She opened for him, her breathing already ragged, her sex already aching, her breasts trapped against his chest as the kiss turned from subtle to scorching in a heartbeat.
His fingers threaded into her hair, angling her head to take more, to take all. His lips commanding, controlling, his tongue delving deep, over and over, exploring, and exploiting each sigh, each sob, each shudder.
She could feel herself falling into the sensual fog, the dazed, dizzying desire, too much and yet not enough.
One hand gripped her bottom, to drag her against the thick ridge in his jeans. Her core melted, as she writhed against it, needing more, but scared to take it, to demand it. Her emotions were still in turmoil from their argument. And that weird sense of connection which felt so real.
She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away, more confused and wary than ever, even though the sensations shimmering through her bloodstream still fired her need.
He released her. His breathing was as harsh as her own, his face set in hard lines—his eyes a molten gold.
‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sending you mixed messages and I don’t mean to…’ she managed around the desire and panic making her throat feel raw.
Of course, he’d kissed her. She’d told him she wanted him.
But instead of reacting angrily to her rejection, as she had feared, he brushed his thumb across her cheek again, then pressed it to her lips.
‘Do not apologise,’ he said. ‘Are you a virgin, Tallulah?’
Embarrassment scorched her cheeks, at the direct question—and the potent hunger in his gaze.
‘No… No, I’m not,’ she said.
‘But you have little experience, am I correct?’ he asked again, the rueful tilt of his lips making the blush explode.
‘Well…yes, I suppose so, compared to you,’ she answered. What did he expect her to say? And why was he looking at her with indulgence, even affection? Because it was making her feel a whole lot more exposed, while he seemed to be in complete control again.
He let out a rough chuckle. But when he cupped her cheek there was no denying the fierce need in his expression, which matched her own. ‘Then we must take this slowly. Because our passion is extraordinary…and I do not wish to hurt you.’
‘Ummm, okay,’ she said, pretty sure her cheeks were probably visible from outer space by now.
Pulling her closer, he pressed his lips to her burning forehead. ‘You may continue with your Italian lessons.’
It took her a moment to figure out what he was talking about, her mind dazed from the endorphin high still powering through her system. ‘Okay.’
‘I will see you on Friday, for the trip to Sicily.’
She frowned. ‘We don’t have any other dates in Milan over the next two days?’ she asked, pretty sure they were scheduled to attend an embassy party that evening, but her mind was still too fuzzy to remember the details.
Taking her hand, he led her towards the apartment’s lift, then kissed her knuckles in that habitual gesture—which should have seemed perfunctory but made the heat rush through her all over again.
‘I think it best we do not spend too much time alone together, until you are ready for more.’
‘Okay,’ she said again, like a dummy.
It wasn’t until she’d stepped into the lift though and watched the doors close on him that it occurred to her the yearning in her sex had only got worse. She had agreed there would be more. Although she had no clue what ‘more’ entailed.
She rubbed her hand across her mouth, feeling the imprint of his lips on hers, the electrifying rasp of his stubble, the harsh demand of his tongue, the press of that huge erection against her belly. The mark of his ownership so much more elemental now than the diamond ring on her finger.
That the realisation was as exhilarating as it was terrifying only made the days ahead seem like more of a minefield… Because she had the sneaking suspicion that as well as having a lot less sexual experience than Dario Lorenti, she was also nowhere near as well versed at ruthlessly controlling her emotions.
Chapter Eight
Two days later
ASTHELORENTICORPhelicopter circled Sante Trovato’s sprawling Palermo estate, the neoclassical grandeur of his home a testament to how high the former Sicilian slum kid had risen, Dario’s stomach churned. He rubbed his leg, the muscle cramps triggered by brutal memories of that long-ago summer day when Sante had deserted him—the acrid scent of burnt rubber, the metallic taste of blood, the crushing weight on his thigh, the fear and pain spent drifting in and out of consciousness.
Tension screamed across his shoulder blades. He’d seen Trovato in passing over the years since that day. How could he have avoided the man, after the Sicilian had managed to turn his coding abilities—abilities which Dario had nurtured and encouraged when they were schoolboys together in that godforsaken boarding school in Wiltshire—into the sale of an app that had made him a billionaire several years before Lorenti Corp had begun to corner the European market in a similar field. Since then, Trovato’s ambitions had known no bounds, but at least he wasn’t heavily involved in the tech business anymore, preferring to invest in property.
