‘A virgin at twenty-two! Did your father lock you up in some kind of a chastity belt? Build a moat around Annersty?’
Emmeline shook her head. ‘Neither.’
‘So you just aren’t interested in boys? In sex?’
Emmeline grimaced, her cheeks flushing darker. ‘I guess not.’
‘Your body’s reaction to me would dispute that.’
‘You’re imagining it.’
His laugh was soft. ‘Careful, Mrs Morelli. One touch and you melt like butter in my hands. Imagine if I pinned you back against that wall and kissed you as though I wanted so much more from you...’
The image filled her with a sense of strange confusion. She wanted him to do that. At least a part of her did. A crazy part. The part that had no pride and no rational ability to think.
‘I’m sure I’d be very disappointing after the women you’re used to,’ she said stiffly, sounding so prim that she cringed inwardly.
He didn’t say anything. His hand lifted and reached for the cap sleeve of her wedding dress, and slowly he guided it lower. So slowly that she had plenty of opportunities to say something. To object. But she didn’t. She watched him with hooded eyes as he drifted it downwards, the fabric a torment as it pulled over the skin at her décolletage and then lower, exposing one of her breasts to the night air—and to his eyes.
They were neat breasts—not huge. But nor were they tiny—and they were firm. His eyes studied her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
‘Has a man ever touched you here?’ he asked, the question gravelled.
She shook her head, biting down on her lip.
‘Do you want me to touch you?’
A slick of moist heat formed between her legs and her eyes were anguished as they met his. She nodded. Just a tiny, almost involuntary movement of her head, accompanied by a mask of abject fear on her face.
He laughed softly, dropping his hands to her waist and yanking her closer. His body was hard all over, and she could feel the hint of his arousal through the fabric of her dress. A moan was thick in her throat.
‘And I thought this wasn’t an invitation,’ he said with sardonic mockery, dropping his head so quickly she couldn’t anticipate his intention, moving his mouth over the swell of her nipple and rolling his tongue over its unsuspecting tip.
She cried out at the stark feeling of pleasure. It came out of nowhere and it practically cut her off at the knees. His face was stubbled, and the contrast of his rough chin across her soft breast, and the warm wetness of his mouth, the lashing of his tongue...
She was melting—just as he’d said she would.
Swirling need pounded inside her, creating a vortex of responses she’d never imagined possible. Her body was experiencing its first awakening, and any thought of words or sense had fallen from her mind. There was only this.
She could hear herself mumbling incoherently, needing more than he was giving. A wave was building and she had no idea when and how it would crash. Only knew that it was imperative she stay on it, surf it right to its conclusion.
He dragged his lips higher and she cried out at this abandonment of her nipple. But his hand lifted up and cupped her breast, his thumb and forefinger taking the place of his mouth, twisting and plucking at its sensitised nerve-endings until she was crying out over and over, a fever-pitch of sensation rioting inside her.
His other hand pushed her forward, holding her tight against him as his lips sought hers, kissing her as his hands moved over her, and she cried into his mouth as the feelings became too much, her awareness of him too great.
‘Oh, God, please...’ she groaned into his mouth, with no idea of what she was asking for, only knowing that she needed something. Something he alone could give her.
He pulled away, lifting his head at the same moment as he dropped his hand and stepped backwards. His look was one she couldn’t fathom. His chest was moving rapidly, his jaw clenched, but she couldn’t understand why he’d stopped. Arousal was a raging river in her bloodstream.
‘Go to your room, Emmeline.’
The way he said her name was like warm butter on hot toast. It dripped over her body.
Did he mean with him? Was he going to come with her? Her confusion was muddied by the way her body was crying out for him.
‘I’m not interested in breaking in virgins.’
He turned away from her, stalking into his own room and picking up the glass of Scotch that was resting on the bedside table.
Her jaw dropped. She stared at him, confused and bereft. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘No need to apologise,’ he said, with a shrug of those broad shoulders.
His hair was tousled. Had she done that? Had she run her fingers through it so that it now stood at odd angles, all messy and gorgeous?
‘I’m not... I wasn’t apologising,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion. ‘I don’t understand why you stopped. I don’t—’
His accent was coarse when he was angry. ‘I’m not interested in sleeping with you. It would complicate things and undoubtedly be unsatisfying, for me.’
She drew in a harsh breath, her eyes flashing with pain.
‘Don’t be offended,’ he murmured. ‘I’m just used to more experienced lovers.’
Mortification curled her toes, flushing away any lingering desire. She spun on her heel, walking quickly down the corridor. It was only when she reached her room that she realised she’d come the whole way with her breast still uncovered.
* * *
Pietro stared into his whisky, his expression grim.
That had been a mistake. He could still taste her on his lips, smell her on his clothes, hear her sweet little moans of fierce, hot need as though she were still with him. Worse, he could feel her—like a phantom of the night he could be having if only he hadn’t pulled things to a stop.
He was hungry for her...hard for her.
Col’s daughter.
A groan permeated the silence
