“I’m saying I’d prefer to discuss other matters, but if you’re adamant on knowing everything about me then fine: ask anything and I’ll answer.”
She considered that, but after a moment, shook her head gently. “It’s okay. Keep your secrets. I’d rather you enjoy tonight, too.”
Their eyes locked and some kind of unspoken agreement passed between them, something that lodged in her chest and made her feel alive and precious, excited, all at once.
Conversation moved to considerably less controversial ground. As they ate, they discussed her university degree, his contract, some of his other business interests. It was easy to talk to him, and that surprised Isabella. She hadn’t expected to find him so pleasant to spend time with.
“Would you like some more?” She offered, after he’d already polished off two enormous serves of the dinner.
“No. I’m full. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. I really am grateful to you, Gabe. If you hadn’t let me stay here, I seriously think I would have met my death on this mountainside.”
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the stem of the wine glass, his face momentarily serious before he nodded once, a tight smile on his lips. “I wouldn’t want that.”
“Nonetheless, I’m grateful.”
“You shouldn’t have been driving in this weather.”
“I know. I didn’t realise it would get so bad.”
“Nobody warned you?”
“I think the woman at the road stop might have been trying to, but my Italian isn’t great. I thought she was just giving me directions.” She winced. “In hindsight, I was pretty stupid.”
“The weather can change on a dime around here.”
“Does it get this bad often?”
“Not this bad, no. We get blizzards most years. I’m snowed in from time to time. This is the first Christmas though.”
“Will your family be disappointed if you miss it?”
“They’d prefer that than for me to attempt to join them given the weather.”
“Of course.”
His smile was wry. “That’s only half true. They’re going to be furious.”
She winced. “Really?”
“Hell yes, really.” His brow furrowed and she had the sense he was speaking almost without wishing to.
“Yaya is old. She had a stroke in the summer. We’re all very aware of how special each Christmas is to her.”
“If that’s true, why come here at all so close to the date? Didn’t you realise the blizzard was expected?” She pushed. “Surely you could have got out ahead of it?”
His face bore a mask of rejection, and she knew she’d hit on an important point.
“But you wanted to be stranded here?”
“It would have been dangerous to drive, even more so to fly.”
“Liar,” she challenged, not sure where her certainty came from, but only that she knew she was right. “Ignore my questions, if you want, but don’t lie to me.”
“What makes you think I’m lying?”
“Because you’ve told me again and again how much you want to be alone. You’re glad you were snowed in, because it means you get to stay here and brood. Right?”
He stared at his wine and she waited, until it became clear he wasn’t going to answer. Time passed, each second growing thicker and thicker until finally the cloying intensity of it forced her to stand, intending to clear their plates. Only he surprised her by reaching out, curving his fingers around her wrist. Her eyes jolted to his and just like that, her tension shifted, morphing into a drugging sense of awareness. She gasped, her pulse in her throat, her heart hammering her ribs from the inside out.
His thumb moved across the delicate flesh of her inner-wrist, stirring her to a fever-pitch of awareness, so she let out a soft, delicate moan, that might have been a garbled version of his name.
“You seem to know a lot about me,” he said, the words like steel. She bit down on her lower lip, not sure how to respond.
“I don’t, I suppose.” But it was a lie. For some reason, she felt like she did know him, in a way that made very little sense.
“No?”
She shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat was bone dry, her tongue thick.
“Yet you sound so certain about why I come here. You think I’m avoiding my family?”
“I think you’re avoiding something,” she whispered.
He stood, surprising her, his body instantly dwarfing Isabella’s.
“Why?”
Again, speech eluded her.
“Is it not possible that I simply enjoy my own company?” He moved again, so there was no space between them. Her breath hitched in her throat.
“You don’t think I might come here just to work and be alone?”
She shook her head, her eyes latched to his. They were darker than the night, and she felt as though she were drowning in their depths.
A shiver ran the length of her spine; not of fear but of hope and need.
His hand on her wrist shifted, moving to her hip. She gasped, the touch sending sparks of desire all through her body.
“You seem to know so much about me,” he drawled softly, danger in the syllables. “It seems only fair that we redress that balance.”
Her eyes held a plea. “How?”
“Do you want to sleep with me?”
She gasped again, a quick rush of indrawn breath. “Gabe…”
“Afraid to answer?” He lifted her sweater, so his finger connected with bare flesh. A shiver of awareness spun through her.
He pressed a finger to her lips, holding her eyes, a hint of mockery in the depths of his. “Don’t answer, if you wish, but do not lie to me, cara.”
She groaned softly. The truth was so obvious; did she need to own it?
“What do you think?”
His lips twisted cynically. “I think you have no idea who I am,” he said, after a moment. “Despite what you might believe.”
A shiver ran through her. “Why do you say that?”
“Because if you did, you’d run a mile.”
“So you don’t sleep with women?” She pushed. “You’re celibate or something?”
His laugh was a harsh bark but he didn’t step back from her and she was grateful, even though his proximity was making it impossible to breathe.
“I sleep with women. Many women, whenever the mood takes me.”
A blade of jealousy sliced through her. She blinked away, the heavy sense of rejection wrapping around her so it was almost impossible to breathe.
“I have no difficulty getting laid. But you’re different.”
Her heart trembled.
“Why?” A whispered plea.
“I don’t know.” His lips curved downwards in a frown. “I know only that resisting you is driving me crazy.”
“So don’t resist me.”
“That would be even worse.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
He made a face of agreement.
“I’m not saying we should get married,” she said unsteadily. “I’m surprised you think sex is such a big deal.”
“I’m surprised you think it isn’t,” he countered swiftly.
“I didn’t say that.” Her cheeks grew pink. “I’m sure compared to you I have no experience. In fact, compared to your usual…erm…lover…I’m undoubtedly unqualified and disappointing. So maybe you’re right. We should just forget about this.”
It was the last thing she wanted to do.
“How many men have you been with?”
It was a deeply personal question but it didn’t even occur to Isabella not to answer. They’d crossed some invisible threshold, something between them had changed inexorably.
“Two.” A whisper, embarrassed acknowledgement.
“Two?” He repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “Only two?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, and everything. I suppose you loved both men
?”
“One of them,” she whispered. “Or thought I did.” But she didn’t want to contemplate Andrew in that moment.
“So why the hell do you want to have sex with me?”
She flinched at his tone and crude description. His fingers on her stomach were so light she could almost believe he’d dropped his hand. She inched forward, so their bodies were pressed more tightly together.
His eyes narrowed warningly. “Not because I’m in love with you,” she said on a soft breath.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said after a moment. “With Ben and Andrew we were friends first. It developed slowly. With you, I feel…I felt, from the moment I got here, like I wanted…”
“Go on,” he demanded, throaty and impatient.
“You,” she finished softly. “I guess you experience this all the time, but I don’t. I’ve never met anyone and just wanted to rip their clothes off.”
His eyes swept shut at her innocent remark, a muscle throbbing at the base of his jaw.
When he opened his eyes, there was something like surrender in their depths, but his face still held a look that was troubled, laced with rejection and cynicism.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Because it will mean nothing to me. Niente. Is that what you really want?”
She thought about that, and yes, she could see that it would hurt. Despite the fact she didn’t know him and didn’t love him, she wasn’t capable of having sex with a man and not having it mean something. Still, it would hurt her more to walk away from him, and this, so she nodded slowly.
“I don’t care.”
Again, his eyes swept shut, his body tense; she could feel his arousal against her stomach and she wanted everything he was offering.
“And if I forget your name when you’re gone from here, forget you ever existed?”
She reminded herself he was pre-emptively hurting her for her own good, making sure she was prepared for what this was. Sex. Just sex. Nothing more.
“Then I’ll forget yours too,” she said with a bravado they both knew to be forged. “I’m flying out of Italy in a week, weather permitting. I have a busy schedule in America. Believe me when I tell you I won’t be pining over you, no matter how fantastic you are in bed.”
His smile lacked humour. It was, if anything, an indictment.
“You talk a good game, Isabella, but I don’t think you’re capable of the kind of detachment you’re suggesting.”
“Your ego is seriously overblown,” she responded, moving her hips in a silent invitation, an attempt to tempt him.
He dug his hands into her hips in response, his eyes holding a warning. “We’ll see.”
Hope flew through her. She didn’t know what the heck she was doing, only that she was at a tipping point and didn’t care. Victory was within sight, and euphoria flooded her body.
“So show me,” she challenged, her eyes clashing with his, the invitation not silent any longer.
His smile was sardonic, his eyes dark, as he dropped his head to hers. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Isabella couldn’t answer. His kiss robbed her of breath and completely stole her ability to think. She was riding a wave of sensation and she never wanted it to end…
8
SHE WAS LIKE VELVET beneath his fingertips, her skin so soft it reminded him of rose petals in the first light of morning, covered in dew, delicate and silky. He ran his hands over her hips, around to her back, linking his fingers together so he could cradle her closer, locking her to him. Not that he needed to do that – her body was pressed to him, her hips moving side to side, trying to get close to him, to make love to him despite the barrier of their clothes. Hell, he wanted to carry her to his bed and make this last, but more than that, he wanted her now – needed her now. He’d been denying himself to prove a point; he’d failed. He was weak. The torturous strength he’d taken from denying himself this pleasure had dissipated in the wake of his desire.
Kissing her was the bursting of a dam; his control was shot to hell.
He pushed at her jeans, lowering them impatiently, his hands roaming to cup her bottom, kneading her flesh, lifting her as he touched her, kissing her, anxious to feel her, wanting every part of her.
She whimpered his name, over and over again, filling the room with the sound of her pleasure. When he removed her shirt, cupping her breasts, she tilted her head back, crying out sharply. His mouth sought a nipple, dusky pink aureole firm beneath his tongue as he encircled it, his knee wedging her legs apart, his hand pushing his own pants down.
She weighed nothing; he lifted her with ease, wrapping her legs around his waist and stepping forward, until her back connected with a wall. He braced her there, lifting his mouth to hers, kissing her, holding her, his arousal throbbing painfully, seeking her sex. Something was blaring in his brain, a warning, or a reminder, he couldn’t hear it though over the din of his desire. It was a desperate, pounding, raging tsunami, too fierce to ignore. He swore as he entered her, dropping his head to nuzzle the curve of her shoulder, kissing her there, needing a moment to catch his breath as her impossible tightness squeezed him hard, wrenching him further from reality. He was conscious of nothing but the physical sensations assaulting him from all angles. The crush of her breasts to his chest, her breath against his ear, her ankles at his back, her heart ramming against his, her muscles convulsing around his length so that he growled, his control slipping away so that he had to grind his teeth to stop from coming – something that had never happened to him so swiftly before.
She was a witch. An auburn-haired witch delivered from the forest, conjured by magic on that dark snowy night, sent to curse him in some way. He felt that certainty wrapping around him as he moved, thrusting into her again and again, harder, faster, his every movement jerking her against his body so he felt her softness and hardness all at once.
Her first orgasm was a revelation. Her muscles tightened and her voice grew loud, her nails digging into his shoulders as though holding on for dear life. He stilled, waiting, watching, then dropped his head and teased her breasts, flicking her nipples with his tongue, his fingers splayed across her bottom, his thumbs padding her flesh there, while she whimpered from the spreading of pleasure. He held her until her breathing slowed, her voice quietened, and then he began to move again, gently at first, allowing her time to catch her breath, to absorb the aftershocks of pleasure before losing himself in her with deep, rapid thrusts, grabbing her hips and holding her low on his waist, giving her more of him, all of himself.
He spoke to her in Italian, telling her in his native tongue that she was beautiful and perfect, and in that moment he truly felt that she was, even if he was convinced that she was also a witch or apparition, and he knew that he didn’t believe in perfection anyway.
Guilt was there too – guilt at his pleasure, his enjoyment, the guilt that dogged him any time he surrendered to his wishes, anytime he allowed himself to live his life and enjoy something simply and honestly. It was a guilt borne of deprivation – Carmen was dead because of him; Avery was growing up without a mother. He didn’t deserve this.
Guilt he would grapple with later, after. For now, there was only this, feeling and need, an ancient imperative driving his body. He lifted a hand to her head, his fingers tangling with her hair, tilting her head back so he could kiss her, his tongue echoing the movements of his cock, thrusting into her warmth, duelling with hers, dominating her, pleasuring her, robbing her of breath, until tension began to coil in his abdomen, spreading lower, and her whimpers became more frantic, her need in perfect synch with him, his tightness spreading to his balls and then releasing in an almighty rush through his arousal, so he held her tight as he thrust into her, spilling his seed in a hot, urgent rush, his desperate movements driving her over the edge once more, euphoria binding them, blinding them, owning them equally.
Frantic breath was an orchestral b
ackdrop. He groaned as he held her, dropping his head to her shoulder once more, every colour in the universe forming a rainbow behind his eyelids as he waited for his own tidal wave of pleasure to recede. Every movement was magnified, every feeling intensified, and he wanted to stand there and relish the pleasure of their coming together, he wanted to simply feel and delight.
But guilt was on him, a guilt that pulled against him hard particularly now, reminding him he had no business feeling so damned good. So damned fantastic. So damned whole.
What he wanted, most of all, was to stay exactly where he was, buried deep inside her, her body weight completing him in some way as she balanced between him and the wall, her pleasure-soaked breath the most fulfilling sound he’d ever heard.
What he wanted, most of all, was to enjoy the afterglow of this, and so he didn’t.
He denied himself that, easing her feet to the floor in the same motion he pulled out of her, ignoring the screaming rejection of his body.
It was then that he realised why alarm bells had been sounding earlier.
“Merde,” he swore, lifting a palm and bracing it on the wall behind her, just beside her head, forming a frame for her body.
“What?” She blinked up at him, her pupils huge, her own sense of discombobulation apparent in the vacant look across her face. It was as though she was trying to make sense of everything she was feeling – her pleasure and his removal, the heat of their lovemaking and the icy cold of the room.
“I forgot protection.”
Her eyes widened as she shifted her gaze downwards, and even then he felt a rush of heat spread through his body, as her eyes devoured his naked frame, landing on his still-throbbing cock.
“Yes,” she whispered quietly. “So we did.”
It was kind of her to include herself in the reprimand, but he blamed only himself.
“I apologise.” Already, his mind was running away with him, panic like a vice at his chest as he envisaged the consequences that might arise from that brief, euphoric coming together. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly, lifting her hand to his chest, her fingers splayed wide there.
Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6) Page 9