Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

She was not part of his life.

He didn’t want her as part of his life.

He wanted out of this mess. This marriage. This ridiculous situation…

“Damn it all,” he growled, and when Chiara looked at him, her eyes blurry with tears, Rafe pulled her into his arms.

He kissed her hard. Kissed her deep. She kissed him back the same way, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her tears salty on his lips.

The cabby cleared his throat. “Uh, you want to get out, mister? Or you want to keep going?”

Laughter bubbled from Chiara’s lips. Rafe grinned and leaned his forehead against hers.

“See this building?” he said softly.

She looked out and nodded. “It is a beautiful building, Raffaele.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mine.” His voice was gruff with the pride that comes of knowing you’ve forged a place in the world and that you did it on your own. “Ours. My brothers and me. Dante, Falco and Nicolo. We’re in business together. See that brass plaque above the door? Orsini Brothers.

We’re private bankers. Financial advisors. Brokers. Not one of us followed in our father’s footsteps. You understand?” He cupped her face in his hands. “You didn’t marry a saint, Chiara, but you didn’t marry a crook, either. You married—you married me.”

Her smile lit her entire face.

“I am glad,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Me, too.”

Rafe drew her close in his arms, gave the driver his Fifth Avenue address, and took his wife home.

A private elevator was a fine thing.

It meant a man could kiss his wife as soon as the door shut, and by the time the door opened again, he could have her half-undressed. It meant he could lift her in his arms, carry her into his living room, tear off his own clothes and the rest of hers and then make love to her on a white silk sofa with the warmth of the midday sun on them both.

Rafe lingered over Chiara’s every curve. No inch of skin went unkissed. He lavished attention on her breasts, sucking the nipples deep into his mouth, then gently spread her thighs and gave her clitoris that same intense care. And while she was sobbing from her first orgasm, he turned her on her belly, kissed the nape of her neck, the sensitive places behind her ears, stroked his hand down her spine, followed that same path with his lips, then cupped his hand between her legs, groaning with pleasure at how her body wept with desire for him, for his penetration.

“Please,” his wife whispered, “Raffaele, please…”

He eased her onto her knees. Slid slowly, slowly inside her, his hands cupping her breasts, his breathing harsh as he fought for control. She cried out as her second orgasm took her. Then, only then, Rafe let go, let his control shatter, his emotions soar as the truth filled him with almost unbearable joy.

He was in love with his wife.

After, he opened a bottle of Chβteauneuf du Pape and poured glasses of the rich, red wine for them both.

Though it was fall, it was not really cool enough for a fire. Still, he built one in the massive stone fireplace, dumped a couple of fat couch pillows in front of it, wrapped his wife and himself in a black cashmere afghan and sat holding her in his arms as they watched the flames and drank the wine.

The knowledge that he loved her weighed inside him.

He had not wanted Chiara, because his father had ordered him to want her. Now he wanted her with all his heart—but what if she didn’t want him?

What if she wanted the quick divorce he’d promised her? Yes, that was before all the rest, the hours in each other’s arms, but he wasn’t a boy, he was a man. He knew damned well making love wasn’t the same as being in love.

She’d lived the life of a fairy-tale Rapunzel, locked away in a castle. She’d been lonely.

Innocent. Afraid of being given to a man who was an ogre. He’d come along and changed all that. If he told her he loved her, she might feel grateful enough to say she loved him, too, and gratitude was the last thing he wanted.

What if he wanted her…and she wanted her freedom?

When had things become so complicated?

He looked down at his wife, lying peacefully in his embrace, her head against his naked chest, her eyes half-closed, the dark lashes curved against her cheeks. His heart swelled with love.

Why was he trying to work this like an equation? He had to tell her what he felt, just say, “Chiara, sweetheart, I don’t want a divorce. I want you. I need you. I love—”

The intercom buzzed.

Rafe frowned. Who could it be? He certainly wasn’t expecting anyone.

Chiara looked at him. “Raffaele? What is that?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. Just the intercom. It’ll stop after a—”