“Yes,” she said, “yes.”
He said something rough, graphic and hot enough to make her bury her face against his throat as he carried her through the moonlit hall to the place she wanted to go, the place where he wanted her to be.
His bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emily woke to soft early-morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows, turning the white silk walls the delicate pink of a Caribbean seashell.
Marco’s arm was around her, holding her close. Her head was on his shoulder; her hand was splayed over his heart.
His face was inches from hers. He was still sleeping, his breathing deep and steady. She could look at him as long as she liked.
He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
His dark hair was tousled. From her fingers, she knew, from her hands digging into those ebony strands as he’d made love to her. His lashes were midnight crescents against the high arc of his cheeks.
Somebody had to pass a law against men having lashes like that.
His nose was straight and strong… Wait. There was the tiniest bump just at the bridge. Her brother Caleb had broken his nose back in his high school days, playing football. The injury had left a bump much like this. Had her lover once broken his nose, too?
And wasn’t it amazing that an imperfection could make a perfect thing even more perfect?
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
She loved his mouth.
Soft-looking in repose. Sometimes tender. Sometimes demanding. Warm. Silken. Passionate against her throat, her breasts, her thighs.
“What are you thinking, cara, to put such lovely color in your cheeks?”
Startled, Emily’s gaze darted to his. Those gorgeous lashes were lifted; she could see herself reflected in his pupils.
Caught, she thought, and her blush deepened.
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“Mmm.” He rolled to his side, swept the hair back from her face with his free hand. “No. I am awake. Most assuredly awake.”
His laughter was soft and wicked. The feel of him was wicked, too, hard and aroused against her hip.
“You have a bump on your nose,” she said softly, touching his nose with the tip of her finger.
“Si. I was working on a stone wall. I used my hammer too hard. A piece of stone flew off. It and I had a disagreement.”
She laughed. “And the stone won.” She smiled. “I’m trying to picture Marco Santini working on a stone wall.”
He captured her finger, drew it into his mouth.
“I am a man of many parts, cara.”
“Mmm. I know.”
He smiled. “Did you sleep well?”
Such a polite question from a man whose hand was moving over her backside, delving lightly between her thighs, doing such wonderful things beneath the duvet.
They had slept hardly at all and he knew it. She’d come awake in his arms twice during the night, dreaming he was caressing her and finding she wasn’t dreaming at all.