The Real Rio D'Aquila

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE bedroom was an ebony sea dappled by the light of an ivory moon.

Rio’s bed stood beneath a star-filled skylight.

He carried Isabella to it, still kissing her, never wanting the kiss to end, and slowly, slowly let her slide down his body until she was on her feet.

“Isabella,” he whispered against her lips.

“Matteo,” she sighed, and he groaned because his name—and yes, it was his name—sounded so right, coming from her mouth.

He cupped her face with his hands, lifted it to his, traced the arcs of her cheeks with his thumbs.

And kissed her.

He loved kissing her.

Loved everything about it.

The feel, the sweetness of her lips. The little moans that escaped her throat.

He’d always enjoyed sex, everything about it, from the simplicity of kissing to the hot excitement of completion, but kissing Isabella—

How could there be this much pleasure in a kiss?

She tasted of wine. Of the night. Of herself. And of desire.

For him.

Only for him.

He said her name again as he gathered her against him. She rose on tiptoe, returning kiss for kiss. He slid his hands under her sweatshirt. She cried out when he cupped her naked breasts. Her flesh was cool, the nipples pebbled.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “oh, God, yes, Matteo, yes, yes.”

It almost undid him.

He drew her arms up, followed the path with his hands, reached her wrists and slowly, carefully eased off her sweatshirt and dropped it to the floor. He drew her close, kissed her throat, the slope of her breast. He could feel her heart pounding beneath his lips and he ached to go further, to take her nipple into his mouth, but now her entire body was trembling; she was breathing hard and he told himself to go slowly, slowly, not to frighten her, not to do anything too quickly.

But she rose on her toes. Leaned into him. Moved against him.

“Isabella,” he said roughly. “Sweetheart, when you do that—when you do that—”

He groaned, drew her to him again and kissed her, this kiss deeper, harder, and she moaned softly and gave herself up to its hot demand.

His hands dropped to her waist. She had tied the cord of the sweatpants as tightly as possible. Still, the pants were loose on her and rested lightly on her hips.

He wanted to see her.

Was it too soon?

He had to find out.

He put his thumbs under the soft cotton waistband. Isabella shook her head and burrowed against him.

“Matteo,” she said, and he knew that yes, it was too soon. Instead, he wove his fingers into her hair until she raised her head and looked up at him.

She was beautiful. Real. No artifice. Just her.

Had there ever been a woman in his bed who had not done anything to enhance her looks? He didn’t think so but, hell, he didn’t want to think about other women now.

There was no one else.

There was only Isabella.

He kissed her. Again. And again, until he felt her relax against him. She was so warm in his arms, her naked skin like satin under his hands as he stroked her. His fingers brushed the sides of her breasts and she trembled.

“Matteo. I should have told you before this—I should have told you that I—that I haven’t—” She swallowed drily and made what she knew was probably the understatement of the decade. “I haven’t done this very much.”

He hated the whisper of apology he heard in her voice—and hated himself for the swift, primitive response it engendered in him.

He believed firmly in sexual equality but deep in his man-as-mighty-hunter heart, he knew there was something special in being the man who would teach a woman the meaning of passion.

“I just—I just don’t want you to expect—to expect—”

Rio kissed her to silence.

“All I expect is to please you,” he said gruffly, and vowed to himself that he would.

Added reason to take all the time in the world to make love to her, even as—hell, especially as the urge to back her against the wall, free himself of his sweatpants and hers and thrust into her, beat hard in his blood.

He knew he could do that, despite her admission of near-innocence. He was good at sex, and at making sex last. He liked to prolong the pleasure for himself and for the woman he was with.

He liked knowing he had such complete control of himself, of his lover, of the moment.

Tonight, all that mattered was pleasuring Isabella.

He tilted her face up to his. Kissed her mouth until her lips parted and he could feast on the sweet taste of her. Kissed her throat until she moaned and her head fell back. Kissed her breast, such a delicate breast, kissed lower, lower …

She cried out as his lips closed around one nipple. The taste of her flesh was sweeter than anything he’d ever known. He tongued it and she cried out again, the sound urgent, shocked, hot with pleasure and excitement.

His hands went to the waistband of her sweatpants again. She held her breath. Now, he told himself, and slowly, slowly, he eased the sweatpants down her legs.

A groan broke from his throat as he gathered her against him and felt the warmth of her naked body against his.

Cristo, he wanted to see her.

But she was trembling, and he knew it was still too soon.

Sweat beaded his forehead. His pulse was going crazy. Still, he held her. Only held her. He could feel her heart racing against his, or maybe it was his heart racing against hers.

It didn’t matter.

He waited, waited, waited until she sighed. Her hand crept up his chest, to his shoulders and she whispered his name.

He let go of her and pulled off his sweatshirt. Pushed down his bottoms. Stepped out of them.

Then he drew her into his arms again, closing his eyes at the hot, delicious feel of her against him.

“Isabella,” he murmured, his arms tightening around her as he bent to her and took her lips in kiss after kiss, each deeper than the last. He lifted her against him, her breasts against his chest, her belly against his and she gasped when his aroused flesh pressed at the apex of her thighs.

“Matteo,” she whispered, and he heard all the questions in the world in the way she said his name.

“It’s all right, cara,” he said gruffly.

“I don’t know if—I mean, I don’t know if—”

He was big. He knew that. In typical male fashion, the knowledge that a woman’s eyes would widen with pleasurable anticipation when she first saw him, erect and eager, when she first felt him, naked against her, had always given his ego a boost.

Those women had not been Isabella.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. He took her hand. Brought it to him. “This is only another part of me. I won’t hurt you, sweetheart. I swear it.”

He caught his breath as her fingers brushed over him. Touched him. She made a soft, questioning sound. He closed his eyes. Told himself not to do anything foolish but then she closed her hand around him and he had to grit his teeth to keep from tumbling her onto the bed.

He let her explore him. He was the one trembling now, as he fought to hang on to his sanity.

At last, he groaned. It was too much.

“Isabella,” he said thickly, “sweetheart—”

Her arms wound around his neck, and he took her down to the bed. When he drew back, she grabbed for the duvet bunched beneath them. He knew she wanted to cover herself, that being undressed before a man was new to her. But he had to see her and he caught her hands, kissed them, then gently brought them to her sides.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Isabella. Let me see you.”

She drew an unsteady breath. He pulled back. And looked at the woman he wanted with every hard pulse of the blood beating through his veins.

His heart turned over.

She was more than beautiful.

> She was exquisite.

Small, tip-tilted breasts, crowned by delicate rose nipples.

A narrow waist. A woman’s hips, curved and lush. And at the juncture of her thighs, a cluster of dark curls.

He bent his head. Took one nipple and then the other into the heat of his mouth. She moaned; her fingers threaded through his hair.

“Matteo,” she whispered, “oh, Matteo—”

He moved between her thighs. Kissed her eyes. Her mouth. Her throat. Her breasts. He moved lower. Lower still. Her belly. Her navel. The dark curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Her breath caught.

“Wait! You can’t—”

He could. Nothing would stop him. He wanted to inhale her scent, taste the sweetness of her most intimate flesh.

Rio put his face against her. Found her, licked her and she gave a long cry of rapture that rose into the night.

“Oh, God,” she sobbed, “oh, God …”

Her thighs fell open. He slipped his hands beneath her, lifted her to him, kissed her until she was weeping. He moved up her body, took her mouth in a long, deep kiss, let her taste their mingled passion on his tongue.

“Matteo,” she sobbed. “Please. Please—”

He could wait no longer.

Blindly, he pulled open the drawer in the nightstand. His hands were shaking; it took an eternity to tear open the little packet, then ease the condom along his length.

He felt her eyes on him.

That she was watching him made him harder than ever—except, that wasn’t possible. Any harder, he would die, he thought, and he came back to her, whispered her name, knelt between her still-parted thighs.

And paused at the entrance to her body.

Rio shuddered.

The sensation was exquisite.

And he, the man who knew how to make sex last, knew he was dangerously close to the edge.

She was wet. Hot. Tight. He moved slowly. Deliberately. It was exquisite torture. Holding back. Watching her face. Seeing her eyes blur, her lips part.

Feeling her ready to take him inside her.

Cristo, it was too much, too much, too much—

Her arms tightened around him. She lifted her hips.

“Don’t,” he said. “When you do that, I can’t—I can’t—” She moved again, brought his mouth to hers and kissed him.

Rio closed his eyes and sank into her.

She gave a little sob.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered.