He eased the robe and tattered nightgown from her shoulders, kissing the hollow in her throat, the delicate skin over her collarbone.
She was lovely. As beautiful as he’d remembered.
There was a new fullness to her breasts now. The child, Dante thought, and felt a swift pain at the realization that someone else had given that child to her, but it left him quickly because there was so much more to the woman in his arms than that one moment of infidelity.
He bent his head, kissed the slope of each breast. Brushed a finger lightly over a pale-pink nipple.
Watched her face as he played the nub of flesh delicately between thumb and forefinger, and felt the fierce tightening low in his belly when she sobbed his name as he drew the nub into his mouth.
She tasted like cream and honey; she tasted like the Tally he’d never forgotten, never wanted to forget, and when she tugged impatiently at his shirt he sat up, tried unbuttonin
g it, cursed and tore it off. Peeled off the rest of his clothing and took her in his arms again.
The hot feel of her breasts against his chest almost undid him. Dante groaned, clenched his teeth, warned himself to hang onto his control.
But she was moving beneath him, rubbing herself against his engorged flesh. She was slick and hot, and the exciting scent of her arousal was more precious to him than all the perfumes in the world.
“Please,” she said, kissing his shoulder. “Please, please, please…”
“Soon,” he whispered, but she arched against him and he was lost. Nothing mattered but this. This, he thought, and entered her on one long, hard thrust.
Tally screamed. Her hands dug into his hair; she wrapped her legs around his hips and bit his shoulder and he let go. Of himself, of his past, of the restraints that had always defined his life.
Together, they soared over the edge of the earth, two hearts, two souls, two bodies merged as one.
AFTERWARD, they lay in each other’s arms and shared soft kisses. They touched and sighed, and then Tally’s breathing slowed.
“Go to sleep, inamorata,” Dante whispered.
“What does that mean? Inamorata?”
He kissed her. “It means beloved.”
Tally smiled and he kissed her again.
“Go to sleep.”
“I’m not sleepy,” she murmured.
And slept.
Dante gathered her closer against him. How had he endured three long years without this woman in his life?
Except, he had never really let her into his life. They’d been lovers for six months back then but he’d kept his distance. He always did. Dinners out at the city’s best restaurants instead of pasta and vino by the fire. Center row seats at the newest Broadway show instead of an evening of old movies on the DVD. Dancing at the latest club instead of swaying in each other’s arms to a Billy Joel CD.
How come?
And how come he didn’t even know if she liked old movies? If she liked Billy Joel or maybe newer stuff?
Because he’d never let her into his life. That was how come. It was the same reason he’d called her Taylor, when any fool could see that under all the urban glamour, she was really a girl named Tally.
And he—and he felt something special for her.
His arms tightened around her. He wanted to make love to her again but she was sleeping so soundly…
Okay. He’d kiss her closed eyes. Gently. Like that. Kiss her mouth. Tenderly. Yes, that way. Kiss it again and if she sighed, as she was sighing now, if her lips parted so that he could taste her sweetness, yes, like that…If her lashes fluttered and she looked up at him and smiled and linked her hands behind his neck the way she was doing now, would it be wrong to kiss her again? To run his hand gently down her body? To groan as she lifted herself to him, cradled his body between her thighs?
“Make love to me,” Tally whispered.