He’d thought being in this position might make it easier, might help him hold on to his shreds of self-control. But as he looked up at his bride leaning over him on the bed, as her breasts swayed over her pregnant belly, he gave a choked gasp. She rode him, slowly at first, then quickly building up speed. Her lips parted, her expression fervent, almost glowing, illuminated by the soft light of the Venice night.
Looking up at her beautiful face, he saw her eyes had closed with a new intensity as she rode him harder and faster, grippi
ng his shoulders tight, pushing herself against him, harder, deeper—
She screamed, even louder than the two times before. An answering growl rose from deep in his throat. Feeling dizzy, he gripped the bed beneath him with white-knuckled hands to keep himself from flying up into the sky. She pushed down harder, pulling him more deeply inside her as his growl built into a hoarse scream echoing and crashing against the walls of the bedroom—
He exploded, as his soul shattered and broke into a thousand chiming shards.
Alex was only dimly aware of her falling beside him on the bed, exhausted. Only dimly aware of cuddling her beautiful, sweaty body, pulling her back against his chest in a tangle of limbs, hardly knowing where she ended and he began.
Afterward, he only gradually came back to awareness. He remembered where he was. In the palazzo. Who he was. Alex. When he was. His wedding night.
He tenderly kissed his wife’s temple. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even. She was asleep, he thought. As well she should be. He’d never felt so spent—as if every drop of him had been wrung dry. He had nothing left.
Or so he thought. Until about ten minutes later, when, feeling her delectably round backside nestled naked against his groin, to his shock he started to stir again. Even as a teenager he’d never felt like this, so full of endless hunger and need. For Rosalie. His wife. Forever.
Brushing back her dark hair, Alex kissed her cheek, then nuzzled her ear. He nibbled the tender corner between her neck and shoulder. With a delicious sigh, she turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck as her eyes fluttered open. He felt her glorious naked breasts pressing against his chest, thrusting upward toward his chin. In devoted obedience to their demand, he lowered his head in worship, cupping their magnificent weight in his hands, lifting a full, red nipple to his lips. Tugging it into his mouth, he felt the soft, sensual tip pebble against his tongue, as he suckled her, until he felt her body rise with sweet new desire.
Then he lifted her leg up over his hip, and he took her right there, pushing himself deeply inside her, filling her every inch. Fulfilling her every need. He heard her gasp as she gripped his shoulders, straining against him, pressing harder, deeper. He squeezed his eyes shut as she filled his senses, his soul, his every dream. She was his.
And he was hers.
The next morning, when Alex woke in the magnificent bedroom of his Venice palazzo, he looked down at Rosalie, curled up in his arms beneath the soft rose-gold light.
How was it possible that she’d come a virgin to his bed? He still didn’t understand such a miracle.
She’d saved herself for love.
The treasonous whisper went through him with a stab of guilt.
No, Alex told himself firmly. She’d saved herself for marriage. She’d given up the ideal of love, for the sake of a stable home for their baby, companionship and passion. And he would give all those things to her. She would never have cause to regret her choice.
And as he kissed her bare shoulder, incredibly he felt himself stir yet again, even after all their lovemaking the previous night. With a soft sigh, Rosalie woke, turning in his arms to say shyly, “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Her smile was so beautiful that it made his throat ache. Leaning forward, he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her forehead as he murmured, “I can hardly believe you’re mine, that some other man didn’t marry you before now.”
Her expression changed, and Alex wished he hadn’t brought it up. Both of them were still naked in bed, facing each other. And yet a wall suddenly separated them. She looked away.
“Someone proposed to me once. The boy who lived at the farm next door. My parents were thrilled.” Her voice was quiet. “But I didn’t love him, so I refused.”
“I understand,” he said, thinking of Chiara and how he’d married her for her acreage. He reached for her, intending to change the subject with a kiss.
She pressed her hand against his naked chest, stopping him. “No. You don’t. It wasn’t just my parents who thought Cody and I would marry. It was everyone in Emmetsville. We’d dated in high school. We were perfect for each other. He said he loved me. He proposed. But—”
“But?”
“I never felt like I thought I should feel.” She looked away. “My parents were shocked. Everyone asked how I could refuse him, when he was so perfect for me, when he loved me so much. I couldn’t take it. So I left. I moved to San Francisco, to be a receptionist, and live with strangers.”
“You did what you had to do,” he said gently. His hands tightened as he thought how grateful he was that she hadn’t married some farmer in California. “It was fate—”
“No,” she whispered. She suddenly wiped her eyes. “It was selfishness. I should have been there for them.”
“Rosalie.”
“No,” she choked out. She sat up in bed. “My parents died because of me. If I’d done what everyone expected me to do, they would still be alive now—”
Her voice broke on a sob. Sitting up on the bed, Alex pulled her to his chest without a word. As she cried, he stroked her hair, her back, murmuring soft words in Italian. He stroked her until the sobs subsided, until there were no tears left, falling cold against his bare skin.