from Manhattan.”

  Draco tossed back the duvet and sat up.

  “I,” he said smugly, “just happen to be a world-class cook!”

  She sat up, too, and gave him a look. “You, Valenti?”

  “Me, consigliere,” he said as he strode into what Anna assumed was a dressing room.

  He was, she thought, a gorgeous man. All hard muscle, taut definition and potent masculinity.

  But he was more than that.

  So much more.

  Charming. Strong. Determined. Opinionated. Arrogant. Tender. Sweet.

  He was all those things, some of them total contradictions, and how could that be? How could he be so many different things to her?

  He was—he was wonderful. Being with him was wonderful, not only in bed but in so many ways.

  She loved talking with him. She loved joking with him. She loved being held in his arms.

  She loved—she loved—

  “Anna?”

  Anna blinked. Draco was back, wearing sweatpants, holding open a deep blue terry-cloth robe.

  She stared at him. Her heart was beating fast. No. The idea was insane. You didn’t fall in love with a man in, what, forty-eight hours. She certainly didn’t. She didn’t fall in love at all!

  She didn’t even know what love was … or maybe she did. Yes, damned right, she did. Love was a trap. It was the way nature reminded you that you were a second-class citizen, that once you gave yourself up to a man, you were whatever he wanted you to be and not what you’d wanted to be.

  “Bellissima? Why such a shocked look on that beautiful face?”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Nothing. Well, I mean—I mean, it’s terribly late. I—I should get back to the hotel.”

  “Anna.” He came toward her slowly, his eyes locked to hers. “What are you talking about?”

  “The time. How late it is. And—”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Anna grabbed the robe from his hands, stood up and quickly slipped it on. She didn’t want to be naked. As it was, she felt—she felt totally, terrifyingly exposed.

  “Well, but it isn’t up to you, is it?” Her voice was brittle. She hated the sound, hated the way he was looking at her, the way she felt, confused and desperate, and there was this unpleasant, leaden feeling in her heart … “It’s up to me if I want to leave, and—”

  She gasped as Draco pulled her into his arms.

  “I would not have thought the Orsini consigliere would be a coward.”

  “I’m not a coward. And I told you, I’m not a consigliere. I hate my father and what he stands for, and the only famiglia I’m part of is the one made up of my four brothers and my sister, and if you don’t let go of me, Draco Valenti, I’ll—I’ll—”

  Draco muttered a rough phrase in Italian, hauled her to her toes and kissed her. Anna fought the kiss.

  No. Not the kiss. She fought what she felt, the floodgate of emotion opening in her heart.

  She trembled as Draco took his lips from hers and drew her close.

  “Lo so, tesoro,” he whispered. “I know. You don’t understand this. Neither do I.” He stroked her hair, pressed his lips to her temple. “Something different, sì? This—this feeling. This emotion …”

  She gave a watery laugh.

  “Pasta and philosophy. What more could one ask for in the middle of the night?”

  He laughed, too, and gathered her to him.

  She could feel his heart beating. He could feel hers.

  They stood that way for a long time. Then Anna leaned back in her lover’s arms.

  “Draco,” she said softly.

  “Anna,” he said just as softly.

  They smiled, both thinking, again, of that first night together and how he had said her name and she had said his.

  He cupped her face. Kissed her so tenderly she felt tears in her eyes.

  After a long time he stepped back. Tied the sash of the robe at her waist. Looked at her, from the tips of her bare toes to the top of her tousled curls.

  His smile lit her heart.

  “Sei cosi bella,” he said softly.

  He took her hand and kissed it. Then, fingers entwined, he led her through the still-dark villa to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DRACO had told the truth.

  Almost.

  He wasn’t a world-class chef, but he made world-class espresso. Anna pronounced it amazing as they sat drinking it at a small marble-topped table in the garden just off the kitchen.

  “Not even my mother makes better coffee,” she told him.

  “That,” he said solemnly, “has to be a world-class compliment.”

  She grinned. “You’d better believe it.”

  The sun was rising, shedding streaks of gold through the garden and the pines that surrounded it.

  Anna sighed. “It’s lovely here,” she said softly. “The only thing missing is music.”

  “The Pines of Rome,” Draco said.

  Anna looked at him over her coffee cup. “Yes, exactly.” She smiled. “And here I thought I was the only person in the world who loved Respighi.”

  “Got to admit,” Draco said solemnly, “for me, it’s a toss-up between Respighi and Mick Jagger.”

  She laughed. He loved to watch her laugh. There was nothing delicate or false about it, the way there was with so many women.

  “Well, heck,” she said, “why not? I mean, they’re both golden oldies.”

  Draco grinned. And then, because it seemed the most natural thing in the world, he leaned across the table and kissed her.

  “Nice,” he said. He kissed her again. Her lips parted, clung gently to his. “Very nice. The best possible way to get sugar with my espresso.”

  Anna’s lips curved against his. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But I guess you know that, huh?”

  “Me?” Draco said, with such innocence that she giggled.

  He grinned, tugged her from her chair and drew her into his lap. They kissed again. And again. His hand slipped inside her robe. She moaned as he caressed her breast, and then she grabbed his hand and clasped it firmly in both of hers.

  “We need food, remember?” she said sternly. “Sustenance, Valenti. You said so yourself.” She got to her feet. He rose, too, collected their cups and followed her into the kitchen, where an enormous pot of sauce simmered on the stove.

  It had turned out that he was not only a world-class maker of coffee, he was also a world-class slicer and dicer of onions, garlic, celery, tomatoes—all the stuff they’d pilfered from the fridge and pantry and combined in a pot.

  It had been simmering for an hour. Now Draco took a deep, deep breath.

  “Wow.”

  Anna nodded. “Wow, indeed.”

  “It smells wonderful.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m the chef,” she said smugly, plucking a big wooden spoon from the top of the stove and stirring the sauce. “Maybe not world class, but my-mother’s-kitchen class, anyway.”

  “Hey,” he said, “we’re both Italian. Ragù is in our genes.”

  “Ragù, as in the brand of gravy in a jar?”

  “Ragù, as in that’s the word for … Gravy? What gravy?”

  Anna laughed. “If you grow up in Little Italy, this red stuff is gravy.”

  “Ah.” Draco took the spoon and stirred the simmering sauce.

  “Ah, what?”

&
nbsp; “Nothing. I just—oof! Darn it, woman, that is a very sharp elbow.”

  “Did you just make a disparaging comment about my ancestry?”

  He gave her a look of abject innocence.

  “Would I say anything disparaging about a woman who can make a pasta sauce this good? Here,” he said, holding out the spoon. “Take a taste.”

  “From that spoon straight to my hips.”

  “Your hips are perfect.”

  “Liar,” she said, trying not to smile.

  “They’re curvy. Feminine. Sexy. In other words, perfect. Now, come on, lady lawyer. Taste.”

  Anna rolled her eyes. “That is so-o-o sexist.”

  “Stop complaining and taste the … What did you call it? Taste the gravy.”

  Smiling, she leaned toward him. Draco whisked the spoon away and captured her mouth with his.

  “Mmm,” he said softly.

  “Mmm, indeed.”

  Draco swept his arms around her. “Mmm is becoming my favorite word.”

  She reached up and brushed a dark lock of hair off his forehead. “Mine, too.”

  “In that case …”

  He kissed her again. And again.

  Anna laid her hand against his jaw, felt the roughness of early-morning stubble beneath the tips of her fingers. So sexy. So masculine. It felt that way, too. Against her hand. And, God, against her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs.

  Had she really thought she didn’t like that sensation? That, and coming awake in a man’s arms. Why had that always seemed as if it would surely be something to avoid?

  Turned out it wasn’t.

  In fact, there were definite benefits.

  Morning sex. Something she’d never thought was all that movies and books made it out to be. But it was. It was lovely. Absolutely lovely when the man was Draco.

  “Such deep, deep thoughts, bellissima.”

  She blinked. Draco was watching her with the kind of all-or-nothing intensity that was one of the first things she’d noticed about him.

  Liked about him.

  Liked very much. Very, very much …

  “Anna.” He set the spoon aside, gathered her into his arms. “What is it, cara?”

  She swallowed hard, worked up a smile.