The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

by Spencer, Catherine

  And awake. “Ciao,” he said, his eyes dark gleaming pools in his face.

  She let out a gasp. The die was cast. There was no sneaking back to her own room; no pretending she’d wandered into his by accident. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whimpered, and went to snatch back her hand.

  His own shot out and captured her wrist, holding her firmly in place “I was not sleeping, Arlene. Far from it,” he said, and to prove his point, slid her hand from his chest and over the flat plane of his stomach to the thick, hot ridge of flesh resting against his belly. “I was thinking about you and wondering how long I’d have to wait to possess you.”

  She almost fainted with fright. In the space of a heartbeat, she’d gone from laying an innocuous hand on his chest, to holding his penis. It throbbed against her palm, silky and determined. Eager and urgent.

  What did he want her to do next?

  The possible ways she might seduce him had occurred to her. Of course they had.

  But not once had she envisioned this. Her focus had been on letting him know with a glance, a word, that she was ready to take the next step. With enticing him into her room, then letting him take it from there.

  How had she, whose experience in the art of lovemaking was about on a par with a beginner pianist, skipped straight from recognizing the correct sequence of simple notes, to performing a complicated overture she’d never played before?

  “Arlene?” His voice swam out of the shadows, as much a caress as a question. Ar-lay-na…

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said on a tight breath. “I want so badly to please you but I don’t know how.”

  “You please me immeasurably, simply by being here. As for what happens next, why don’t we begin with this?”

  Releasing her hand, he drew her down next to him on the bed. He touched her lightly, tracing a path from the inside of her arm to her shoulder. He stroked up the side of her neck to her ear and drew circles around its perimeter with his fingertip.

  She closed her eyes, caught in a web of sensation so pleasurably hypnotic, every cell in her body relaxed. His lips mapped a leisurely tour of her face, drifting from her eyelids to her nose; from her cheekbones to her jaw. By the time he settled his mouth on hers, she was trembling. When his tongue nudged the seam of her lips, she accepted him with the desperation of a starving woman.

  If this was all he gave her, it would be enough, she thought, almost afraid of the strange, delicious sensations gathering force in the distant corners of her body. But he was less easily satisfied. Trailing his tongue to her ear, he probed deeply.

  The effect was devastating and instantaneous. Jolted from passive acceptance, she moaned and clawed at him, digging her nails into the solid bulk of his shoulders. Her insides turned a slow somersault. A sharp, electric spasm clutched between her legs.

  Blindly she turned her face and nudged his mouth with hers, craving again the dark penetration of his predatory tongue. Begging to taste him, to be possessed by him.

  He curved one arm around her waist and pulled her closer. Her body rolled sweetly against his, discovering the smooth texture of his torso, except for a dusting of hair on his chest, and a denser, silkier swatch arrowing from his navel to his groin. His legs meshed with hers, became tangled in the folds of her nightgown.

  He plucked at it. “This has to go, tesoro.”

  It did. Abetting him, the silky fabric slithered willingly away from her body and left her naked before him. After, a moment of pure, still silence hung in the air, eventually broken by his indrawn breath. “You are touched with moonlight,” he murmured huskily, “and you are beautiful.”

  The next moment, his mouth was at her breast, hot and damp, and his hand was skimming past her hips. He touched her, sweeping his finger between her thighs to stroke the cloistered folds of her femininity. With tactile finesse, he induced another spasm, this one so exquisitely acute that she arched off the mattress with a muffled cry.

  He soothed her, murmuring something in Italian, something unintelligible yet oddly reassuring, and touched her again, repeatedly. A roaring coursed through her body, building in intensity until, suddenly, the motherboard that was her brain short-circuited into a thousand dazzling sparks.

  “Domenico!” she sobbed, urging him past caution with hands grown clever in their desperation. Opening her legs wide, she pulled him on top of her with superhuman strength, and guided him to where her flesh throbbed and ached for his complete possession.

  For one glorious instant, his penis pulsed against her, steely silk straining against supple, molten satin. Then, cursing, he flung himself away to sheath himself swiftly, expertly, in a condom. Then, “I’m here,” he ground out, turning to face her again. And he was. Above her, around her and most of all, deep inside her. Answering her feverish need with his own. Driving into her in a ritual that was at once more primitive and more refined than anything she’d ever thought to know.

  Cupping her bottom in his hands, he lifted her hips and buried himself to the hilt. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his waist, trapping him. Wanting all of him.

  The blood thundered in her veins. Her vision blurred, grew red and hazy. She was dimly aware that his breathing had grown ragged, that his chest heaved as if he wrestled with odds far beyond the scope of mortal man to control.

  “Stay with me,” he muttered hoarsely, his thrusting rhythm growing frenzied. And to make sure she did, he slid his hand between their bodies and touched her again, just once.

  It was enough. She peaked a second time, a long, exquisite explosion that destroyed him and her both. He buried his face at her neck. His body tensed, shuddered, and with a mighty groan that echoed to the farthest reaches of her soul, he climaxed.

  Many minutes passed before he moved or spoke. She didn’t care. She could have remained all night bearing the weight of his body. Its warmth, the beat of his heart against hers, his breath fanning damply against her skin, they were all she needed to be utterly, completely happy.

  Not him, though. When at length he stirred and clicked on the bedside lamp, the searching gaze he turned on her had her reaching to cover herself with the sheet. “What?” she said fearfully. “Shall I go back to my own room?”

  He stroked her face tenderly. “Why would you do that, cara mia, when so much of the night remains and there is room to spare in my bed?”

  “I’m afraid I disappointed you.”

  “Disappointed?” He rolled the word around on his tongue as if it were a new and rather unpleasant taste.

  “Well, you probably guessed I’m not very good at this.”

  “Perhaps you’re not,” he said, flinging off the sheet and subjecting her to intense scrutiny. “Perhaps you need more practice. Come here, my darling.”

  Squirming under his gaze, she begged, “Turn off the light!”

  “No,” he said. “I want to watch you, the next time I make you come.”

  And he took her again, this time putting his mouth where before he’d touched her only with his finger, and what would have shocked her yesterday took her to new heights of ecstasy now. The tension built in her until she shattered into a million pieces and thought she’d never find herself again.

  “Yes,” he said, kissing away the tears rolling down her face and stroking the hair from her brow. “Just so, my lovely.”

  When he entered her, she closed her eyes, but he would have none of it. “Look at me, Arlene,” he commanded. “See for yourself how much you please me.”

  And he thrust into her faster, more urgently. The sweat gleamed on his skin. His eyes turned midnight-blue. He growled low in his throat, a fierce primeval sound. A man engaged in a battle he couldn’t win, yet fighting to his last, desperate breath to tame the hunger bent on destroying him.

  His orgasm was a terrifying, beautiful thing beyond description. Watching him, she felt herself drowning in passion. He’d done more than captivate her. He’d stolen her heart forever. She’d fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love with him
.

  The realization struck like an arrow, so terrifying and glorious that she surged up against him, her eyes wide with shock.

  Chapter 7

  Misunderstanding, Domenico froze. “Did I hurt you, tesoro?”

  “No,” she was quick to reply.

  But she knew he would, if she didn’t control her runaway imagination. Falling in love with him wasn’t an option. For her, it meant commitment, marriage, children. And within hours of meeting her, he’d made it clear enough how he felt about all that.

  I’m waiting for the right woman to come along. You have a list of requirements she must meet, in order to qualify as your wife, do you? Of course. Happiness, like sexual compatibility and physical attraction, will run secondary to suitability…. And therein lay the problem. Plain, ordinary Arlene Russell no more measured up as suitable wife material for a man like him, than she belonged in a corporate jet or a plush suite at the Paris Ritz. From the very beginning of her association with him, she’d been miles out of her depth, socially and economically. To delude herself into believing otherwise, just because they’d had unbelievably fabulous sex, would invite nothing but a badly broken heart.

  On the other hand, what was so marvelous about the emotional limbo she’d occupied for so long? Wasn’t she the one who’d declared so positively that life without risk, without adventure, sapped the spirit from a person and left her numb? Why else had she consigned her safe, dull existence in Toronto to hell, and chanced everything on a fresh start in a new place?

  To backslide now and let fear negate the splendor of the passion she’d shared with Domenico would be a crime. In one respect, at least, he’d elevated her from the ordinary to the sublime with his persuasive finesse.

  “Arlene? What is it? What are you thinking?”

  Snapping out of her introspection, she looked up and found him watching her. No trace remained of the tempest that had consumed him. His breathing was normal and his eyes, which minutes before had grown dark with passion, were once again a sharply focused, uncompromising blue.

  “That I owe you so much more than I can ever repay,” she said. “Until tonight, I had no idea making love could be so incredible.”

  He lowered his lashes in a long, slow blink. “What are you trying to say, Arlene? That you came to me a virgin?”

  “No. But would it have mattered if I did?”

  “Only insofar that I’d have tempered my own desire with more consideration for your needs. A woman’s first time with a man should be memorable for its tenderness and I…” He shook his head in evident self-disgust. “I was caught up too much in my own pleasure to give proper thought to yours.”

  She touched a hand to his face. “Don’t say that, Domenico. No woman could ask for a better lover—not that I’m exactly experienced in that department, as you probably guessed, but I do know wonderful when I see it.”

  He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I wish I had been your first.”

  “Well, you were, in a way,” she confessed, so completely under his spell, she could hold nothing back. “I never reached a climax until tonight, and I’m so glad that it happened with you. You’ve made me complete as a woman. Given me faith in myself. I’m grateful to you for so many things, not just what you’ve taught me about the wine industry, or for bringing me here, and taking the time to show me this beautiful city, but for what you’ve taught me about myself.”

  Still buried inside her, he turned on his side and cradled her next to his powerful body. “I am the grateful one, my lovely Arlene. I wish there was time for us to learn more about one another. If so, we might discover—”

  “Hush.” She covered his lips with her fingertips, knowing well that promises made in the warm aftermath of loving tended to fall apart in the colder light of day. “I wish it, too, but things are what they are. I don’t want to look ahead to next week, or next month. I want to savor every second of the time we have now, so that, when it’s over, I remember only how good it was between us.”

  “I will make it good for you,” he declared huskily, sweeping his hand up her back. “I will make it perfect.”

  She drifted to sleep on that promise, lulled by the comforting warmth of his embrace and the soothing stroke of his big, strong hand. She didn’t move again until early light pierced the room and she opened her eyes to find him spread-eagled on his half of the bed, leaving her lonely on hers.

  Her mouth felt swollen, she ached in places not mentioned in polite society, and the musky scent of sex clung to her skin. Not that she minded; they were the prized mementos of an unforgettable night.

  The morning after, though, could be a treacherous time, and her first instinct was to sneak away to her own bathroom and repair some of the damage before he awoke. But she couldn’t resist taking a minute to commit to memory how he looked in sleep, with his lean jaw softened by the dark smudge of new beard growth, and his hair falling in undisciplined strands over his forehead.

  Somewhere within the long, elegant lines, broad shoulders and deep chest of the mature man lurked the faint image of the boy he’d once been, before the years had sculpted him to hard masculine perfection. The thought brought a different ache, one that struck at her heart. If things had been different and she’d been the kind who’d measure up as his ideal wife, she might have had his child. A boy who looked like him, with the same black hair and thick eyelashes and olive skin.

  Suddenly he opened his eyes and caught her staring. “Ciao, again,” he said, bathing her in a sleepy smile. “Good morning, cara mia.”

  “Oh, my!” Blushing, she tried to turn away. “I didn’t want you to see me looking like this.”

  “And how is that?”

  She hunched her shoulders and tried to poke her mussed-up hair into some sort of order. A useless undertaking. It defied any attempt to lie flat and behave. “Morning-after messy,” she muttered.

  He slung an arm over her hips and nuzzled her spine, from her nape to the small of her back, then all the way up again. “On you, I like morning-after messy. I like it very much.”

  And I like you, she thought, her entire body vibrating in sensory delight. Far more than is good for either of us.

  He nibbled her earlobe. “I have two pieces of very good news for you. First, I’m taking you out for breakfast. Second, we have an hour before we must leave.” He pulled her around to face him and kissed her. Very, very thoroughly. “How do you suggest we pass the time?”

  It was pretty clear what he had in mind. He was powerfully aroused. So big and hard, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  He cupped her breasts and wove delicious circles around her nipples with his thumbs. “It’s quite all right to touch, cara,” he murmured. “I don’t bite.”

  She’d never been so bold with a man. Never had the opportunity, and wasn’t sure exactly how to go about it. But he, sensing her hesitation, took her hand and closed it around him. “It’s your fault I’m in this shape,” he continued in that same mesmerizing tone. “It’s only fair you do something about it, don’t you think?”

  Instinctively she clasped him tighter. He was smooth as silk, the conformation of him so stunningly beautiful that she forgot to be bashful. To give back a little of the pleasure he so unstintingly brought to her was her only thought—if, indeed, her brain was able to formulate anything as structured as thought, when she was dissolving under his continued ministrations.

  Spanning both her breasts with one hand and squeezing gently, he slid the other between her legs and found the liquid core of her. “Yes,” he breathed, fixing her in a heavy-lidded gaze as she started to tremble. “Just so, my lovely. Show me how much you like the way we are together.”

  Oh, “like” didn’t begin to cover it! With every word, every glance, every erotic suggestion and touch, he drew her more deeply under his spell. Left her so mindless with desire that she cared about nothing but that moment. The ramifications of investing so much of herself in this man, what it meant—a future too bleak
to contemplate without him in it, the heartache of finding love at last, only to have it unrequited—those she pushed aside, to be dealt with another day. For now, all that mattered was living to the fullest every thrilling second of the present, and weaving it into a tapestry of memories so vivid, time could never fade them.

  Morning-after love, she discovered, was different from that inspired by moonlight. It came cloaked in leisure, in the easy melding of two bodies already familiar with each other. The tension built slowly, sweetly, a dazzling raindrop of passion sliding smoothly to the edge of reason and clinging precariously until it could hold on no longer and shattered into a million rainbows.

  Afterward, he carried her into his shower. They soaped each other, washing away the scent of love, then wrapped themselves in big bath sheets. She sat on the deck surrounding the bathtub and dried her hair, all the time watching in dreamy fascination as he shaved; admiring the easy play of muscles in his back and arms, his gleaming olive skin and dark hair. He stood with his long, strong legs splayed, his hips tilted forward a little as he concentrated on his task, completely at ease in her company.

  Sliding once again into the addictive world of make-believe, she thought, This is what marriage to him would be like—the unselfconscious sharing of small intimacies and always, never far from the surface, the knowledge of deeper intimacies to come.

  Pointless thinking, certainly, because the plain fact was, Arlene Russell and Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos came from such vastly different worlds that they might as well live on separate planets. Take away the glamour of the moment, the simmering fire of sexual awareness between them, and they were left with no common meeting place; no happy medium that would allow them to honor their commitments and not sacrifice what they shared together.

  He splashed water over his face and mopped it dry. “Time to get a move on, cara,” he said, putting an end to her dismal conclusions. “Make sure you wear something comfortable. We have a distance to go before breakfast.”