It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
allowed his kiss to deepen fractionally, took his mouth from hers for a heartbeat, then kissed her again, running the tip of his tongue delicately along the line of her lips, coaxing them to part for him. But they remained closed and unyielding.
He raised his head and looked down at her. ‘No?’ he asked on a note of mild curiosity.
She said nothing, just stared back with hostile defiant eyes.
His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Definitely—no,’ he murmured and drew her more closely into his arms.
Phase Two, thought Emily, and was tempted to say so aloud.
Only then his hand moved down to her breast, cupping its softness in his palm while his fingers played with her nipple in an enticement as pleasurable as it was calculated.
And for one blind, greedy moment she lost the power of speech along with the ability to think rationally. Her brain was in free fall, her body startled—pierced by a need she’d never known before—or even suspected could exist.
Then he bent and took one swollen rosy peak between his lips, stroking it delicately with his tongue, and as delight lanced through her she felt him smile against her skin.
And, with that, sanity returned, stifling the tiny moan in her throat. Oh, God, he was so sure of her, she thought with shock. So convinced that her inexperienced body would respond with gratitude and joy to this cynical exercise in sexual control.
Oh, why couldn’t he have assuaged his anger with some hasty, meaningless coupling, roughly accomplished, that would have fed her own resentment?
But he would never do that. Not when he knew so well how to tantalise and arouse, an ability he’d undoubtedly learned with so many other women, in so many other beds.
But not hers, she told herself with renewed and savage resolve. Never in hers.
Because she did not have to be at the mercy of her senses. She did not have to allow him to win.
Deliberately, she sank her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted blood, using the sharpness of the pain to distract her from the sensual drift of his mouth and hands over her body, the unexpected incitement of his aroused nakedness against her skin.
It would be so easy to yield, she realised, staring up at the ceiling over his shoulder and making herself count the beams. So easy and so fatal.
Because of him, all her dreams of a happy future life had been wrecked. Therefore she would deny him too.
Although she could not so easily control her own physicality, she realised with dismay, as the aching, melting sensation between her legs could attest.
Not even Simon, whom she’d loved, had ever induced this kind of reaction from her—made her feel as if she was about to vanish over the edge of the world.
Nor would she be able to hide it from Raf for much longer, because his knee was between hers, gently coaxing them apart, so that his sensuously exploring hands could gain the intimate access to her body that they sought.
As he began, softly and rhythmically, to caress the secret places of her womanhood, Emily tensed into rigidity, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured sparks danced behind her lids. But when he found the tiniest, most sensitive spot and started to circle it gently with a fingertip, she almost cried out under the force of the sensations he was creating. Realised that her iron determination was almost ready to collapse.
Frantically, she began to recite her twelve times table, verses of poetry she’d learned at school, even her Christmas card list—anything—anything—that would help her withstand the witchcraft of his touch and break the web of sensual promise he was weaving round her. Concentrating with such fierceness that she almost stopped breathing.
‘Emilia.’ His voice seemed to reach her from a great distance and she opened unwilling eyes and looked at him.
The caressing hand had stilled. Indeed, he wasn’t touching her at all, but was propped up on a elbow, studying her, the hazel eyes hooded.
He said unsmilingly, ‘I feel I am boring you, carissima. If it is true, do not hesitate to say so, or tell me if there is some other way I might please you more.’
‘I just want you to leave me alone,’ she said raggedly. ‘Nothing else. Can’t you understand that?’’
He shrugged. ‘Your body does not seem to agree. Continue your passive resistance, if you must, but I still intend to make you my wife. However, it would be easier for both of us if you were to—co-operate a little.’ He paused. ‘Would it be so impossible to return my kisses—perhaps even to touch me?’
‘Anything you want from me, signore, you will have to take.’ Her voice was quiet and clear. ‘I’ll give you nothing. Not now—not ever.
‘Nor will I forgive you for breaking the promise you made on our wedding night,’ she added huskily.
He moved then, taking her by the shoulders and jerking her towards him, crushing her breasts against his chest as his mouth took hers in a bruising kiss that was in total contrast to his earlier consideration.
She was gasping for breath, when he released her, allowing her to fall back against the pillows.
‘This is our wedding night,’ he said softly. ‘Here and now. And I will mark it with another promise to you, mia cara.
‘I swear that there will come a time—some day, some night soon—when you will desire me as much as I want you now.
‘And then, may God help you.’
He turned away, stretching down for his robe on the floor beside the bed. And, for a moment, with an odd jump of her heart, Emily thought he was leaving.
But as he straightened, she realised that he’d only been reaching for the protection he intended to use.
He saw her eyes widen and said icily, ‘Our marriage has no permanent basis, Emilia. It follows, therefore, that there can be no risk of a child.’
He positioned himself so that she could feel the hardness and strength of him pressing against the junction of her thighs. And the breath caught in her throat.
‘Relax a little,’ he directed. ‘Or I may hurt you.’
‘Hurt me then,’ she flung at him. ‘Do you think I care?’
As his mouth tightened in frustration and his eyes glittered with sudden anger, she knew a brief, almost savage satisfaction.
Then he moved fractionally and entered her.
He paused, drawing a deep breath. He said quietly, ‘Bend your knees.’ And it suddenly seemed wiser to obey.
He took her slowly, easing his way into her, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay very still, staring past him, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth, bracing herself mentally. But there was no pain. And, instead, out of nowhere, she found she wanted very badly to cry. But did not.
Because there was nothing to cry about. She’d endured—hadn’t she—the worst he could do to her and it would soon be over.
She began repeating, Soon—over soon, inside her head like a mantra.
For a moment he too was motionless, as if he were waiting for something, then he said huskily, ‘I would have given you the world, Emilia,’ and began to thrust his way to climax in long, powerful strokes.
Yet, in spite of everything, as she lay beneath him, waiting for him to finish with her, Emily became aware of one infinitesimal, bewildered moment when the stark driving force of his body seemed to trigger a tiny echo of response that flickered uncertainly somewhere in the depths of her being, but was immediately extinguished.
And, even as her throat tightened in shock, she felt his movements quicken almost to frenzy until, at the last, he cried out and was still.
Emily remained where she was too, because she had no other choice