Damaso Claims His Heir. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
him in her arms felt...
‘I’m too heavy. Sorry.’
Before she could protest, he rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him. She clung fast, needing to maintain the skin-to-skin contact she’d become addicted to in the night.
Marisa smiled drowsily. She’d been right: Damaso was different. He made her feel like a new woman. And that wasn’t merely the exhaustion of a long night’s loving speaking.
‘Are you all right?’ She loved the way his voice rippled like dark, molten chocolate in her veins. She’d never known a man with a more sensuous voice.
‘Never better.’ She smiled against his damp skin then let her tongue slick along the solid cushion of his muscled chest. He tasted of salt and that indefinable spicy flavour that was simply Damaso.
He sucked in a breath and her smile widened. She could stay here, plastered to him, for ever.
‘Witch!’
His big hand was gentle on her shoulder, lifting her away. After lying against the furnace of his powerful body, the pre-dawn air seemed cold against her naked skin. She opened her mouth to protest but he was already swinging his legs out of bed. She lifted a hand to catch him back then let it drop. He’d be back once he’d disposed of the condom. Then they could drowse in each other’s arms.
Marisa hooked a pillow to her, trying to make up for the loss of Damaso. She buried her nose in its softness, inhaling his scent, letting her mind drift pleasurably.
They had another week left on the tour. A week to get to know each other in all the ways they’d missed. They’d skipped straight to the potent attraction between them, bypassing the usual stages of acquaintanceship and friendship.
Anticipation shimmied through her. The promise of pleasure to come. Who’d have thought she could feel so good when only yesterday...?
She shook her head, determined to enjoy the tentative optimism filling her after so long in a grey well of grief.
Marisa looked forward to learning all those little things about Damaso—how he liked his coffee, what made him laugh. What he did with his time when he wasn’t looking dark and sulkily attractive like some sexy renegade, or running what someone in the group had called South America’s largest self-made fortune.
A sound made her turn. There, framed in the doorway, stood Damaso, watching her.
The first fingers of dawn light limned his tall body, throwing his solid chest, taut abdomen and heavy thighs into relief. The smattering of dark hair on his chest narrowed and trickled in a tantalising line down his body. Marisa lay back, looking appreciatively from between slitted eyes. Even now, sated after their loving, he looked formidably well-endowed. As if he was ready to...
‘Go to sleep, Marisa. It’s been a long night.’ The dark enticement of his voice was edged with an undercurrent she couldn’t identify.
Shoving the spare pillow aside, she smoothed her arm over the still-warm space beside her.
‘When you come back to bed.’ She’d sleep better with him here, cradling her as before. It wasn’t sex she craved but his company. The rare sense of wellbeing he’d created.
Damaso stood, unmoving, so long anxiety stroked phantom fingers over her nape. Almost, she reached out to drag up the discarded sheet. She hadn’t felt embarrassed by her nudity earlier, when he’d looked at her with approval and even something like adoration in his gaze. But this felt different. His stare was impenetrable, that tiny pucker of a frown unexpected.
The silence lengthened and Marisa had to clench her hands rather than scoop up the sheet. She’d never flaunted herself naked but with Damaso it had felt right. Till now.
He prowled across the room with a grace she couldn’t help but appreciate. He stopped at the edge of the bed, drawing in a deep breath. Then he bent abruptly to scoop something off the floor—his discarded jeans. He dragged the faded denim up those long thighs.
Surely he had underwear? she thought foggily, before the implication struck.
Her gaze met his and rebounded from an impenetrable black stare. Gone was the spark of excitement in his gaze, the wolfish hunger that should have scared her yet had made her feel womanly and powerful. Gone was the sizzle of appreciation she’d so enjoyed when they’d sparred verbally.
His eyes held nothing.
‘You’re leaving.’ Her voice was hollow. Or was that her body? Ridiculously, she felt as if someone had scooped out her insides.
‘It’s morning.’ His gaze flicked to the full-length window.
‘Barely. It’s still hours till we need to be up.’ How she spoke so calmly, she didn’t know. She wanted to scuttle across the bed and throw herself into his arms, beg for him to stay.
Beg... Marisa had never begged in her life.
Pride had been one of her few allies. After years facing down family disapproval and the wilder accusations of the ravenous press, she’d been stripped of everything but pride. Now she was tempted to throw even that away as desperation clutched at her.
‘Exactly. You should get some sleep.’
She blinked, confused at the hint of warmth in his voice, so at odds with his unreadable expression. She felt like she’d waded into knee-deep water and suddenly found herself miles out to sea.
More than ever Marisa wanted to cover herself. Heat crept from her feet to her face as his hooded gaze surveyed her. Was that a flicker of regret in his eyes?
‘It’s best I go now.’
Marisa bit down a protest. Perhaps he was trying to protect them from gossip, leaving her room before even the staff were up. But since the pair of them had missed dinner last night it was probably too late for that.
‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then.’ She sat up, pinning a bright smile on her face. There would be time enough to spend together in the next week.
‘No. That won’t be possible.’ He finished the buttons on his shirt and strode to the bedside table, reaching for his watch.
‘It won’t?’ She sounded like a parrot! But she couldn’t seem to engage her brain.
He paused in the act of wrapping his watch around his sinewy wrist.
‘Listen, Marisa. Last night was remarkable. You were remarkable. But I never promised you hearts and flowers.’
Indignation stiffened her spine, almost dousing the chill dread in her veins. ‘I hardly think expecting to see you at breakfast has anything to do with hearts and flowers, as you so quaintly put it.’
Damn him! She leaned down and grabbed the sheet, pulling it up under her arms. At least now she wasn’t quite so naked.
‘You know what I mean.’ The hint of a growl tinged his deep tone and Marisa felt a tiny nub of satisfaction that she’d pierced his monumental self-assurance. For that was what it was—that unblinking stare from eyes as cool and unfeeling as obsidian.
‘No, Damaso, I don’t know what you mean.’ She regarded him with what she hoped looked like unconcern, despite the fact she was crumbling inside.
‘I gave no commitment.’ As lover-like statements went, this one hit rock bottom.
‘I didn’t ask for any.’ Her voice was tight.
‘Of course you didn’t.’ Suddenly he looked away, intent on his watch. ‘You aren’t the type. That’s why last night was perfect.’
‘The type?’ Out of nowhere a chill crept over her bare shoulders.
‘The type to cling and pretend a night in bed means a lifetime together.’
His eyes met hers again and she felt the force of desire like a smack in the chest. Even as he rejected her the air sizzled between them. Surely