A Dark Sicilian Secret

He knew he was a barbarian when he freed himself without taking off his slacks, pulling his length instead from his zipper. Fully dressed, he plunged into her hot, wet sheath while she was still shuddering. It was raw and primitive to mount her this way, but his body was hard and tight and about to explode. With his hands on her hips he held her firmly, taking her with deep long thrusts. He groaned at the pleasure, even as he hated himself for being ruthless. In his heart he knew a woman needed more tenderness. In his heart he’d wanted once to love her, not merely possess her, but possess her he did.

He was feeling even more barbaric as he neared his own climax, certain her body was sensitive, and then as he stiffened, the pressure building, she arched back against him, chest jutting, head thrown back as she came again, crying out even louder than she had before.

He came inside of her, emptying his seed into her and it crossed his mind that this was how it’d happened before. There’d been no protection the first time—although they’d used it every other time—but it’d taken just that one time. Perhaps it’d happen again.

Finished, drained, he slowly withdrew from her, his emotions as numb as his body was exhausted. He expected he’d feel something—pleasure, remorse, relief—instead he felt pain.

Pain.

How could that be? And why? Why should he hurt when she’d been the one to wrong him?

Infuriated by the thick dark emotions churning inside of him, emotions so heavy and aching he couldn’t even begin to understand, he reached out and slapped one cheek of her round pert ass. “I think I’m going to like the married life.”

And then, emotions wild on the inside, he

tucked himself back into his trousers, zipped his slacks and walked out, leaving her to pull herself together on her own.

For a moment after he left, Jillian did nothing. Her legs were jelly. Her limbs shook. It was as if a bomb had exploded and she’d been left in the shattered aftermath.

Seconds passed and then she roused herself, forcing herself to move. Biting her lip, Jill straightened and began to gather her clothes strewn across the cabin floor, stepping into her panties, then her skirt before holding the torn blouse closed.

Numb, so numb, she walked quickly to her room, air bottled in her lungs, her throat raw from holding in all the emotion.

But in her room a tear fell, and then another, and she dashed them away with a furious fist.

She hated that she cried, but she cried not out of pain, or helplessness, or despair, but fury.

Fury with herself. Fury with him. Fury that she enjoyed the lovemaking as much as she had. Because she had. So very, very much.

Yet how could that be possible?

How could she allow herself to feel anything with him, much less pleasure?

And God forgive her, it’d been exquisite.

His hands, his tongue, his mouth…she shuddered with pleasure all over again even as her mind railed against her body.

She was weak.

She was pathetic.

And she’d loved it all—the wildness, the rawness, the passion. It’d been primitive and carnal and hot. Very, very hot. She could still feel the heat of his skin on hers, the weight of his body, the pressure of his hands. He’d held her, shaped her, taken her as if she were his to possess, and apparently she was. Because instead of shutting him down, she’d become hotter and wetter, responding to him with a feverish desperation.

Horrible.

For a moment Jillian felt like her father—a traitor. She’d betrayed herself. Her father had betrayed his mob family. And maybe their sins weren’t of the same magnitude, but still, the genetic link was there, as well as the same weakness of character.

Her stomach cramped at the thought. She couldn’t bear the idea that she was like her father. He’d hurt so many people. He’d destroyed their family. She refused to be like him.

Walking into the small ensuite bath, Jillian let her clothes fall and then stepped into the narrow shower, turning the water on full force. It was cold. She felt icy. But icy and cold was so much better than the last lingering effects of her feverish desire.

Taking the bar of French lavender soap, she scrubbed her skin, washing away Vittorio’s scent and imprint, telling herself she was not his, that she did not belong to him even though everything inside her whispered, you will always want him.

She feared it was true. Despite everything, there was something about him that connected with her. Something about him that mattered so much to her.

Biting her lip, she rinsed her thighs as she felt the soreness inside, where Vitt had been. He was large and he’d taken her hard and this was the first time she’d had sex since Joe’s birth.

But Vittorio didn’t know that. Vittorio thought she’d been with dozens of men because that’s what she’d told him.