Modern Romance March 2017 Books 5 -8. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
her in ways she’d never been filled before. How what they were becoming accessed even deeper pieces of her than she’d even knew existed.
She knew in that moment she’d never stopped loving him. Wondered how she ever could have denied it. The admission sent a frisson of wild, unadulterated fear up her spine.
Eyes on his, she rode it out, anchored herself to him with the contact, trusted him with all of her. Circling her hips, she took him deep. He was hard as a rock and thick enough to stretch her muscles to the very edge of her pleasure. She sucked in a breath as the power of him caressed her with every hard stroke, pushing her toward a release she knew would be intense and earth-shattering.
The glazed look in his eyes told her he was just as far gone as she was. Banding his arm tighter around her hips, he drove deeper, harder.
“Lorenzo—” His name was a sharp cry on her lips.
He shifted his hand to the small of her back, urging her to lean forward, to grind against him, to take her pleasure. She moaned low in her throat as his body set her on fire. He drove up into her shaking body until he hit that place that gave her the sweetest pleasure. Nudged it again and again until she splintered apart in a white-hot burst of sensation that knocked her senseless.
Her husband joined her on a low, husky groan, his big body shaking with the force of his release. It was erotic and soul-searing in a way that sucked the breath from her lungs.
She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, joined with each other, before Lorenzo picked her up and carried her to bed. The dusky shadows of the room enveloped her as sleep carried her off to unconsciousness, her limbs entangled with his.
* * *
He had to move faster.
Lorenzo pressed his finger against the biometric scanner, heart pounding in his chest. The lights of the sports car, still running in the street, illuminated the number 29 on the red door.
The system flashed green. Jamming his hand on the handle, he swung open the door and strode inside, scanning the dimly lit main floor. Nothing.
Lucia had called from his study.
Running for the stairs, he climbed to the second level. Deep voices echoed above. The intruders were still there...
Back against the wall, he scaled the length of the narrow hallway until he reached the pool of light sprawling from his study. Silence, black silence, pumped ice through his veins.
He pushed the half-ajar door open. Levering himself away from the wall, he slipped inside. Stopped in his tracks. Blood—red, sharp, metallic, everywhere. His heart came to a shuddering halt. He followed the trail that dripped slowly to the mahogany floor up to the woman at the center of it all, slumped over his desk.
The world began to spin. Snapping out of the trance he was in, he started toward her—to help her, save her. A flash of movement—fingers banded around his arm. He lifted his other arm to strike. The glimmer of the officer’s gold badge froze his hand in midair.
He was too late. He was always too late...
Lorenzo sat bolt upright in bed, sweat whipping from his face. His heart, gripped by terror and grief, stalled in his chest. It took him a full two or three seconds to realize the woman beside him was not Lucia, it was Angelina.
He was in bed with Angelina in Portofino.
She stirred now, putting out a hand to touch him. He set a palm to her back and told her to go to sleep. Making a sound in the back of her throat, she curled an arm around her pillow and went back to sleep.
He sucked in deep breaths, attempted to regulate his breathing. Soaked with sweat, he slid out of bed and put himself under a cool shower in the guest bedroom so he wouldn’t wake his wife.
Water coursing over him, he stood, head bent, palms pressed against the tile as the brisk temperature of the water cooled his skin. When the hard spray had banished the worst of the fog, he stepped out of the shower and dried off.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked out onto the terrace, the lingering fragments of his dream evaporating as the pink fingers of dawn crawled across the sky. They had used to come nightly, his nightmares. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one.
He watched the sun rise over the hills, a fiery yellow ball that crept into the hazy gray sky. I’m going to be a father. It had been the goal, of course, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly, not when they hadn’t even been trying. His brain, his emotions, needed time to catch up, because they were mixed just as his wife’s were.
There was joy, undoubtedly, at something he’d at one point decided might never be his. Bittersweet regret his brother would never have that opportunity. And fear. Fear that what happened before might happen again. The fear of more loss.
Losing his unborn child on the heels of Lucia had pushed him into a red zone where any more emotional deficits were too much. Where any more losses could push him over the line. So he’d shut down—refused to feel, and avoided any chance of that happening. In doing so, he had pushed Angelina away when she’d needed him the most—when she had been at her most vulnerable. No wonder she was so terrified to do this again.
His jaw locked, a slow ache pulsing beneath his ribs. This time would be different. This time he’d made sure he and Angelina’s relationship was built on a solid, realistic foundation of what they were both capable of. He would make sure he kept them on track—he would be the steady, protective force she needed as they went through this pregnancy together.
If he worried his emotions for his wife were wandering into dangerous territory—into that red zone he avoided—that his efforts to exorcise her power over him weren’t having any effect at all, he would just have to make sure he was extravigilant he never crossed that all-important line.
* * *
Angelina awoke to the sensually delicious smell of coffee and spicy, hedonistic male. “Breakfast,” her husband intoned in her ear, his sexy, raspy tone sending a shiver up her spine, “is served.”
She wasn’t sure which she wanted to inhale more—him or the coffee. She opened her eyes to find him dressed and clean-shaven. The kiss he pressed to her lips was long, leisurely, the kind that squeezed her heart. Curling her fingers around his nape, she hung on to the magic for as long as possible.
He finally released her, sprawling on the bed. “I bought pastries in the village,” he said, gesturing to the tray he’d tucked beside her.
“Is that a chocolate croissant?”
“What do you think?”
Yum. Her husband knew all of her weaknesses. She picked up her espresso and took a sip. Eyed him. Not as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as she’d first imagined with those dark shadows under his eyes. “Were you up last night? I thought I heard you.”
“I woke early.” He plucked a croissant off the plate. “An annoying habit I can’t seem to get rid of.”
She watched him over the rim of her coffee cup as he inhaled the croissant. “I had a thought on the walk back,” he said.
She lifted a brow.
“We’re going to have to renovate the Belmont locations before we fold them into the Ricci chain. Your clientele is a perfect match. Why not open Carmichael Creations boutiques in them?”
“You haven’t even landed them yet. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“It will happen. It’s a perfect marriage of brands, don’t you think?”
He was serious about this. Her heart contracted. Once she would have given anything to hear him say that. To know he believed in her work that much. But their child needed to take precedence now.
“That’s a big compliment,” she said carefully, “but I have more business than I can handle at the moment and I want to remain hands-on. Plus, with the baby, I think we’ll have