“Going out?” His words were tinged with a darkness she couldn’t comprehend.
She jerked her head in acknowledgement. “It’s… hot. I was going for ice cream.”
His expression took on a look of disapproval. “On your own? At this hour?”
It brought a smile to her face, despite the tension and desire that hummed between them. “It’s only eleven.”
He nodded, his hands moving to his pockets. “Then I’ll come with you.”
Her knees trembled. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”
“But imagine the guilt I’d feel if you weren’t.”
It was chivalrous, old-fashioned and totally unexpected. “I don’t think you need to worry.”
“And yet,” he shrugged his shoulders, as if it were a ‘done deal’.
She wanted to point out that she was getting the ice cream to cool down, and that walking with him would definitely not achieve that.
“No?” He prompted, his voice darker than she remembered, so it ran down her spine like spice and promise.
“I’m just… no. I don’t want to keep you up.”
His laugh was sensual and so distracting.
Where had he even been? On a date?
Highly likely.
It was a sobering thought.
Here she was going all ga-ga, thinking they must both have felt this insane sexual chemistry, only to be confronted with proof that he certainly didn’t.
She straightened her spine, fixing him with what she hoped would pass for a cool stare. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”
As she went to step out of the house, though, he put an arm up on the door frame, so if she kept moving, she’d bump right into him.
Need exploded inside her. “Is it really ice cream that you want, cara?”
Her heart turned over in her chest. She almost groaned, desperate for how obvious it must have been to him. She might as well have worn a slogan tee, ‘I want to go to bed with you’.
“Because I can think of other ways to cool you down.”
She doubted that. “Like?”
“Like that swim you wouldn’t enjoy earlier.”
Her traitorous body filled with lava. She bit down on her lower lip, running it beneath her teeth. This was madness. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the day or the tug of desire running through her, but she found herself wanting to nod her head, to agree to his suggestion.
Swimming, though, was dangerous. There was too much flesh. Too much sensual potential. She’d be likely to do something really stupid.
“It’s late.”
“Not even midnight.”
She nodded; he was right.
“Are you afraid of me?” His words were growled out, and his wolf-like eyes bore down on her, seeing right through her.
“Afraid of you?” It made no sense.
And then, as if some kind of force was trying to hold him back, some kind of force he was stronger than, he lifted a finger and traced it over her cheek, his eyes following the action, a muscle jerking in his jaw.
“You tremble when we are alone together.”
Oh, God. Mortification made her flush right to the roots of her hair.
“Do I?”
His smile was cynical, his eyes swirled with emotions that were foreign to her. “Oh, yes.”
She swallowed. “Not because I’m afraid of you.”
He moved closer, just a little, but it was enough. His body pressed to hers and she did groan now, a low, soft noise of complete powerlessness. He moved forward, trapping her body against the wall of the entrance, and with his foot, he pushed the heavy wooden door shut.
“You are afraid of this,” he said, and though he wasn’t specific, she knew what he meant. And she knew he was right.
His hand lifted, curving around her neck, his fingers pressed lightly to the pulse point there. “I feel your blood racing through your body, trying to get enough into your heart.”
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was heavy, her brain gone to mush – completely.
“I never thought I was marrying a woman I would want in my bed.”
She bit down on her lower lip. His eyes drew together as he studied the gesture intently, before he lifted his finger and ran it over her mouth, dislodging her lip from her teeth’s grip. He kept his touch there, so her knees felt like they would buckle under her. Maybe they would have if it weren’t for his powerful body holding her steady, one leg planted trunk-like on either side of her, straddling her, his strength holding her against the wall.
A shiver of anticipation ran the length of her spine and settled low in her abdomen, pooling heat between her legs.
“But you do?”
His eyes drew closer together. “Do I want you?”
She bit down on her lip again; she couldn’t resist.
“Christo, Cleopatra. I want you, si.”
She felt trembles all over. The desire that had been swarming her body for weeks now, since they first met really, was hammering her from the inside out, so she felt completely beholden to its power, completely at its whim.
“But…why?”
He stared at her for several long seconds and she held her breath, her body so sensitive she felt every single shift and movement he made. Every breath he drew then expelled which brought his chest closer to hers, so his breadth was pressed against her soft breasts. It was a hot night but that didn’t explain why she was burning up.
He stared at her and she stared right back, lost in the ferocity of his gaze, lost in the depths of his eyes, and then his head was swooping lower, swiftly but almost as if in slow-motion. She was hyper-aware of everything in that moment.
He brought his mouth down on hers, not probing as it had been at their wedding; this was a crushing kiss of frustration and pent-up need, a kiss of impatience that slammed into her sides. She exploded like a firework being let off, her body vibrating on a new frequency. Her hands lifted, tangling in his hair, her nipples puckering against the fabric of her clothes. Her eyes swept shut and then everything was even more alive, more vibrant, the world existing on a new plane for Cleopatra.
She’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never as if someone else’s survival depended on the kiss.
His mouth totally dominated hers, taking her, tasting her, pleasuring her and withholding the pleasure she desperately needed, so she was whimpering in his mouth even as his tongue lashed hers. An ancient, feminine instinct had her pushing her hips closer to his, wordlessly inviting him to make love to her, to make her his. She ached for him in a way she couldn’t explain.
His hand captured her wrists, lifting them over her head, holding her pinned to the wall and his other hand cupped one of her breasts, teasing her nipple through the fabric of her dress, his knee wedging her legs wider apart.
Hunger was unmistakable and it was demanding indulgence.
“Please,” she heard herself mumble over and over, pushing the word into his mouth, her body writhing in an attempt to get closer, to be at one with his. He kept her hands pinned where they were, trapping her for his exploration, his pleasure. His hand at her breast dropped lower, and through the flimsy fabric of her dress, he circled her womanhood, his fingers brushing over her sex so she bit down on her lip, her eyes huge in her head. But then he was kissing her again, his hand moving at the same tempo as his fingers, pleasuring her body as his kiss set fires in her mouth, sent flames into her soul.
He was so good at this. She was burning up, desire now a breathing part of her. She wanted him in a way that demanded she indulge it. She was desperate for him, so hungry for him.
“Please,” she asked, again, murmuring, mumbling, the word swallowed by the desperation of her need. She wanted him and it was making her insane, so that she forgot where they were, and who they were.
He didn’t.
“You want to have sex with me here, against the wall?” He grunted, his hand between her legs bringing her so close to an explosion that
she couldn’t answer.
But she did. She didn’t care where. Only in the back of her mind, a voice was shouting at her, reminding her that she was a virgin, and that he was definitely used to sleeping with more experienced women. That knowledge sat inside of her gut like a stone, rousing her from this, if only for a single moment.
Because pleasure was spiralling through her, arrows darting beneath her skin, demanding she answer them, and then the choice of pleasure was slipping away from her, she was riding the wave, she was high upon it, cresting over the oceans of the earth, she was filled with the elemental roar of the sea, the fury of its power. She clung to him as an orgasm tore her apart, and thoughts of telling him of her innocence slipped from her.
For a moment, she was nothing. Not human, not woman. Just feeling; a bundle of emotions and sensations barely held together by her flesh. She shivered in his arms, the power of what he’d made her feel humbling her, making her weak, making her strong, making her live.
“Benedetto,” she lifted her face to his and saw desire there, his dark eyes swirling with the force of his own needs. She groaned because there was such pleasure here, such intense pleasure and it needed to be enjoyed.
But she had to be honest with him. She had to tell him.
“I need to…”
“I know,” he kissed her again, his mouth taking hers, his body so strong and powerful, his hand between her legs pulling away so he could push his arousal there instead. Through the fabric of his suit pants and her skirt, she felt his strength and hardness and it called to her, it became all she could think of, all she wanted. She lifted a leg, and he caught at the other one, wrapping both around his waist as his body pressed her back to the wall, so now his rock hard proximity was even more intense, impossible to ignore and deny. She rolled her hips, tilting her head back, and his stubbled mouth came to her throat, teasing her flesh there, kissing her, his tongue flicking her pulse point.
It was the most incredible feeling. She was being dragged into the ocean, drowning, but not afraid, filled with pleasure and confidence and certainty. This felt amazing. She wanted him. She needed him.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails pushing at the fabric of his shirt impatiently, her mouth seeking his, her body riding a wave, vibrating with the strength of her desires.
“I have to…”
“You have to…?”
He pulled away, staring at her from hooded eyes as his hands moved to the flimsy straps of her dress. He pushed one down first, the elastic of it making it easy for him to slide off her arm altogether, the other followed. It was a hot night; she hadn’t worn a bra, and her breasts were fully exposed to his hungry gaze. He dragged his eyes over them, his cheeks flushed dark, his inspection determined and possessive, and enough to light the fires of desire to the point of breaking.
“Christo, sei bella,” he groaned, “You are so beautiful.” And though it was a complaint, the words were dragged from him, resentment in them. “Do you have any idea what I want to do with you?”
She shook her head, truthfully – she was so far out of her field of experience. He dropped his mouth to hers, simultaneously lifting a hand to her breast and fondling a nipple curiously between his forefinger and thumb, rolling it and flicking it, so she arched her back and rolled her pelvis, darts of need firing through her from his every touch. He broke their kiss, dropping his mouth to her other breast, sucking that nipple deep in his mouth, rolling his tongue over its sensitive tip, then pressing his teeth against the soft flesh, just hard enough to make her cry out and writhe in a wholly new kind of pleasure mixed with a need so sharp it was almost painful.
“Benedetto!” His voice on her lips was an incantation. It rang through the ancient corridor so he lifted his mouth to hers, kissing her, silencing her, swallowing her voice inside of him.
“I want to make you mine,” he kissed right back to her, his shirt rough against her soft breasts, his voice determined.
“I want…”
Her voice trailed off again as she tried to find the words to tell him of her inexperience.
And what if he changed his mind?
Everything inside of her railed against that.
She needed him, and to risk that he might turn her away because she wasn’t the kind of lover he was used to?
How would she live with that?
She’d have to – because she couldn’t lie to him, and carrying on with this when he had no idea she’d never been with a guy before was dishonest.
The thoughts were disjointed and rapid fire, coming to her from a thousand different angles as she tried to process what was happening.
“Come to my bed, cara.”
“Yes,” she nodded, desperate, driven only by need.
He pulled her away from the wall, keeping her wrapped around him as he moved through the mansion, up the stairs and down the corridor, away from the parts of the house with which she was familiar. His mouth was locked to hers, his kiss intense, his touch skilful, so it wasn’t until he dropped her down onto his bed that she realised they were in his room.
She had no mental room to take note of any details – it was all just flashes in her mind – dark, wood, glass, modern, imposing. A little like the man himself.
He stood above her, fully dressed, his eyes hooked to hers as he pushed off his suit jacket and shirt, revealing a toned, buff chest. Her throat went bone dry as she stared at him, a sliver of moonlight cutting like a blade across his chest, highlighting a tattoo that scrawled just below his collar bone. She lifted up to read it better, but couldn’t make it out in this dim light. Or maybe it was in her feverish state? She felt as though her body was on fire.
His hands moved to his pants, undoing the belt, slowly, his eyes watching her so she was conscious of the way her breasts were moving with her every breath. The belt clunked loudly to the floor and then there was the button of his trousers, next the zip.
It was like being woken up from a dream – the reality of this. The imminence. She couldn’t let him discover her innocence for himself. She had to be honest.
“Benedetto, I need to tell you something.”
He didn’t stop, undoing the pants and sliding them down so he wore only a pair of navy blue board shorts.
“It’s important.” At least, she thought it might be, to him.
“I’m all ears, cara.”
Except he wasn’t. He was all powerful body and, as he pushed his shorts down, an incredible erection, enough to make her mouth dry and her breath burn all the cells of her lungs.
She stared at him – at the proof of his desire for her – and began to tremble with an ancient, feminine instinct she couldn’t control.
“Tell me quickly, Cleopatra. I’ve waited for you a month and I do not wish to wait much longer.”
The words were like fuel on an already out of control fire.
But she knew she had to do this.
“I want you,” she murmured, and his smile was pure, cocky amusement. Mocking and teasing all at once. “But you should know, I’ve never done this before.”
His smile didn’t drop. “You’re saying you are what, cara, a virgin?” It was a joke, as though he didn’t, for a second, believe that could be true.
“Yes, Benedetto. I’m a virgin.”
6
BENEDETTO AWOKE WITH A God awful hangover and shards of memory that were too slippery to properly catch. Lifting a hand to his head to push at his hair, he focussed on the curtains across his expansive bedroom, a frown on his chiselled face.
There’d been the date with Natasha – a disaster, by all counts. In the past, he’d found her company entertaining enough. What she lacked in intellectual compatibility she made up for with good humour and an insanely gorgeous body. Legs that went forever, breasts that would drive men to war, eyes that whispered seductive nothings with every caramel-hued blink. But their date had lacked its usual spark, his interest had waned, and rather than taking her to his city penthouse for a few hours’ of
pleasure, he’d put her in a cab to her own place and gone to the penthouse alone.
No, not alone. With a particularly fine, aged single malt Macallan, which he’d proceeded to enjoy by himself, staring out at central Rome before coming back to the mansion.
Where he’d found his wife, dressed like a university student on her way to a dorm room party, all sweet and wide-eyed and impossibly fascinating and the spark he’d been hoping to feel with Natasha had ignited in one sharp burst because of Cleopatra.
He groaned, closing his eyes as more memories flooded him.
Had he kissed her? Or the other way around? He shook his head, the answer right before him. Naturally, he’d instigated it, just as – if he were honest with himself – he’d been wanting to do since she walked into his office six weeks ago.
He’d kissed her and she’d responded so willingly, like a lightning rod of desire, she’d burned up in his arms. She’d begged him again and again to make love to her. And then…
I’m a virgin.
He swore violently as that bombshell ricocheted through his mind and the room as though she were saying the word again just now. He shot out of bed, pacing, naked, across his room, his stride long, his body tense. He jerked a pair of jeans off a hanger in his wardrobe and pulled them roughly over his body. It did nothing to curtail the throb of awareness starting to pound through his cock.
“You can’t be a virgin.”
“Um, I definitely am.”
“But you’re… too old.”
Her bright pink cheeks as she’d shaken her head, so her hair fell over her eyes a little. “I know. I just…”
“Christo, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did, just now.”
“Now? You do not think it is too late?”
The way she’d winced as he’d raised his voice – not out of anger so much as sheer disbelief and frustration.