She felt if she’d been drinking some incredibly delicious champagne that delivered only pleasure, and now she was completely and utterly drunk, and it was wonderful. There were no boundaries, no limitations. There was only this beautiful, beautiful man and his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers.
The man you were supposed to kill.
But she couldn’t think of that, not now. There was an exquisite pressure building inside her and she was panting, his hands at the fastenings of her jeans, pulling them open. She wanted him to touch her so desperately that she thought she might cry if he didn’t. And she never cried. Not since Matteo had been dragged away to prison.
Dante jerked her jeans off, taking her underwear with them, leaving her naked on the stone table, the remains of their meal surrounding them. The harsh sounds of his breathing filled the night and the dark fire in his eyes, the sharp, predatory look on his face, was all she could see.
He stood there shirtless, the setting sun gilding the hard, cut muscles of his chest and abdomen, and she couldn’t stop from reaching out to touch him, her hands running lovingly over the width of his powerful shoulders and sculpted chest, his skin a perfect golden bronze.
He wasn’t the charming playboy now. No, now he was pure predator, and he was starving for her.
She panted, reaching for the buttons on his trousers, wanting him, but he growled, knocking her hands away. ‘No.’ The word was bitten off and rough, and he took her wrists, guiding them behind her back and holding them there with powerful fingers. ‘I’m in charge now, kitten. Not you.’
She struggled a little, purely for show’s sake, because the feeling of being bound and held by him was like an electric shock straight between her thighs, increasing the already acute pleasure.
And he must have seen it, because he smiled fiercely, hungrily, an unholy light glittering in his eyes. ‘You like that, don’t you?’ he murmured, running his free hand down her shuddering body, his fingers brushing through the slick folds between her thighs.
She groaned, wanting to deny it. Because of course she didn’t like it when he was in charge. She wanted to be. Didn’t she? And yet she couldn’t the deny the electric pleasure of his touch and how it thrilled her that she couldn’t move her hands to touch him back, at how she was at his mercy.
A shiver went through her and she gasped as his fingers stroked her wet flesh, finding the throbbing centre between her legs and gently stroking over and around, making her jerk and shiver in his arms.
‘Please,’ she gasped, pulling against his hold. ‘Oh, please...’
There was a savage glint in his eye, a snarl twisting his mouth as he looked down at her. ‘How does it feel to be held down, kitten? How do you like the boot being on the other foot?’
A thread of anger wound through the heat in his voice and the gleam of gold in his eyes, and she knew it was about the chemistry burning between them and how helpless he was against it.
But that only thrilled her, made her even more aware of her own power, and she arched up against his hand, pressing herself into his touch. ‘Yes,’ she moaned softly. ‘More. Touch me more.’
He made a rough sound deep in his throat and muttered something vicious under his breath. But she was hardly listening, because then he was pulling open his trousers and pushing them down his hips, taking his underwear with it, and drawing himself out. Then he was urging her to the edge of the table, the furnace of his body pressed right to her bare skin. She groaned at the brush of his skin on hers, at the heat that felt as though it was burning her alive. And she was desperate to touch him, but his grip was too strong. Then he was fitting himself to the entrance of her sex and guiding himself inside, and she could feel the delicious, agonisingly pleasurable stretch of him as he began to push, her body giving way before his, adjusting to accommodate him.
She moaned, the harsh sound of his breathing filling the space between them.
He let her go for a moment, gripping her hips instead, angling her the way he wanted before drawing himself back and thrusting in again. Hard. Deep.
Stella gasped, reaching for his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin, revelling in the feel of the tense muscle beneath it.
He made a growling, masculine sound and thrust again, deeper, harder. The pleasure was irresistible, unstoppable, a force of nature she couldn’t withstand or hold out against. So she didn’t. She wound her legs around his waist and clung on to him, pressing her mouth to his throat, wanting to taste him, to get as much of him as she could any way she could get it. Because she was hungry for something she didn’t understand, and the salt and musk of his skin was delicious.
She licked him, kissed him, nipped him, tasted him with every hard, deep thrust. Until his breathing became faster, harsher, and she found herself pushed down onto her back on the table top while he leaned over her, his hands gripping onto the opposite side of the table to give himself more leverage. The rhythm of his hips was hard and sure, his thrusts impossibly deep.
She’d never been to heaven before but she was pretty sure it was like this, on her back on a table, with Dante Cardinali’s hard, muscled body inside her, over her, surrounding her in every way possible. His heat overwhelmed her, the subtle spice of his scent cut through with male arousal, and the evidence of his desire for her was in every line of his perfectly handsome face.
He looked like an angel in the process of falling, his features taut and hungry and desperate, a feral light glinting in his eyes.
And she was the one who’d driven him to this point. She was the one who’d made him fall.
She couldn’t remember why she was doing this or what point she had to prove any more. There was only him and the sharp intensity of the pleasure slowly ripping her apart.
The orgasm came like a bolt of white lightning, electrifying her, lighting her up from the inside, and she screamed with the pleasure of it. But he didn’t stop, he kept on going, forcing her higher, making everything inside her tighten once again before another impossible release.
She called his name, shuddering against him as it detonated inside her a second time, turning her hot face into his neck as the aftershocks rocked through her, feeling him move even faster, a wild rhythm that she couldn’t match this time. So she let him go, let him take what he wanted until he groaned, hoarsely muttering something in her ear as his big body shook with the force of the pleasure that was turning them both inside out.
Afterwards there was a long period of silence, the sound of the city below the terrace going about its business as if nothing had changed. As if she hadn’t been given a taste of the power that lay in her own femininity. A power she’d never understood even existed until this moment.
Then Dante moved, his hands coming to rest on the table on either side of her head as he pushed himself up a little, staring down at her.
Heat glowed in his eyes, the aftermath of pleasure and something else.
Fury.
‘What are you doing to me, Stella Montefiore?’ Dante demanded, as though all of this was her fault. ‘What the hell are you doing to me?’
CHAPTER SIX
DANTE’S HEART WAS beating so fast it felt as if it was going to come out of his chest, the remains of one of the most intense orgasms he’d ever had making his head ring like a bell. He’d never had a response like this to a woman before and he couldn’t work out what the hell was going on.
He’d told himself he wasn’t going to make an already complicated situation worse by having sex, that he’d simply ignore the desire he felt for this impossible, lovely woman. But apparently he’d severely underestimated his own need to shatter that cool exterior of hers, get a taste of the passion that flamed beneath it. Slake the sudden, overwhelming hunger that had risen inside him the moment she’d laid her mouth on his.
Dio, he’d lost control, and he never lost control. Not like this.
Beneath him
, Stella’s gaze was wide, the flush that ran the entire length of her beautiful body making the blue of her eyes seem electric. She was looking at him as though she’d never seen anything like him in her entire life, and despite himself it made satisfaction clench tight inside him.
Because there was no trace of the cool, hard woman who’d sat opposite him just before, ignoring the cracks in the ill-fitting suit of armour she wore. No, there was only this woman instead, soft and passionate and hungry, with wonder glowing in her eyes.
Then the wonder faded, her gaze flickering. ‘I’m not doing anything to you,’ she said thickly.
Disappointment caught at him, though he had no idea why. Because since when had he wanted a woman to look at him the way Stella had just now? He’d never wanted it. He’d never wanted anything from a woman at all and he shouldn’t be wanting anything now.
‘Liar.’ The word came out in a growl, his anger deepening for no good reason. ‘You’ve been pushing me since the moment you got here.’
‘And don’t tell me you don’t like it,’ she shot back, silver-blue glimmering up at him from beneath her silky golden lashes.
Oh, yes, definitely her armour was firmly back in place. Little witch.
He was still inside her and her body was soft underneath his. He could feel her inner muscles clenching around him, and that and the heat of her bare satiny skin along with the scent of sex was making him hard again.
But, despite the challenging look she’d just given him, the shadows beneath her eyes had got more pronounced and there was a certain vulnerability to the curve of her bottom lip.
She was not only inexperienced but also pregnant and physically fragile and he’d just taken her roughly on the table. And, even though they were high up and probably no one would have seen, they were still outside and visible.
What were you thinking?
A certain tightness gathered in his chest. Since his mother’s death he’d avoided taking responsibility for anyone else’s wellbeing but his own, and it had never bothered him before. But, as it had back in her apartment, the urge to make sure Stella was okay tugged at him in a way he couldn’t ignore.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked, searching her face for any signs of discomfort or pain.
She blinked and glanced away. ‘No. I’m fine.’
He didn’t think she was, though, because there was still a vulnerable look to her mouth and she wouldn’t meet his eye. Reaching out, he took her chin in his fingers and turned her face back to his so he could see her expression. ‘Kitten, you need to tell me if I hurt you,’ he insisted. ‘Because, believe it or not, that’s the last thing I want to do.’
Her throat moved and he could feel the tension in her jaw, as if she wanted to pull out of his hold but was resisting it. ‘I said I’m fine,’ she repeated, glaring at him. ‘And, no, you didn’t hurt me. Okay?’
Which should have relieved him but didn’t, because there was an undercurrent of anger in her voice that he didn’t quite understand.
But now was not the time to push, so he said nothing, carefully pulling out of her. Then, amid the ruins of their dinner, he followed the instinct that had gripped him since the moment he’d met her, gathering her up in his arms and protectively holding her small, warm body against him.
She didn’t protest, merely turned her cheek against his chest and relaxed into his hold as if she trusted him. Which of course she shouldn’t. Because he was only taking care of her for his child’s sake, naturally, not for any other reason.
And certainly not because he cared in any way about her.
Why would he? When he barely knew her?
Yet still the way she nestled in his arms made something in him want to growl with a possessive, primitive sort of satisfaction, a feeling he’d never had before and didn’t particularly like.
Deciding it was probably another biological reaction, Dante ignored it, heading through the living area and into the bathroom.
Once there, he got rid of the remains of their clothing and turned on the shower, drawing Stella into the huge, white-tiled shower stall. There were about five different shower heads and he turned them all on, holding her as the hot water streamed over them.
She kept her head against his chest, her cheek pressed to his bare skin, her body relaxed against his. Her eyes stayed closed, her lashes spangled with drops of water, and the way she rested against him—as if she was safe—made the possessive feeling inside him deepen still further.
A mistake.
He didn’t want to possess her. He didn’t want to possess anyone. He didn’t want, full-stop. It was safer, less painful and far, far less complicated not to want anything at all.
He’d learned that lesson the day his mother had dragged him away from the brother he’d loved to a lonely, dangerous existence in the gutters of Naples. Where she’d ignored all his childish pleas to stop drinking, seeming to prefer the bottle and the company of the violent boyfriend she’d hooked up with.
Dante had tried to protect her when he’d finally got old enough to give that bastard a taste of his own medicine, only to have his mother scream at him for hurting poor Roberto and then threaten to report him to the police.
Anger that he thought he’d extinguished a long time ago flared into life, glowing sullenly in his gut.
In fact, he’d tried to protect her for years and she’d thrown it back in his face every single time. And then, when she’d got hurt, as she inevitably had, she’d ended up blaming him for it. The way she’d blamed him the night she’d died.
She was right, though. That was your fault.
He ignored the thought entirely, getting some shower gel from a bottle on the shelf and stroking it over Stella’s skin, washing her gently. She relaxed totally against him, not saying anything, her breathing deep and slow. Almost as if she’d fallen asleep standing up.
No, he didn’t want to think about his mother, not here, not now. In fact, what he wanted was to push Stella up against the tiled wall and forget his doubts by exploring her lovely body and making her scream his name again. But he wasn’t going to. She was clearly exhausted and needed sleep more than anything else.
Dante finished washing her body then began to wash her hair, as it was clear that hadn’t been done in a while. She didn’t protest and didn’t move, only giving a sensual little sigh as he massaged the shampoo through her scalp. The sound didn’t help his aching groin, but he ignored that too, making her hair smooth and shiny with the conditioner before helping her out of the shower and drying her off.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ she murmured as he picked her up again, gathering her close as he carried her out of the bathroom.
‘Because you’re pregnant and you’re tired and you need looking after.’ He moved down the hallway and into the massive bedroom with its view out over the rooftops of Rome. Facing the view, pushed up against the opposite wall, was the huge bed piled high with soft bedding and white pillows—he liked to be comfortable.
‘No, I don’t,’ Stella muttered sleepily as he pulled back the duvet and laid her down onto the bed.
‘For the sake of the baby you do.’ He pulled the covers around her, making sure she was comfortable, ignoring the urge to climb in beside her and hold her soft, naked body against his, protect her while she slept.
She was safe here, and anyway lying beside her would only make him hard, and he definitely didn’t need any more temptation where she was concerned. He’d given in to it out there on the terrace, but he wouldn’t again, not with the possessiveness he was already feeling.
Best not to make it any worse.
Dante turned away, only to have her reach out unexpectedly, her slender fingers wrapping around his and holding on.
He stilled and looked down at her. ‘What is it?’
Her hair was spread like damp, golden silk all over the pillows, her eyes wide and
dark. ‘Where will you sleep?’
‘The couch probably.’ He hadn’t thought about it, not that he was tired.
A strange expression crossed her face and then her fingers tightened around his. ‘Don’t...don’t go.’
Surprise caught at him. ‘Why?’
‘I just...’ She stopped, glancing away. But she didn’t let go of his hand. ‘I’m...cold.’
He didn’t think she was and it made something pull tight in his chest, something he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He should refuse. Turn around and walk out of the room. Yet he didn’t.
Instead he gently tugged his hand free then pulled back the covers and climbed into bed beside her. She settled against him as he arranged her so her spine was to his chest, the soft curve of her bottom fitting against his groin.
He wasn’t used to dismissing his body’s physical wants, yet he found himself doing so now, ignoring how hard he was and how he ached, biting back a groan as she snuggled back against him, nudging the ridge of his erection.
Then she sighed and relaxed and he found he’d unconsciously spread his palm out on her bare stomach in a protective, possessive movement.
Because of the baby. Of course for the baby.
And yet it wasn’t the baby he was thinking of as her breathing deepened and became more regular, her body soft, warm and yielding against him.
It was the feel of her fingers gripping his hand.
As if she was afraid to let him go.
* * *
Stella woke to find sunlight streaming across her face. She was lying tangled in a white sheet in the middle of a massive bed, and she was completely and utterly naked.
She was also alone.
Which was a mercy, given the memories of the night before streaming through her mind in glorious Technicolour. Dante taking her passionately on the table on the terrace. Dante staring down at her with fury in his eyes, demanding to know what she’d done to him. Dante gathering her up in his arms and taking her into the shower, washing her gently before putting her to bed.
Claiming His One-Night Child Page 9