The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress

‘I know, but I live in hope that I might be inspired.’ Megan turned to him and grinned. ‘It’s crazy to have your chef prepare stuff all the time when I’m perfectly capable of cooking. Well, at least of using a recipe book. Now and again.’ She went across to him on the sofa, which was a long, very deep, squashy one, quite unlike the cold leather furniture in his Chelsea house.

He was wearing low-slung casual trousers, the ones that had a delicious habit of slipping down his hips, revealing the tightly packed muscles of his torso. Familiarity with his body had done nothing to diminish her craving for him, and she ran her hands over his chest, curling against his body and sighing with pleasure when he pushed his hand under her tee shirt and absentmindedly began caressing her breast. Her nipple predictably tightened into a tight, responsive bud, and she feverishly yanked off the tee shirt, laying herself open to his hungry, dark eyes.

If nothing else, the one thing she knew for sure was that he was greedy for her. Their lovemaking was intense and deeply, deeply satisfying. Right now she wanted him to suckle her nipple, to slip his hand under her panties to where she was hot and wet for him, to send that wonderful fire racing through her veins until she felt giddy and wonderfully out of control.

So much was so good, and this most of all. Two months of pure happiness—although in her quiet moments Megan wondered. He had committed so much, but not once had he even hinted that his commitment might go further. Something held him back. He had never, even in moments of great passion, when every barrier he possessed came tumbling down as his orgasm shuddered through his big body, uttered those three words, I love you. Sometimes she figured that there was enough love in her for both of them—although she never let on what she felt, and nor did she ever ask anything of him, mindful of that trait of emotional self-sufficiency which he had found so appealing in Victoria.

Other times, however, there was a dark, destructive voice that reminded her that they might be living together but he still hadn’t got rid of his house in Chelsea. She hadn’t asked him why that was, and she occasionally wondered whether it was because the bigger part of him, the part that wasn’t all wrapped up in touching her, was conscious of the fact that they probably wouldn’t remain together. Why ditch his house when he thought he would move back into it sooner or later?

In accepting his offer to move in with him Megan had resigned herself to a life always lived for the moment. With that in mind, she made sure to carry on with her social life, ignoring his frowning disapproval whenever she announced that she would be getting back late. She had also found a firm friend in Stuart, who had slipped into the spot Robbie had held, as a male confidant in whom she had absolute trust. She made sure that she hung on to him—also in the face of Alessandro’s frowning disapproval.

In that uncertain place she occupied she would give up a lot, but not everything.

‘That feels good.’ She sighed, and parted her legs, inviting him to do what he wanted.

Instead, she felt his hand smooth her thigh and resolutely tuck her legs neatly together—which made her sit bolt-upright, because Alessandro, unpredictable in so many ways, was always completely predictable when it came to sex.

‘What’s the matter?’ She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid. I have to go away on business for a couple of days.’

The surge of bitter disappointment reminded Megan of just how much she had invested in what they had. She had begun to take for granted his daily presence in her life, never once questioning how it was that a workaholic had suddenly become so domesticated. But things would change, and she wondered whether this was the start of it.

‘Don’t be silly.’ She forced a smile. ‘Why is that bad news? I do understand that you have an empire to run, you know. As a matter of fact…’ she thought quickly, making sure to wriggle out of the box labelled clingy, which was anathema to Alessandro ‘…it’s been ages since I met up with all my friends…’

‘Ten days.’

‘Ten days? Are you sure?’

Oh, Alessandro was sure, all right. She had gone out for a pizza, and amongst their number had been the good friend whatever-his-name-was. Alessandro had chosen not to actively store that information in his brain.

He was growing more irritable by the second. Was he mistaken, or did she sound pleased that she was going to be having a bit of time to herself? He decided to test the water. Yes, he had to be away for two nights—which could easily be extended to four, because there was always a bank of clients with whom he could usefully meet—but really, he wanted to hurry back to her.