Taken by the Highest Bidder

He laughed appreciatively, drew two cold Perrier bottles out before letting the refrigerator door swing shut. “Should we check out the rest?” he asked, nodding toward the remaining rooms.

The bedroom was as big, if not bigger than the living room with two enormous walk-in closets, which prompted Sam to ask who actually had that many clothes, or wanted to travel with that many clothes, and then a blue marble bath with a huge whirlpool tub and a shower big enough for two.

“What do you want to do now?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the huge bed and handing her one of the waters.

Nervously Sam twisted the cap from the green bottle. “Watch TV?”

“We could do that.” He leaned across the bed, lifted the remote from the night table. “Come here. Help me find something to watch.”

Cristiano heard her exhale softly, saw the tip of her tongue appear, saw her swallow. She was so nervous and she hesitated, one second, two seconds and then she moved toward him, her bridal gown swishing, the sleeveless lace top and full silk skirt reminding him of the dresses American girls wore to their high school dances. She looked just as young, too, and very unsure of herself.

Sam sat next to him on the bed, hands folding demurely in her lap. He leaned toward her, watched her lashes flutter close, her full mouth soften.

He brushed her mouth with his then lifted his head to measure her response. Her lashes lifted slightly. She looked up at him and her blue eyes were dark, mysterious, filled with unspoken wants and needs.

He kissed her again, slowly, so slowly that he felt her lips tremble against his. The heat between them flickered and flamed, exploding to life. The intensity startled her. He felt her resist, draw back. She would have pulled away, broken off the kiss, but he slid a hand into her long silky curls, crushing them with his hand, keeping her mouth pressed to his.

Her heart was beating harder now. He could feel the pulse in her throat, the throb in her veins. She was excited and yet afraid, but he understood that. Passion needed both. Passion required intensity, risk and the unknown.

He deepened the kiss, increasing pressure against her mouth and her lips quivered then opened beneath his. Her lips were soft, and her breath was warm and she tasted like Tuscany in the summer—warm, ripe, sweet.

He stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, teased her silken inner lip, flicked the tip of his tongue across the crease of her lips, sucked her tongue into his mouth, applying pressure until she whimpered, her hands kneading his chest, fingers curling into his skin.

Her soft muffled whimper nearly shattered his self-control. Reaching over, he scooped her up, into his arms and drew her firmly down onto his lap to feel her warmth on his legs, the curve of her bottom on his heavy erection.

“Bella, Samantha,” he whispered against her mouth, one hand against her jaw, fingers spread taut across the curve of bone and the softness of her cheek.

Sam shuddered at the pleasure of the kiss. No one had ever touched her the way he did, no one had ever made her feel beautiful and alive like this.

Reaching up, she clasped the back of his neck, her fingers twining in his thick hair that touched his collar. Charles’s kisses had always been so chaste, so safe and controlled, but this kiss leveled her, this kiss proved how little she knew of life, and love, and men.

He was kissing her mouth again, teaching her how to play, how to tease, how to make her want him.

But the kissing wasn’t enough. Sam wanted more and she arched against him, and as she arched, she felt his hand cover her breast, first cupping the fullness then palming the nipple. The longer he touched her breast, the more fire she felt race through her veins. He was making her feel wild inside, making her feel hot and explosive from her breasts all the way to between her legs.

He continued to touch her, stroking beneath her breast, down her rib cage, low to her hip, then up again. And as he stroked slowly back up, he rediscovered her breast, lingered over her taut nipple.

She felt sensitive, so sensitive and Sam writhed at the merciless attention. Her lower abdomen felt so tight it was almost uncomfortable and she shifted again on his lap, moving her hips in a restless, unconscious rhythm.

“Cristiano,” she groaned against his mouth, not sure if it was a plea or a protest. He was making her feel at so many levels, and she could think of nothing but feeling more.