Affairs Of The Heart: The Italian Boss's Secret Child. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
of new and wonderful sensations she was being bombarded with.
Was this how seduction felt? Never before had she felt such liquid heat pooling inside her. This total absence of real thought, all mind function replaced by body function and totally concentrated on one thing, the fruition of one act. One utterly irresistible, inevitable act.
She wanted more of what he was doing to her, more of what he was making her feel. She wanted him.
This was new—to feel such intense longing and desire for any one man! Passion like she’d never before experienced. Bryce had never once made her feel like this in their entire two-year relationship. He’d always made her feel that lovemaking was an obligation.
What was happening now with Damien couldn’t be more different. Right now making love with Damien felt like her destiny. A destiny she felt powerless to deny.
With his hand at her back steering her towards an exit, she allowed him to propel her towards that destiny.
He swooped and opened a side door in her path, his other hand encouraging her through to the dimly lit hallway beyond. He pulled the door shut behind them and spun her against the wall in the same rapid-fire action.
Her back met the wall at the same instant his mouth meshed with hers.
Frantic.
Hungry.
His lips slanted over hers and a moment later he was inside, his tongue seeking hers. He tasted rich and real, of masculine heat and warm brandy, and she let herself go with the sensation, the ecstasy of him filling her mouth.
One hand found her breast and she gasped as his fingers grazed her nipple, searing through the light fabric.
The other dropped to her skirt and he filled his hand with the round of one perfect cheek. Her muscles tightened in response and he was rewarded by the push of her belly into his growing hardness.
He growled, long and low, at the building tension, the anticipation of its relief, and she squirmed under his hands.
His touch was a brand on her, exploring, pushing, urgent and hot. Need radiated inside her like a fire front, the flames spreading wider until every part of her was alight. The oxygen delivered by her rapid breaths fuelled the flames.
The door alongside swung open. Someone looked around, mumbling a quick apology before diving back into the auditorium. Damien pulled his mouth away giving a low soft curse. He grabbed her hand again. ‘Come on,’ he said.
She followed behind him down the corridor, senses reeling as he tugged her insistently along, then round a corner, up a flight of stairs and over a parquet floor. He stopped outside a pair of solid doors flanked with impressive brass framing. The boardroom. He pulled something from a pocket somewhere—a keycard—and shoved it through the slot. In the wooden surrounds and over the muted sounds of the revelry below the click echoed loud and long. And final.
She swallowed as logic fought for precedence in her mind. Once inside there was no turning back. No chance to change her mind.
But she had no intention of changing her mind. There was no way she didn’t want to follow this scene through to its logical conclusion. She’d come too far.
He pulled her into the room, though she hardly needed persuading. The door closed behind them and he turned the lock. They were alone, the room unlit but for the venetian blind dressed window sending slices of moonlight cascading across the sleek boardroom table.
Her eyes adjusted and in the gloom it was as if the years had peeled away and history itself was replaying.
Right now she was Cleopatra and he was her Mark Antony.
He reached out a hand to her face, touching her mask.
She flinched from his grasp and shook her head. ‘No!’ she whispered. She wouldn’t kid herself. He wouldn’t be doing this if he knew who she was. Only after, when it was too late for him to change his mind, only then would she let him take off her mask.
He would be angry, no doubt. Even worse, he would be disappointed. His fantasy would end right then and there. But she would have this memory to treasure for ever. And, no doubt, she would.
In the pale moonlight she saw the corner of his mouth lift. ‘All right, let’s do it your way. I have more urgent business first.’
His hands went to her waist and he lifted her easily to the table, pushing away the chairs to each side. He eased down the bodice of her gown, releasing her breasts to the air and his gaze. Her skin tightened, her nipples achingly firm.
He growled low and rough, and dropped his mouth to one pert peak. Her swift intake of breath pushed her breast further towards him; he filled his mouth with the flesh as his tongue traced the tip. He left that breast, focused on the second, delivering the same languid pleasure strokes with his tongue, his hands now at her legs, running her gown up her bare legs, spreading them as he forced himself between.
She clung to his head, her fingers raking through his hair, down his neck, exploring his wide shoulders, drinking in the width and strength of his back.
One hand rounded her thigh and against the fabric of her thong. The damp fabric of her thong. ‘Oh, God,’ he muttered as her head fell back, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration, the fabric no barrier to flesh already inflamed and exquisitely sensitised. She clawed at his costume, attempting to fill her own hands with the touch of his skin, frustrated that she could find no way in.
Suddenly he wheeled away, impatiently pulling at his garments, shucking off the shoulder gear and chest plate with a clatter and tearing off his tunic. He returned to her, naked but for his black underwear and his sandals, his skin gleaming in the soft moonlight.
She pulled him into her arms and relished the feel of the skin at his back, hot and slick with expectation and desire, as he continued his exploration, driving her crazy with need as he teased her with his fingers.
‘So beautiful,’ he murmured against her nipple. ‘And so wet.’ Those last words sounded as if they had been wrung from him. He lifted her slightly and removed her thong and with both hands he pulled her closer to the edge of the table. His underwear was no barrier to the hard bulge of his erection butting against her.
He was so big.
Anticipation kicked up a notch. She wanted him inside her. All of him. He pulled himself away fractionally, wrenching down his own underwear. And then he was free. Even in the dim light he looked magnificent, all pulsing energy with its own special rhythm. She reached down a hand, wanting to feel the power, to guide him to her, to share the dance.
She touched him, her fingers cupping him, entranced by the weight, the contrasts in the feel of him, rock-hard yet with skin like silk, so rigid yet pulsing, filled with life.
She closed her fingers around him and he gasped. This fantasy woman would not escape him tonight. He had to have her. Had to feel her wrapped around him, hugging him tight inside, her muscles clamping around him in spasms when she came.
Her hand moved the length of him, her thumb flicking over his sensitive tip.
Oh, God!
Exit rational thought.
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away as he scooped her yet closer, directing himself at the same time that he dropped his mouth on hers. His rapid action took her by surprise—her lips already open and forming a surprised ‘o’ even as he plundered her mouth with his. And then he brought her closer still, until her legs wrapped around behind him and her slick wetness welcomed him, urging him to drive himself home.
He didn’t need further invitation. With one smooth thrust he entered her, wrapping himself in liquid velvet. She cried out something indiscernible, but even muffled by his mouth over hers he recognised the same note of victory and ecstasy he’d felt in joining her.
She felt magnificent.
Slowly he withdrew, only to slam into her again, leaning into her and forcing her lower. Her hands went back