The Sicilian's Stolen Son

‘Perhaps you’re waiting for me to offer you a villa or an apartment in Palermo or Rome or Paris...a less temporary and more rewarding position in my life?’ Luciano suggested smooth as glass.

‘Why would I want you to offer me a villa or an apartment?’ Jemima asked him in genuine bewilderment.

‘A mistress has some security. A casual lover has none,’ Luciano pointed out.

‘I really don’t know what we’re talking about here. I thought mistresses died out with corsets,’ she confided jerkily, unnerved by the dialogue because he could not possibly be asking someone like her to be his mistress, his kept woman. That idea struck her as so ridiculous that a nervous giggle bubbled in the back of her throat.

‘I don’t want to talk,’ Luciano breathed with sudden lancing impatience as he met her pale aquamarine gaze. He ran his hands through the thick tangle of hair tumbling round her shoulders. ‘I like your hair. It’s so long. Are you wearing extensions?’

‘No, it’s all me,’ Jemima muttered breathlessly, because he was standing so close now that she could feel the heat of his body striking hers.

And right there, he knew he had her because he knew for a fact that only a few months earlier his son’s mother had had short hair. But he had already accepted that she was a lying fake, hadn’t he? Charles Bennett didn’t make mistakes. Yet, trailing his fingertips through that lustrous skein of golden silk, Luciano couldn’t have cared less about who Jemima was or what she was. He only wanted to see that marvellous hair spread across his pillows and without hesitation he bent and lifted her up.

‘Put me down, Luciano!’ she gasped.

‘No,’ he said simply. ‘I want you.’

‘That’s not enough!’

Luciano shouldered open the door between their bedrooms. ‘It’s enough for me, piccolo mia.’

And she was on the brink of telling him why it wasn’t enough for her when he kissed her, kissed her long and hard and hungrily until the blood drummed in her head and her toes curled and her mind went blank. Her fingers reached up and delved into his black curls, shaping his proud head, roaming down the back of his neck. The need to touch him was so powerful it overwhelmed every other prompting, even the cautious vibes trying to tug her back to sanity.

Luciano settled her down on his bed and studied her with immense satisfaction. He knew what she was. He knew what she was capable of. But he could not be damaged by a known threat. Her greed was a weakness he would use to control her, he reflected with satisfaction while only dimly questioning what had happened to his belief that one night would be sufficient for him. He knew he wasn’t fully in control and it made him feel outrageously free of his rigid rules to do as he liked. She would be his for as long as he wanted her and that was all that currently mattered to him. He bent down and crushed her ripe mouth under his again, one hand closing to the rounded curve of her breast and feeling the race of her heartbeat. His own heartbeat was like thunder in his ears. Her mouth was hot and eager and sweet, so sweet that he couldn’t get enough of it.

His kisses were like an addictive drug that Jemima couldn’t resist. Time and time again, she told herself, ‘Just one more kiss.’ And then what? a little voice piped up at the back of her head. Her spine arched as he lifted her and deftly released the catch on her bra. Before she could react he was peeling her top off over her head and tugging the bra down her arms.

‘You’re glorious,’ Luciano husked, tracing her firm, full breasts with an almost reverent hand, pausing to toy with the protruding tips before bowing his head to lash his tongue across the tender crests.

Jemima huffed, lashes fluttering as sweet, seductive sensation snaked down from her nipples to her feminine core and joined the throbbing heat gathering there. Long brown fingers cradled her bare, rose-tipped curves and his mouth grew a little rougher while he teased the engorged buds, licking and suckling and nibbling with an erotic expertise that made her hips writhe against the mattress. She did not have a single thought in her head, only a sense of shock at the raw intensity of what he was making her feel.

With impatient hands he wrenched her out of her skirt and tossed his shirt on the floor to join it. Jemima gazed up at him with wondering appreciation, her attention lingering helplessly on the sleek bronzed torso composed of lean, hard muscle that swooped impressively down to frame a flat stomach and narrow hips. His shoulders were wide and as rounded with rippling muscles as his biceps. Only then as she reluctantly tore her attention from him did she become conscious of her naked breasts, but as she lifted her hands instinctively to cover herself he caught them in one of his and pinned them above her head.