The Italians: Luca, Marco and Alessandro: Between the Italian's Sheets / The Moretti Heir / Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
he didn’t put his arm around her and haul her close, it was merely a light hand at her elbow, and the simplicity and the politeness made the doubts wane. There was respect in his manner and she knew he had every intention of taking care of her. Suddenly nothing else mattered.
He didn’t maul her in the lift either, stood beside her quietly, keeping his hand still light on her arm as he escorted her onto his floor. He swiped the key card and opened the door. She walked in, relieved to be alone with him again but still knocked sideways. He didn’t just have a room, he had a suite. She’d guessed he had money, understood he was a financier of some sort. But she hadn’t realised it was quite like this.
She turned to study him, reassessing. All Italians dressed nicely, didn’t they?
‘Second thoughts?’ He was watching her just as keenly. ‘It’s OK to say no.’
Concentrating on him made the intimidating surroundings disappear. She melted all over again.
‘No,’ she said, then smiled naughtily at the flash in his eyes. ‘I don’t want to say no,’ she elaborated firmly.
She watched, quite pleased as with obvious effort he un-clenched his jaw. ‘Good.’
‘It will be the best, won’t it, Luca?’ She searched for final reassurance. Having had a sample of what could only be heaven, she didn’t want disappointment. She’d had that before. ‘I want the best.’ And she did. To be lost from herself for just a few magic moments. One afternoon where she could forget the past and ignore the future. Let go of worries and responsibilities and be free to feel pleasure. It would be the first time and she’d been waiting for ever.
He closed the gap between them with slow, sure steps. His finger traced her lower lip as it had the night at the opera. ‘Don’t doubt it.’
Her eyelids lowered slowly as the crazy lethargy returned. It was as if her senses were tuning out everything except him—his touch, his voice, his scent and his determination. There would be no saying no. It wasn’t even an option, not for her.
This magic, this mysterious man—she wanted to know no more, except of his body. It had been there, from the first glance, the blink and reassessment that had happened in the quickest instance—one body’s recognition of the other.
She didn’t believe in love at first sight. But now she most certainly believed in lust at first sight. Her body programmed to seek his as her mate. It had never happened to her before. The few dates she’d been on, that past boyfriend—she’d felt nothing. But this, this was as if she’d been branded with a white-hot iron—his.
She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. She still couldn’t. Through her half-closed lids she watched him concentrate as slowly, so slowly, the tips of his fingers moved from her lips, brushing down her jaw, her neck and down the slope of her chest. She went taut with anticipation but his path diverted, going around her nipples rather than directly over them. She hissed out her breath, wanting him to touch her there.
But his fingers skimmed down her sides, and then took the hem of her tee shirt. Carefully he raised it, automatically she lifted her arms to help. In a second he had it off her, and tossed it to the side.
She stared at him, unashamed about the way her full breasts were trying to burst out of her bra, at the way her nipples were pressing hard against the fabric—begging him the only way they could. She just wanted him to touch.
His jaw was clenched hard again. His hands lifted. The light, gentle fingertips went back to her waist, slipping around her skirt to find the zip.
She wriggled her hips to help it slide down. And then she was standing before him, for a second stupidly hoping that it didn’t matter that her bra and briefs didn’t match.
He curved his arms right around her, fingers at work once more, unclasping the hooks. The straps loosened. He tweaked them at her shoulder and the shells of her bra slipped from her breasts.
For a moment there was nothing, only his fierce attention as he looked, colour rising in his face. She was almost about to plead when his hands lifted, cupping her breasts the way her bra had, only pushing them a little higher and then closer together. His thumbs rubbed gently over her peaking nipples as his hands explored their soft weight.
Her mouth opened, unconsciously doing what she wanted him to do—to open up and taste her.
His gaze lifted to meet hers, reading her expression, revealing his own hot desire. And then his mouth caught hers in a kiss that was deep and carnal and demanding, his tongue driving in and claiming. She met him, stroke for stroke, thrusting her hands into his hair and holding him. But he moved his kiss. Following the path his fingers had taken from her mouth, her jaw, her neck until finally, thankfully he was kissing her chest, up the slopes to where his hands held her breasts, pushing them together so his tongue could assault both her nipples with strong licks, and then he sucked her into his mouth.
She swayed towards him, the heat turning mass and muscle to liquid. But at her unbridled moan he lifted away, his thumbs instantly working to soothe the yearning in her breasts.
‘Do you want me to take my shirt off, or do you want to do it yourself?’ His breathlessness heightened her longing.
She too was breathing hard but she couldn’t pass on the challenge or the pleasure. ‘Let me.’
She fumbled with the first button but got the knack of them after the next. Drinking in the sight of his chest as it was slowly revealed. She reached out a hand, touched the hard heat of it, feeling the roughness where hair dappled it, finally placing her hand back over his heart. To where he’d placed it in the garden but this time on bare skin, feeling the life force beating, feeling the rhythm. And then she scraped his nipple with the tip of her thumb, watched the definition of his abs go even sharper. She pushed the shirt off his broad shoulders, stretching her arms wide to reach down his arms. All rock-hard, barely restrained muscle.
At that she didn’t hesitate to go lower and pull out the loop of his belt. His trousers dropped to the floor. Then she was confronted with his boxers—and their package.
She blew out the breath she’d seemed to be holding for ever. Feeling the heat suffuse her cheeks, she tried to stretch the fabric over his large erection. Until, hands shaking, feeling both embarrassed and excited, she mumbled, ‘I think you better do…that bit.’
He caught her wrists and pulled her close, laughter rumbling in his chest. ‘But shouldn’t that be the best bit?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sure it is, but I might need a moment to get used to it.’
He kissed her again, long and deep, and then without warning pushed her back onto the bed, coming down hard on top. She wriggled, unbelievably happy to have the weight of him on her at last.
He held his head from hers, teasing. ‘I think we should take things very, very slow.’
If this was taking things slow, then heaven help her if he decided to speed them up.
But then he did go slow. Kisses trailed and fingers toyed as he did as he’d promised and kissed her all over her body. As he peeled off her panties and made his way back to the tops of her thighs she couldn’t hold back the squirm—overly aware of what was going to happen.
‘Don’t be shy,’ he said calmly.
She breathed in deep. He was right. Why be shy? This was her afternoon, after all. She reached out a hand, felt the strength of his thigh. Rubbed her fingers through the masculine hair, felt the muscles working underneath it. And found her appetite to explore more was ravenous. How good he felt beneath her fingers—how much better might he feel beneath her lips? So she tried exactly that. Never had she had such a body to explore before—to taste, to delight in. Now she understood why humans sought beauty, marvelled in it, celebrated it.
Perfection.
Silently he let her play, she could feel him watching her, feel the tension mounting until he suddenly jerked away from her, pulling open the drawer in the table