‘Don’t move for a minute.’
Because he was usually the one with all the control, it was fun to tease him. ‘What happens if I move?’
His teeth were gritted. ‘I’ll probably be arrested for indecency. Stand still. And stop looking at me like that.’
She licked her bottom lip slowly and heard him mutter something in Italian. ‘I didn’t understand that.’
‘Probably just as well.’ He exhaled slowly and stepped away from her. ‘Let’s get back home quickly. Move.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
LAUREL lay naked in a warm after-sex glow, her limbs tangled with Cristiano’s as they watched the sun set over Mount Etna, turning the sky a deep rosy gold.
‘It’s as if the island’s on fire.’ Like their relationship, she thought. If their love were a colour, it would have been red. Red for hot. Red for passion.
He rolled her onto her back. ‘Not just the island.’ He lowered his head and immediately she was consumed by the hungry demands of his kiss.
Red for desire.
She felt her own heart pounding and the thrill of excitement mount as his hand stroked down over her thigh in a smooth, possessive movement.
Being with Cristiano was the ultimate adrenalin rush, an experience of such erotic intensity that her senses were constantly humming.
‘Did you really not have an affair?’ She hated herself for asking, for sounding like someone needy and insecure when she’d always prided herself on her independence but part of her—the part she wished she could dig out and throw away—couldn’t stop torturing herself with that scenario.
He went utterly still. ‘Do you have any idea what my life was like after you left?’
‘Awkward. I expect a lot of people told you I was a heartless woman and you were well shot of me.’
The flash in his eyes told her how close to the mark she was with that comment and it hurt. He saw the hurt because he was looking for it. ‘I’ve never been interested in other people’s opinions.’
‘I imagined you slowly working your way through layers deep of admirers.’
‘You imagined?’ His hand slid into her hair, his jaw tight as he scanned her tense features. ‘That imagination of yours needs retraining. After you left, the only relationship I had was with the business, apart from the occasional flirtation with the whisky bottle. Reality was me working an eighteen-hour day in the hope that when I eventually fell into bed I’d be too tired to think about you.’ That frank admission made her heart lift.
He’d missed her.
‘Did it work?’
‘No. But we had two record years.’ His eyes gleamed dark with self-mockery. ‘Company profits have trebled.’ ‘So—’
‘No, I didn’t.’ His voice harsh, he slid his hand under her bottom. ‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Even anger and pain doesn’t kill love, apparently. I was so angry that you’d walked out on our marriage I didn’t go any deeper than that. If I had, we might have reached this point sooner.’ This point was his hands and mouth claiming her, driving her wild until she forgot everything except the magic they created together.
In the aftermath of another sexual explosion, she lay still, her cheek against his chest, her hair spread over the pillow.
This, she thought, was the part they’d been good at.
The part they hadn’t been so good at was the rest of it.
And the responsibility for that didn’t all rest with him, she acknowledged. She’d been at fault too. She’d guarded herself. She’d been afraid to let him in. She hadn’t even considered such a thing as second chances.
Had she been unfair?
And what about now?