Black Hearted (The Margarelli Brothers 1)

“Yes, I want something to eat. But not food or wine,” he said meaningfully, rubbing a thumb over my lower lip. “Right now, all I want in the world is to carry you into the bedroom and take my time kissing every inch of you.”

I gasped, butterflies fluttering through my body. The tingles spread from his thumb on my lips down to my breasts and then lower. A liquid heat settled between my thighs.

“'Cesca, I won’t force this, but I don’t think I will survive it if you send me away again.”

“I won’t,” I promised on a breath. “I can’t.”

“Good,” he said. And then the world turned upside down as he carried me through the dressing area to the enormous king-sized bed with pristine white sheets.

The bed was symbolic. Vincent carrying me to it was symbolic. The purity of the white linen sheets was symbolic.

I’d bought it the moment I was single.

No one had ever slept in it other than me and Angelique. But only when there was a thunderstorm, her only true fear. She’d never been afraid of monsters in the closet or under the bed.

My daughter was braver than I was, truth be told.

I was afraid of monsters. Because I knew they were real.

But right now, staring up at the handsome man who was gently laying me on the white quilt that covered my bed, I wasn’t afraid.

I felt certain that every single thing in the world would be okay.

“Vincent . . .” I murmured as he stood there, staring down at me. He trailed a finger over my collarbone, down my arm, and then brushed his palm over my abdomen. He looked thoughtful. Intense. Patient. “Hurry.”

“Hush. I won’t be rushed. I’ve waited too long for this.”

He took his jacket off first. I swallowed at the sight of his broad shoulders as he loosened his tie and pulled it free of his crisp white shirt. He removed his cufflinks next. I was staring hungrily as he pulled his shirt free.

He was staring just as hungrily at me the entire time as he undressed. He looked as desperate as I was. Maybe more so. His dark eyes seemed to burn into me.

Definitely more so.

One thing was certain, Vincent Margarelli looked insanely good in an undershirt.

Thick muscles bulged along his shoulders and arms. His golden skin spoke of an active outdoor lifestyle and good health. Good genes, too, I thought to myself in a daze. Good everything.

He reached down and slowly pulled his undershirt up and over his head. I hadn’t had a chance to look at him last time in the suite. He’d been dressed, and I had been facing the other way. This time, I could look at my leisure.

I couldn’t stop myself from drinking in the sight of him. His chest . . . his dark pink nipples . . . the springy hair that formed an arrow, pointing downward. He pushed his pants down and his boxers a moment later. His thick member sprang into view, proudly pointing toward the heavens.

I caught my breath, admiring him in all his splendor.

Vincent was beautiful. A God. More beautiful that a statue by DaVinci.

He climbed onto the bed and positioned himself above me, holding his body apart from me with his muscular arms. He dipped his head down to kiss me deeply. I gasped and reached for him, but he pulled away, crawling back down my body, not touching me, just coming very, very close.

He stared into my eyes as he ran his fingertips up and down my legs, then abruptly gripped my ankles, pulling them apart. I gasped as he fit his shoulders between my thighs and ran his tongue over my white lace panties.

Oh. My. God.

“So beautiful,” he said in that indescribably husky voice of his. “Every inch of you is so beautiful.”

I whimpered as he traced the edge of my panties with a feather-light touch, then yanked them down my legs. He didn’t look away from my face. He held my eyes as he deliberately tucked them into his pocket.

“Now. Where were we?”

My mouth opened but no words came out. I could barely think, let alone form a coherent sentence. He gave me a knowing smile as he lowered his head again, pressing light kisses as he worked his way up my thigh. Then he was there, his breath hot against my most sensitive place.

“'Cesca . . .”

My fingers flexed against the white linen sheets as he ran his tongue over me. Once. Twice. And then he was kissing me, long, slow, and deep.

No one had ever touched me so intimately or so thoroughly. He tasted me as if I were a five-course meal, the best he’d ever had. As if he were a starving man and I was the only thing that would satiate him. I kept expecting him to stop, to start taking, but instead, he only gave and gave and gave.