The Girl That Love Forgot

With a shuddering intake of breath, he wrapped his arms around her. “I want you, Annabelle,” he breathed. “I think I’ll die if I don’t have you.”

Her gray eyes shone at him with trust and desire. Placing her hands on his cheeks, Annabelle kissed him with sweet, trembling passion. He tasted her tongue in his mouth and gasped.

Roughly, he pulled her down against him. Kissing her with every ounce of force he possessed, he rolled her beneath his body, laying her down amid the waves of purple and red flowers.

Now. He could wait no longer. Now.

Chapter Eight

As Stefano pressed her back into the flowers, Annabelle felt the cool damp earth beneath her ripped suit, felt the warmth of his hard body over hers. She’d fallen into a dream.

When he’d told her she was beautiful, when she’d seen the truth shining in his handsome face, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from kissing him. Now, she felt his hands move over her skin, caressing her sunburned face. Poppies blew against them, red and purple petals tangling and twisting in her hair.

He kissed her so deeply that she didn’t know where he ended and she began. His lips moved against hers, his fingertips lightly stroking down her neck, beneath her bare collarbone. His tongue flicked inside her mouth, teasing hers like a sensual whirlwind. A tingle of sensation flooded her body. Her nipples tightened as she gasped, clinging to him. His calloused hands moved downward, stopping at the edge of her neckline. She held her breath, waiting for him to reach beneath her silk camisole. Instead, after a pause, his hands moved over the linen jacket, cupping her high, firm breasts.

Electricity ricocheted down her body, jagged and raw. Her breasts felt heavy, straining against the camisole, her nipples pebbling to tight aching points.

With a shuddering breath, he pulled away to look at her.

“You think you’re not beautiful, Annabelle? You think you’re not lovable?” he whispered. “Let me show you.”

His hands cupped her breasts before he moved the weight of his body against her, kissing her so long and hard that she felt lost in her own fiercely answering need.

Annabelle looked up at his face. Above him she could see the wide blue sky as the wind fluttered purple flowers and red poppies down upon them. He was so handsome, so impossibly handsome, with his tanned skin and lean, muscular body. Tendrils of chin-length black hair had escaped the leather tie at the base of his neck and hung down around his face, giving him the look of an eighteenth-century pirate.

His dark eyes were hungry for plunder. For her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Annabelle knew that giving her virginity to a Spanish playboy would do worse than break her heart—it would destroy her. But she couldn’t push him away. Not now. She needed his warmth, his light, his touch. She needed to feel. She needed to live.

Stefano stroked her face with the pads of his thumbs, making her shiver in the hot sun.

He cupped her face, looking down at her amid the flowers. “Never hate your scar. It is a badge of h

onor. It is beautiful.”

She choked out a disbelieving laugh.

“Sí,” he insisted. “It reveals your strength and courage, a far greater beauty than flawless skin. I would kiss your every scar if I could.”

Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat. Could her scar really be something to be proud of, rather than something to hide?

She swallowed, licking her lips. Trembling at her own boldness, she lifted her hair to reveal a scar on the base of her neck.

“I have one here,” she whispered.

He smiled at her. Then, lowering his head, he kissed her neck.

She felt his lips against the scar, leaving a trail of hot and passionate kisses down her neck to the crook of her shoulder. Prickles spread down her body like wildfire, crackling with need, burning through her like a dry forest.

When he drew back, she shyly pulled off her ripped linen jacket, revealing the white silk camisole beneath. She pointed at a long, jagged scar along the length of her right upper arm.

“And here.”

Taking her slender arm in his rough hands, Stefano slowly kissed up her scar. She felt his lips caress her skin, felt his slick tongue along her puckered flesh as he nibbled her with the edge of his teeth.

Again, he drew back. His dark eyes devoured her, as if only the barest thread of will held Stefano back from ripping off her clothes and making love to her amid the flowers.

Annabelle should have been afraid. Terrified.