The Italian's Love-Child: The Italian's Stolen Bride / The Marchese's Love-Child / The Italian's Marriage Demand. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ intention unmistakable. She was conscious only of a thundering need to let it happen…to know, to feel, to match the memory.

      His mouth covered hers, instantly triggering an electric sensitivity. She hadn’t been kissed since he had last kissed her and her mind filled with wonder that it could be so fascinating, so seductive, the soft sensuality of having her lips tasted, the exciting slick of his tongue opening them further, teasing and tantalising as it slid into her mouth to entice hers into play.

      The temptation to respond was irresistible. The desire to feel again what she’d once felt with him surged out of the sense of having been cheated of it, cut off as though she was dead, through no fault of her own.

      But she wasn’t dead. It was as if every cell in her body was springing into vibrant life, screaming out for what had been lost. She wanted it back—the all-consuming passion they’d shared. He owed it to her. He owed her so much…

      A torrent of feelings pumped through her, driving her out of passivity, long-buried needs rising, demanding at least some satisfaction. Her tongue sprang into an erotic tango with his. Her hands clawed their way up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers thrusting through the thick matt of his hair, curling around his head, fiercely denying any end to the kiss which turned into a wild battleground for possession—invasion, assault, frenzied passion, no retreat, ragged pauses only to regather breath enough to engage again.

      He no longer held her face. His hands clutched her bottom, fingers digging into the soft rounded flesh as he dragged her closer, lifting her into more intimate contact with him, and a mad exultation fizzed through her brain as she felt his arousal. She rubbed against it, wantonly provocative, deliberately stirring the desire he’d turned his back on, building the heat he had doused with ice, not believing it had only been for him.

      No ice now.

      He wrenched his mouth from hers, scooped her off her feet, and carried her out of the kitchen, down the central hallway, into her bedroom at the front of the house, his chest heaving but there was not one falter in the long, strong strides that were driven by the compulsion to get her to a bed.

      Skye didn’t protest, didn’t struggle to assert herself in any way. It was wildly exhilarating to be swept off by Luc, knowing he wasn’t thinking of anything but having her—the woman he’d cast out of his life. He wasn’t about to walk away now. Oh, no! And Skye’s whole body tingled with a sense of power—a deep, primitive power that clamoured to be used, claiming this man as hers, so completely hers all the more suitable women would never get a chance with him.

      It was twilight outside, almost dark in the bedroom, though she could see Luc clearly enough, see the strained look on his face as he put her down and worked at speed to strip them both. No finesse in the undressing. No stopping to touch, kiss or caress. Urgent need.

      She didn’t try to help or hinder, didn’t care about her own nakedness. She watched him, secretly revelling in the desire that couldn’t wait, that was raging out of Luc’s control, his eyes hungrily feasting on her femininity as he moved onto the bed, knees intent on parting her legs, his own magnificent physique right in her face now, smooth shiny olive skin stretched over tight muscles, his whole body yearning for hers, craving the union he’d put behind him.

      And for a moment she hated him for it, a fierce flash of hatred for the contempt he’d dealt out, making all she’d given of herself negligible, dirty…yet everything within her sighed a sweet welcome as he entered her, plunging deep, filling the emptiness she’d known for far too long.

      He paused there, sighing himself, and Skye savagely hoped it signalled the feeling of having come home—home to where his heart was. Except she couldn’t really believe it because he would never have left her if that was true.

      She closed her eyes and focused on feeling him inside her, no longer caring what it meant for him, wanting to recapture all the sensations she had forgotten, the rippling pleasures of the rhythm, the buildup of intense physical excitement. And Luc delivered. He always had delivered. Not usually as roughly as this. But that had its exciting edge, too, knowing control had been sabotaged by need, adding to the power of his wanting her.

      He was breathing hard.

      She was, too, her body instinctively accommodating the wild pounding, exulting in it, her legs wound around his taut buttocks urging him on, her back arched, her hands raking the bunched muscles of his shoulders, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest as he rocked back and forth in a frenzy of driven possession, the tension of it becoming more and more explosive.

      The shattering started, the ecstatic meltdown she had only ever known with him, and even as she started floating with it, she felt the release of his climax, the jerking spurts of heat spilling from him, mingling with her own contentment, increasing the sweet pleasure of it, the sense of fulfilment that matched the memories.

      He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in the stream of her hair across the pillow, and she hugged him tightly to her, clutching the intimacy of the moment before it went away. For this little time, at least, he was hers, and she consciously shut out the realities of the worlds they occupied, feeling only their togetherness—a dream that had been lost—a dream that couldn’t last.

      CHAPTER SIX

      HER beautiful hair, soft, silky, incredibly sensual…the feel of it, the feel of her, had started this, propelling him down a path he hadn’t meant to take yet, and certainly not with the frenzied need that had driven his every action. He had to start thinking now, seize advantage of the knowledge that the need had been mutual.

      She was clasping him tightly to her. Was it reaction to the physical upheaval of climaxing, or a desire to hold onto him? He had to move, take his weight off her before she became too conscious of it, too conscious of what she had allowed to happen, regretting it, spurning him as he’d once spurned her.

      He rolled onto his back, carrying her with him, keeping one of her legs trapped by his to retain an intimate entanglement, using his hands to travel up and down the curve of her spine, over the soft roundness of her bottom, wanting her to feel him loving her, everything about her.

      The sex had been too crude, too fast. He’d meant to woo her, win back her trust. Her fear of him had been intolerable, a barrier he’d had to break, though he’d lost sight of that aim as her tension had collapsed into tears. Holding her in his arms again—impossible not to remember how it had once been with her, stirring the urge to make her remember, too.

      Show her, kiss her…

      He hadn’t anticipated the fierce response.

      Given Skye’s hostility—justified hostility—what was behind her burst of passion? He couldn’t believe it was a raging desire for him. Though there was no doubting she had wanted the sexual connection, responding to it all the way. That certainly hadn’t changed. But was it enough to build on?

      It had to be because there was no going back to a more careful courtship. Besides, it would be better for Matt to have both parents as a constant in his life. And it would prove his own commitment to fatherhood to Skye, removing her fear of a transient and possibly damaging dalliance with his son. So best that he speak now, before her mind got active against him again.

      Her head was resting over his heart. He wound a long tress of her hair around his hand to hold her there. He told himself she could not be more vulnerable to the idea than she was at this moment with both of them naked and intimately entwined, reinforcing what they could and did share.

      It would come out baldly, he knew, but dressing СКАЧАТЬ