Her hands flattened against his shoulders, pushed him away.
He lifted his head, saw panic in her eyes.
“I am hurting you,” he said gruffly. “Baby, I told you. We’ll stop—”
“You’re not! The feel of your mouth is…is wonderful.” Color leaped into her cheeks. “But I should have realized. I should have known. Sometimes, after I feed the baby, there’s…there’s a little milk still left. I should have warned you that…that—”
“Warned me?” He caught her wrists as she tried, again, to cover her breasts. “You’re a woman, sweetheart. My woman. I love knowing that you can do this for Daniel.” He paused. “For our son.”
She gave a little sob, slid her hands into his hair, brought his lips to hers for a long, deep kiss and fell with him into the flames.
Dante stroked her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. She cried out, sought his mouth. Her hand cupped his straining erection. The breath hissed through his teeth and he kicked free of his jeans.
Too fast. Way too fast. How could he, a man who was almost arrogant about his sexual control, how could he be so close to losing that control now? Because, dammit, he was.
He could feel the tightening in his scrotum, the tension building in every muscle. He was racing to the edge, heart pounding, holding back, holding back, because his Gabriella deserved more.
More of his mouth at her breasts. His hand between her thighs. His fingers parting her, finding her clitoris. More of this and this and this, he thought fiercely, as she cried out and arched off the bed.
“Please,” she whispered, and he groaned, thrust into her. Deep. Hard. Fast. She reached up to him and he kissed her, rode her as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Dante,” she sobbed. “Oh, Dante…”
She climaxed; he felt it happen, heard the trill of joy that broke from her throat, and he threw back his head and knew that what was happening to him had never happened before.
He was with her as they flew into the burning heart of the universe.
They slept in each other’s arms, legs entwined, her head on his chest, his arm curved around her, his hand lightly cupping her breast.
And awoke to the darkness of the night, the wonder of being together, the sweetness of it.
The deep, hungry need for fulfilment.
He caressed her. Feathered his fingertips over her nipples. Kissed them. Stroked his hand down her body, between her legs, sought and found the very heart of her.
She moaned. Arched against his seeking hand. Used every feminine motion of her body to beg him for more. Still he hesitated. All the mysteries of a woman’s body after childbirth, he had learned tonight. She said he couldn’t hurt her, but for all he knew, in his ignorance, he could.
Making love more than once, God, more than twice, might be a mistake.
“Are you sure you can do this?” he said, his lips a breath from hers.
She gave that wonderful laugh again, wrapped her hand around him and said, “You tell me.”
He growled, rolled her on her back, lifted her leg and brought it high over his, opening her to him but entering her as slowly as he could bear.
It was agony.
Exquisite agony.
So was her soft moan of pleasure.
A shudder gripped his powerful body; he buried his face in her throat as he filled her, deeper, deeper, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Until they were one. One, he thought, his heart filling with joy…
And then she moved.
His mind emptied.
She moved again and he groaned, moved with her and she cried out, sank her teeth into his shoulder and they let go together, shattered together, fell off the edge of the world together.
He held her until her breathing eased and he knew she was asleep. Then he kissed her, checked the baby monitor, smiled at the sight of his sleeping son. He drew the duvet over them both, gathered her close again.
He had never felt so complete in his life.
He slept, too.
They woke. Made love. The moon rose and set. And the night slipped away and became morning.
Gabriella opened her eyes to the soft patter of rain.
Rain, this time of year? It was too soon. Rainy season didn’t come to the Pantanal until—
But she wasn’t in the Pantanal. She was in Manhattan. In Dante’s home.
In Dante’s bed.
Memories of the long, incredible night rushed in. She tried to remember how many times they’d made love even as she chastised herself for the effort. It didn’t matter…But, somehow, it did.
Dante had always been an amazing lover. Tender. Savage. Giving and demanding all at once.
Indefatigable. She’d been with only a couple of men before meeting him, so she was far from an expert. Still, Dante’s virility was, well, amazing.