He spoke to her in Italian, telling her in his native tongue that she was beautiful and perfect, and in that moment he truly felt that she was, even if he was convinced that she was also a witch or apparition, and he knew that he didn’t believe in perfection anyway.
Guilt was there too – guilt at his pleasure, his enjoyment, the guilt that dogged him any time he surrendered to his wishes, anytime he allowed himself to live his life and enjoy something simply and honestly. It was a guilt borne of deprivation – Carmen was dead because of him; Avery was growing up without a mother. He didn’t deserve this.
Guilt he would grapple with later, after. For now, there was only this, feeling and need, an ancient imperative driving his body. He lifted a hand to her head, his fingers tangling with her hair, tilting her head back so he could kiss her, his tongue echoing the movements of his cock, thrusting into her warmth, duelling with hers, dominating her, pleasuring her, robbing her of breath, until tension began to coil in his abdomen, spreading lower, and her whimpers became more frantic, her need in perfect synch with him, his tightness spreading to his balls and then releasing in an almighty rush through his arousal, so he held her tight as he thrust into her, spilling his seed in a hot, urgent rush, his desperate movements driving her over the edge once more, euphoria binding them, blinding them, owning them equally.
Frantic breath was an orchestral backdrop. He groaned as he held her, dropping his head to her shoulder once more, every colour in the universe forming a rainbow behind his eyelids as he waited for his own tidal wave of pleasure to recede. Every movement was magnified, every feeling intensified, and he wanted to stand there and relish the pleasure of their coming together, he wanted to simply feel and delight.
But guilt was on him, a guilt that pulled against him hard particularly now, reminding him he had no business feeling so damned good. So damned fantastic. So damned whole.
What he wanted, most of all, was to stay exactly where he was, buried deep inside her, her body weight completing him in some way as she balanced between him and the wall, her pleasure-soaked breath the most fulfilling sound he’d ever heard.
What he wanted, most of all, was to enjoy the afterglow of this, and so he didn’t.
He denied himself that, easing her feet to the floor in the same motion he pulled out of her, ignoring the screaming rejection of his body.
It was then that he realised why alarm bells had been sounding earlier.
“Merde,” he swore, lifting a palm and bracing it on the wall behind her, just beside her head, forming a frame for her body.
“What?” She blinked up at him, her pupils huge, her own sense of discombobulation apparent in the vacant look across her face. It was as though she was trying to make sense of everything she was feeling – her pleasure and his removal, the heat of their lovemaking and the icy cold of the room.
“I forgot protection.”
Her eyes widened as she shifted her gaze downwards, and even then he felt a rush of heat spread through his body, as her eyes devoured his naked frame, landing on his still-throbbing cock.
“Yes,” she whispered quietly. “So we did.”
It was kind of her to include herself in the reprimand, but he blamed only himself.
“I apologise.” Already, his mind was running away with him, panic like a vice at his chest as he envisaged the consequences that might arise from that brief, euphoric coming together. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly, lifting her hand to his chest, her fingers splayed wide there.
“It’s not okay. For God’s sake, Isabella, you could be pregnant.”
“No, it’s fine,” she reassured him. “I’m on the pill, have been for years. I take it every day, so there’s really no risk. Well, maybe like zero point zero one per cent or something minuscule, but that’s the case even with a condom,” she reminded him. “You don’t need to worry.”
“You brought the pill with you?”
“I keep it in my handbag,” she said, her lips lifting in a half smile. “And if you always use a condom then I presume we don’t have to worry about anything else. So relax.”
Relax?
He was mollified, but not relaxed. The familiar sense of guilt was squirming through him, making him want to bail on this situation, to walk away from her quickly, just as he’d foreshadowed. That was his usual way of doing things. Pick up a woman in a bar, take her to some nondescript hotel to have sex, then leave. Sometimes, he didn’t even make it to the hotel – the back of his limo or a night club restroom had sufficed, on occasion.
A cloying sense of suffocation was spreading, as the realisation that they were still trapped together fired in his gut. He took a step back, his eyes sweeping her face, her body, committing both to memory. Already he was regretting what they’d done, furious with himself for not having been stronger. But regrets were useless – they served no purpose. What was done was done.
“Wow.” She stared at him, a frown on her face, a look in her features that was perplexed and breath taking. Guilt rumbled through him, and yet one side of his mouth notched upwards, a
