“Come,” he said again.
Slowly she rose to her feet and started to move around the dinner table. He met her halfway. Took her hand and dropped down onto the long leather couch and pulled her onto his lap.
Need uncoiled within Angelo. A need to see her smile again, to banish the shadows from her eyes, a need for her to be happy, a need to touch her…a need that grew and grew.
What the hell was happening to him? How could he care so little about Gemma’s past betrayal? All he knew was that the whole week he’d been away from her had dragged like a prison sentence.
Experience had taught him that Gemma was treacherous, faithless. One side of him craved her, wanted to believe her promise that Jean-Paul meant nothing to her, wanted to believe it could be different this time…and fought to convince that other, more cynical side of Angelo that she had changed.
Her head was turned away from him. From this angle he could see the rise of her cheekbone, the straight line of her nose. He raised his hand, smoothed the wild tangles back to reveal the soft creamy skin at her neck.
“Ask me to make love to you,” he breathed. “So that I don’t break my promise to you.”
He watched her throat move as she swallowed. When she turned her head, he met her gaze and he read the same desire that consumed him, as strong as a relentless tide.
“Please make love to me, Angelo.”
A slow sensation rumbled like liquid thunder in his chest and, leaning forward, he brushed his lips across her silken skin. Her mouth opened. She tasted soft and sweet.
A long time later, she gave a breathy gasp and shifted, so that she knelt across his lap, her body tight and expectant.
His hands came up to her shoulders, dislodged the thin shoestring straps and eased the top of the dress down. She wore no bra. One glance revealed that her breasts were high and firm, the nipples dark and his heart began to pound.
He pulled her up…towards him…took the waiting nipple and surrounding flesh into his mouth. The nipple peaked under the stroke of his tongue.
Angelo pursed his lips, sucked, felt her body jerk and wrapped his arms tightly around her.
Her still-clothed belly moved in slow, insistent motions against him. In one swift movement he peeled the Lycra dress off and revelled in the sensation of her naked skin beneath his hands. He stroked her back, the sleek, rounded globes of her tight buttocks; the piece of stretchy lace that qualified for underwear was no barrier to his touch. His fingers slid beneath the thong.
She was warm and wet and his fingers moved effortlessly in the sleek furrow. He could tell by her ragged breathing that she was hot, that she wanted this as much as he did.
As his fingers moved back and forth, his mouth echoed the rhythm against her breast, until she gasped out loud and he felt the suppressed shudder that shook her.
Then she pushed away.
“I can’t take more.”
Before he could object, she’d slid off his lap, knelt between his thighs. He felt her fingers at the zipper of his trousers. A rush of want surged through him. He grabbed her head between his hands.
“No.”
She tipped her head up, her eyes glazed with emotion.
“Yes.”
“No.” His control was slipping. He had a turbulent sense that if he let this happen his world would never be the same. That he was poised at a doorway to an undiscovered universe.
He heard the zipper give. Her hands brought him out, hard and potent.
“Gemma.”
She ignored his desperate croak, her fingertips soft against his sensitive skin.
Giving in, he flung his head back against the sofa and groaned as she stroked him.
When the warmth of her mouth closed over him, he squeezed his eyes shut at the unbearably sweet heat. “Gemma!”
The slow sucking started, driving him to the edge of a dark, unfamiliar abyss where he could hold on no more. Shadows started to dance against his eyelids. His thighs began to tremble and then he was convulsing again and again, trapped in pleasure beyond what he’d ever experienced.
Eight
He carried Gemma through to the bedroom, laid her down on his bed. “My turn,” he growled.
He stripped the thong off and started to stroke her with fingers that possessed a magic touch. A fine tension tightened in Gemma’s belly. She shifted, the raw silk of the bedcover creating a delicious friction against her back, her thighs.
He touched the little button, her knees came off the cover. She moaned. He moved his fingers and her breath left her. Closing her eyes, she shut out everything. Nothing existed, except this room, this man…and his touch.
And then the heat of his mouth was against her. Slick. Teasing. His tongue probed. She gasped. He licked again. Gemma locked her fingers in his golden hair and pulled him away.
“I can’t…”
He lifted his head. His eyes gleamed. “You can.”
“I want…more.”
He must’ve understood her incoherent mumbles. There was the sound of foil tearing and a moment later he’d crawled over her, his chest hard and sleek against her taut, aching breasts. Then his mouth was over hers, his tongue hungry and plundering as he took her mouth in a kiss so hot, so wild, that her hips bucked under him. Impatient. Desperate.
His hand closed on her breast. Heat seared through her, stabbing between her legs. She bent her knees up, tilted her hips, hinting, clamouring for more.
Angelo moved against her. She could feel his erection, the blunt tip sliding against her. She was ready for him.
He pushed forward and slid all the way in. Gemma moaned, a hoarse primal sound, as pleasure shafted her. Her arms went round his neck, tightening. And her legs wrapped round him, locking him to her.
There was a moment when he lay utterly still, filling her, and then he pulled back a little, and sank forward again. The friction was intense. The pace ratcheted up.
Gemma’s breathing quickened, shallow gasps that sounded overloud in the quiet room.
She squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut, focusing on the friction, the sensation that arced through her, from between her legs, through her belly, to her nipples, to her tongue that slid wildly against his.
There was an instant of darkness, the world went black and then she was shivering into a void of light.
Angelo groaned, and she felt him pulsing deep inside her. “Hell, it’s never been like that,” he muttered hoarsely. “Never.”
As his words registered, the brightness faded, and a shiver of apprehension shook her.
Her final show had arrived. Tonight Gemma wore a black dress with spaghetti straps that made her dark red hair appear redder than ever. The low scooped back revealed her carefully cultivated tan and Gemma took her time applying makeup to emphasize her eyes and lips. By the time she was finished, she knew she looked good.
Her time on stage passed in a blur. She squinted past the lights but couldn’t locate Angelo at any of the tables. At last she gave up and tried to concentrate on the words she was singing, on communicating the meaning of the song to the audience, but some of the lustre had gone.
She left the stage with a sinking heart. Her time on Strathmos was over.
On the way to her dressing room, Denny waved and Gemma gave him a half-hearted smile.
Pushing the door open, her eyes widened at the unexpected sight of Angelo reclining in her dressing room. Gemma hesitated on the threshold.
He should’ve looked out of place surrounded by the heap of glittery clothes that Lucie had abandoned on the floor. But he didn’t. Instead he looked unfairly at ease as he dwarfed the couch, his long legs stretched out in front
