The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House of Cacciatore 1)

It was as if they had each been schooled in what was to come next for they moved in synchrony, in a silent wordless dance towards the bed, as if they had practised the steps over and over again, and yet Ella knew she had never moved like that before. Had he?

With hungry, conspiratorial smiles, they slid onto the bed.

‘Gabriella—’

But she touched her finger to his lips to silence him and began to unbutton his shirt. Words would destroy the fantasy that he was hers—at least with her body she could pretend.

She had never taken the lead quite like this before, and there was a vague corner of her mind that wondered whether such a dominant man would allow her to. But her disquiet was only fleeting, for she could see from the look of rapture on his face that he was loving it.

She trickled her fingertips down over the tiny hard nipples, tracing butterfly circles around the sensitised flesh, and his hard, lean body writhed with pleasure.

‘Che cosa state facendo a me?’ he groaned softly.

Her hands moved to the hard, flat planes of his hips. ‘In English, please!’ she teased.

But he shook his head, the words forgotten and already redundant.

She undressed him as slowly as she could, until the tension between them was so fraught that it was almost unbearable. Her hands were shaking as she skated the silken camiknickers down over her hips, and then she climbed on top of him. Their eyes met in a silence broken only by their rapid breathing as she slowly lowered herself onto him, encasing him in her tight, exquisite heat.

And that was when it became too much. A little cry escaped from her lips, and suddenly she was trembling and out of control.

He was watching her, and he understood perfectly, pulling her face down to his to kiss her and tangling his hand in the satin hair before turning her onto her side and beginning to move inside her.

Ella gasped, and it was much more than the feeling of him filling her, deep and hard and true—it was the way that their gazes were locked, watching each other’s reaction in a way that was almost scarily intimate.

She thrilled to see the pleasure that rippled up from his body to make his face relax in helpless rapture, and his delight fed hers until she could watch him no more. Until the waves that had been building and building rocked over her with a power that obliterated everything except the shuddering man within her arms.

He watched her orgasm, holding back his own, almost resenting it, because he didn’t want this to stop. The urge to give in was unbearably strong now. Signore dolce, but he was having to battle with his body not to go under with each deep thrust. It was that feeling all over again. Like reaching the top of the mountain. Or falling from the stars.

He began to cry out then, his release bittersweet as he was caught up in spasms of pleasure so sharp that he felt he might die right at that moment. And then he let go, while the warm waves drifted over him, his eyes closing as he breathed in the soft, feminine fragrance of her.

For a while he held her tightly, but then suddenly and abruptly he rolled away and lay staring up at the ceiling, where the moon was making flickering silent movies in monochrome.

And Ella felt the sensation of

loneliness creep in, where there had been only pleasure and fulfillment. He had done it again, she realised. Shut down. Shut her out. The closeness, the sense of complete unity—that was purely physical. Maybe he didn’t realise he was doing it…

‘Hey,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t do that!’

She reached her hand out to him and ran her fingertip from shoulder to elbow. He turned his head to look at her, but he was not smiling.

‘Don’t do what?’ he questioned coldly.

The tone of his voice should have warned her, but Ella was in such a state of helpless rapture that she chose not to heed it. She shrugged. How could he learn if she didn’t teach him? ‘You go all distant after we’ve made love. It can still be intimate, you know,’ she added softly. ‘Once it’s over.’

Her flame-red hair looked like quietly gleaming fire in the light of the moon, but her eyes were in shadow and he knew that he could not continue to take from her—not when she gave so generously. For that had not been just mind-blowing sex—that had been making love. That was why it had felt so different. So wild. So free. So dangerous.

Nico knew what she was offering, and that if he continued to accept it without any return—or even with the unspoken promise of some return—then he would be nothing more than an emotional thief. However much it might hurt, he had to tell her. Though wasn’t there a part of him that hoped that she might forgive him anything in the face of honesty?

His eyes were bleak as they searched her face. ‘I don’t love you, Gabriella,’ he said quietly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ELLA let Nico’s words sink in, like a heavy rock disappearing without trace into the murky water, but her initial feeling was one of an almost euphoric relief. It was like going to the doctor and demanding to know the truth about a prognosis, because only then would you be able to tackle the problem head-on.

And cure it.

But the euphoria was almost immediately replaced by a feeling of real fear, and she wanted to say to him, I know! I’m not stupid, Nico! I’ve known all along, and I would have been able to come to terms with it in my own time and in my own way if only you could have pretended.