Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

Not much of a recommendation for a woman who’d spent the last hours playing games with a man who, without question, had been with many, many women.

Beautiful women. Experienced women. He would expect things from her, with her, and she would surely disappoint him….

The taillights of the last departing vehicle vanished into the dark night. Nicolo’s arms closed around her. He lowered his head to hers, pressed his lips to her ear.

“Princess,” he said softly. “Whatever’s going on in that lovely head?”

She could feel the heat of his body, the strength of it against her. She wanted to lean back into him. She wanted to turn and bring his mouth down to hers.

She wanted to run away before he discovered what a fraud she really was. Instead, she swallowed dryly. Forced a smile, even if he couldn’t see it.

“Nothing,” she said with false gaiety. “I’m just—you know, it’s been a long day and—”

“Alessia.” His hands cupped her shoulders and he turned her toward him. “I know something’s wrong. What is it?”

She looked up at him, at that hard, handsome face, and then she dipped her head and lowered her lashes. “Nicolo. I think—I think we must talk.”

He put his hand under her chin. Raised it until their eyes met.

“What I think,” he said, his voice rough, “is that we’ve talked too much.”

“We have not talked at all, Nicolo. We have—we have done other things—”

He framed her face. Lowered his mouth to hers. Kissed her tenderly, his lips moving on hers with growing hunger. He tasted of wine and coffee, of passion and of himself.

Alessia could feel her heart racing.

He tasted like every dream she’d ever had, every dream she’d been afraid to dream. She held back, but only for a few seconds. Then she sighed and gave herself up to his kiss.

After a very long time, she put her hands against his chest.

“Nicolo,” she whispered, and he lifted his head and looked down into her eyes.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“I need to tell you… You must know…” She licked her lips. “What happened today was—it was—”

“It was the last thing either of us expected.”

“Yes. That is true. My father… Your father…”

“They haven’t got a thing to do with this.”

“No. They do not. But—but you need to know… I must make something clear, Nicolo.” Dio, she felt so foolish! Why was it so difficult to tell him that his expectations of her had little to do with reality? “What I’m trying to say is that you—you may have certain expectations of me—”

Nicolo swept his hands into her hair. She felt the pins that had secured it in a loose knot at the crown of her head come loose; golden strands cascaded over his fingers as he lifted her face to his and kissed her. Hard. Passionately. As if there had not been hours between those kisses under the tree on the hilltop and this one, as if they had never stopped tasting each other at all.

“The only expectation I have, princess, is that you’ll let me make love to you until you tell me nothing else matters.”

“Nothing does,?

? she whispered. “Nothing could. I just—I do not want to disappoint you.”

Disappoint him? What had happened tonight—Alessia’s whisper just before they’d gone in to dinner, the way she’d looked at him throughout the meal, her increasing loss of control because of him, only him…

It had been more exciting than anything he’d ever experienced, and he was a man who had pretty much experienced everything.

“Truly, Nicolo, you must understand… I am not—I am not…” She drew a ragged breath. “When you touched me tonight, when you put your hand on me…” Her voice broke. “I almost—I almost—”