The Italian's Pregnant Mistress

‘This isn’t fair!’ Francesca panted, and he stopped in the middle of his sensory feasting on her breasts to glance up at her.

‘But are you enjoying yourself?’

‘You know I am! But I want you!’

‘And I want you too,’ he confirmed smugly. ‘In the meantime, lie back and have fun…’ He grinned at her. ‘Think of England!’

Francesca thought of anything but England. In fact, she didn’t think at all. She just obeyed his command for her to have fun although it bordered on the impossible not to drag herself free of her silken trap when he parted her legs and inserted himself between them so that he could breathe in the sweetness of her femininity. A few flicks of his tongue and she was quivering and moving against his mouth, urging him on with her body.

Angelo cupped her buttocks with his hands and brought her up to meet his questing tongue, which he slid rhythmically over her sensitised bud. He could feel it throbbing. He knew her body as well as he knew his own, knew when the time was right for him to cease pleasuring her in that manner because she needed him to thrust into her or else she would tip over the edge into her own private climax.

Francesca’s body welcomed him in, moving in the same rhythm as his as he took her to a shuddering orgasm that left her trembling in its aftermath.

He undid the silk ties and massaged her wrists.

‘Look at them, they’re ruined,’ Francesca said, turning the ties over in her hands.

‘Well worth the money I spent on them.’ Angelo grinned and felt like a young man who had just ravished the woman of his dreams. He cupped her breast with his hand, a gesture of possession, and Francesca’s stomach went into tiny, painful knots. She edged away and lay on her side, primly tugging the quilt up so that it covered her.

‘I think I’m going to have a bath now.’ It was the last thing she felt like doing when her body was still so pleasantly slumberous and content, but she had to talk to him and talking would be better fully dressed.

Angelo gave a little frown of consternation. ‘Why?’

‘Because I want to get cleaned up. You know…’

‘No, I don’t.’ He was feeling it again. That little nagging apprehension that had been there at the restaurant. He told himself that he was mistaken, that no woman who had made love as passionately as she just had would ever have anything to say to him that might cause him concern. ‘But if you really feel you need to shower, then go ahead. Care for me to come and help you?’

‘I think tonight I might manage the exercise on my own.’

When she emerged, she was fully dressed and she saw his eyebrows raise in surprise.

‘We need to talk. I know talking isn’t part of…this deal we have, but…’

He patted a space on the bed next to him and Francesca remained where she was. ‘Why don’t you get dressed? I can’t talk to you when—when you’re naked under the covers.’

Angelo looked at her carefully. He heard the edgy wariness in her voice and he knew what was coming, what this little talk was going to be about.

‘Give me five minutes to have a shower. If you like, you can go downstairs and make us both a cup of coffee. I’ll take mine black.’ He strode past her towards the bathroom and shut the door. He leaned against the door, eyes shut, and contemplated what he was going to do. Sitting back and allowing her to spin him a story about walking away because she had finally decided she wanted more than he could give wasn’t an option. That carried the nasty odour of how things had been played out the last time around. Not quite the same but close enough. The walking out bit would certainly be the same.

No, he would take the bull by the horns and dismiss her. It was always going to come to that in the end and if he was taken by surprise it was only because he wasn’t quite ready for her to leave his life. He still enjoyed making love to her, but he wasn’t going to cling on and try to persuade her to change her mind. In fact, he would rather have walked barefoot on a bed of hot coals than allow his emotions to formulate arguments his head didn’t want.

He turned on the shower, making sure that it was as cold as his body could stand, and afterwards stuck on some jeans and a tee shirt. She was no longer in the bedroom. He went downstairs to find that the coffee had been made and she was sipping hers at the kitchen table. Next to her was her bag, a clear indication of the nature of the chat she had in mind.