The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize (The Billionaire's Legacy 8)

“Though I’m beginning to wonder if a kiss between the two of us was always inevitable.”

She laughed, a shaky, breathless sound. “Since when? Since you first walked into my grandmother’s house when I was barefoot and in my glasses?” She wished it were true. She wished he had.

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t. You’re right. Nothing about this makes sense.” He was the one who closed the distance between them, who reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his finger before letting it fall free. “I’m not certain it matters.”

“It should.”

“There are a lot of shoulds in the world, Gabby. But they very often become shouldn’ts. There isn’t much to be done about it. Except perhaps do the one thing that feels right.”

She didn’t know if this felt right. No. It didn’t feel right. It felt wrong. Very, very wrong. But she still wanted it. That was the thing.

She took a sharp breath, taking a step in toward him, pressing her hand to his chest. She looked up at his eyes, hard and dark, his expression still mostly concealed behind the mask. She flexed her fingers, scrunching the stiff white material of his shirt, then smoothing it again, relishing the feeling of his heat, his hardness, beneath the fabric. He was so different than she was. She had never truly fully appreciated just how different men and women were. In a million ways, big and small.

Yes, there was the obvious, but it was more than that. And it was those differences that suddenly caused her to glory in who she was, what she was. To feel, if only for a moment, that she completely understood herself both body and soul, and that they were united in one desire.

“Kiss me, Princess,” he said, his voice low, strained.

He was affected.

So she had won.

She had been the one to make him burn.

But she?

??d made a mistake if she’d thought this game had one winner and one loser. She was right down there with him. And she didn’t care about winning anymore.

She couldn’t deny him, not now. Not when he was looking at her like she was a woman and not a girl, or an owl. Not when he was looking at her like she was the sun, moon and all the stars combined. Bright, brilliant and something that held the power to hold him transfixed.

Something more than what she was. Because Gabriella D’Oro had never transfixed anyone. Not her parents. Not a man.

But he was looking at her like she mattered. She didn’t feel like shrinking into a wall, or melting into the scenery. She wanted him to keep looking.

She didn’t want to hide from this. She wanted all of it.

Slowly, so slowly, so that she could savor the feel of him, relish the sensations of his body beneath her touch, she slid her hand up his throat, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint scratch of whiskers.

Then she moved to cup his jaw, his cheek.

“I’ve never touched a man like this before,” she confessed.

And she wasn’t even embarrassed by the confession, because he was still looking at her like he wanted her.

He moved closer, covering her hand with his. She could feel his heart pounding heavily, could sense the tension running through his frame. “I’ve touched a great many women,” he said, his tone grave. “But at the moment it doesn’t seem to matter.”

That was when she kissed him.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, her heart thudding against her chest so wildly she could hardly breathe. She felt dizzy. She felt restless. She felt…everything.

It was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to be in his arms. And also the most frightening. The most torturous.

She felt as though she’d come home, as though she’d finally found a place to rest. One that was hers and hers alone. But it wasn’t enough. And it never would be. His suit and her gown put too many layers between them.

Her title and his lack of one.