A Dark Sicilian Secret

Some nights he felt her take a deep shuddering breath.

But always the sadness, and always his aching need to help her. To save her. To protect her.

That’s when he knew he loved her. That’s when he imagined marrying her.

He’d marry her and give her a new life, a better life. She could start over as a d’Severano with him.

And now she was, his wife but under totally different circumstances. Which intrigued his mind but left his heart cold.

“I see,” he said evenly. “This is your idea of foreplay. You want me to talk dirty, manhandle you a bit, before dominating you in bed.”

Two spots of pink color bloomed high in her cheeks. “You’re crass.”

He felt his lips curve in an unfeeling smile. “And you were the one that suggested I lift your skirt and get it over with. Would you prefer I do it here, against the wall, or would you rather I bend you over the armrest and take you from behind? I do remember you enjoyed it on your knees—”

“Did enjoy,” she interrupted tightly, “past tense. Because I will never enjoy sex with you now—”

“Stop. Save the protests for someone who might believe them. I know better. You have always been hot and eager in my bed, and even if you’ve been with a hundred men since, I know you’ll be just as hot and eager again.”

Her eyes burned. Her cheeks turned crimson. “I couldn’t—”

“You could. Easily.”

And to prove his point, he cupped her jaw and dropped his head to brush his lips over the warm satin of her cheek and down to the corner of her mouth. His mouth barely touched hers and yet he felt her lower lip quiver, heard her soft inhale. He kissed her again, just as lightly, a kiss that just grazed her lips, a kiss that was fleeting, teasing.

He could tell she was trying to remain rigid, trying to pretend she was indifferent to him and yet he could feel her rapid pulse in the hollow beneath her ear and the sizzling heat of her skin. She wasn’t just warm, she was almost feverish to the touch, and her lips, which had been so tightly closed a moment ago, were parted now. She was breathing in those shallow little gasps that he’d always found erotic.

Instead of kissing her again, he reached inside her torn blouse and plucked aside her bra to cup one bare breast. Her skin felt like hot satin and his body, already hard, throbbed.

He strummed the taut nipple, and then rolled it between his fingers. She arched and inhaled and he pulled her against him, grinding his hips to hers so that she could feel the weight and heat of his erection, rubbing the trapped length between her thighs. She shuddered and arched and moaned.

The moan was what drove him out of his mind. That soft kittenlike cry, a mew of bewildered pleasure, severed all rational thought, annihilating control.

He flicked up her skirt, ran a hand up the inside of her thigh, feeling the quiver in her leg as his palm caressed the taut smooth muscle. He ran his hand up, up until it reached the elastic band of her panty.

He felt the damp heat of her before he’d even touched her there. She was hot, wildly hot, and when he stroked his thumb over the outside of the thin cotton fabric, she jerked and shuddered. She was still as sensitive as he remembered. He stroked her again, brushing the tender clit, watching her whimper and squirm.

She wanted him. And he was her husband. And while he hadn’t planned on taking her here, now, like this, the primal male in him recognized that he could, and should. Because she was his. Because she now would always be his.

Sliding a finger beneath the elastic, he stroked her without the cotton barrier, and she was slick and silky and warm, so very, very warm.

He plunged his finger into her damp hot core and heard her sigh and felt her muscles tighten around his finger. He remained still, reveling in her tightness, and her softness, but she was impatient and she bucked against him, wanting friction, needing sensation.

He stroked her, once, again and then with two fingers and still she arched, and still she whimpered, and they both knew it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not between them. Theirs was a physical relationship, an intense relationship, one founded on chemistry, desire and possession.

He’d possess her now, and he’d start with his mouth.

The ugly gray skirt had a loose elastic waistband and he tugged it to her feet in one swift motion. Her panties followed, and then he stripped off her shoes. She was half-naked and trembling but she wasn’t afraid. He knew her better than that. Jill, his bride, was trembling with need.

Lifting her, he positioned her over the arm of the suede chair and pressed her back down, putting her butt high in the air. She was completely bare down there, something he liked, finding it erotic to have so much skin exposed. He ran a hand over her cheek, toward the cleft and then down to the soft, plump outer lips between her thighs.

She tensed and quivered as he caressed the cleft again, teasing the swollen flesh until she swung her hips in desperation.

He parted her legs wider, kneeled behind her and took the taut aching bud of her clit in his mouth, alternately sucking and licking until she began pleading with him to mount her, take her. He refused. He wanted her to buck and squirm, beg and groan until she shattered against his mouth and he could taste her surrender on his tongue.

“Please, Vitt,” she panted, as his hands held her thighs apart and his tongue stroked and jabbed and then sucked and bit. “Please, please.”

But he wouldn’t fill her, wouldn’t please her until he’d pleased himself by making her come this way. And so he licked her, covering her soft, wet, silky skin with his mouth, sucking harder, flicking the tip of his tongue over the delicate ridge until she broke, crying out as she climaxed in wave after wave, her body shuddering helplessly.