‘Elisabetta—’
For one long, endless moment he gazed down at her as she lay in a ruffle of silk, one breast exposed, as she looked up at him, wonder and enchantment in her eyes.
Then, with a rapid urgency that was its own message, he’d disposed of his own clothes and was lowering his long, lithe frame upon her. She felt his body crush her down into the softness of the bedding. Felt the strength, the honed, masculine beauty of his planed torso, the narrow circle of his hips, the tautness of his thighs, and the long, full shaft pressing against her.
She gasped, awareness shooting through her.
He saw her recognition.
‘I have wanted you,’ he breathed, ‘from the first moment I saw you. Walking towards me—revealed to me—only to me—in all your beauty.’
Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her. Slowly, very slowly.
‘Be mine,’ he said to her. ‘Be mine, my own Elisabetta’.
His eyes were dilated; she was drowning in their dark depths.
There was only one answer to give him. Only one answer possible.
‘Rico…’ She breathed his name.
Her arms came around him, closed him to her, her fingers grazing with a fierce, sweet ardour along the contours of his back.
Heat flooded through her. Her hips arched to his. A gesture old as time. The instinctive pleading of her sex. She could not speak, could not talk. She could only know that now, now she wanted what was the sweetest glory.
His body answered her. Sliding the silken folds of her dress from her, his hand returned, gliding along the smooth column of her leg, and then, with a touch that drew from her a breathless gasp of pleasure, he parted her.
She was lost—lost in a vortex that was taking her into another world, a world that she had never known existed, to a pleasure, a physical sensation so incredible, that her entire being was reduced to one single exquisite point. She gave herself to it, helpless to do anything but let the ravishing sensation of his skilful touch take her to the place that called to her, nearer and yet nearer, so that when the moment came it was a consummation of discovery, of such wondrous ecstas
y that she cried out with it. It swept through her, overwhelming her, flooding through her to her very fingertips, wave after wave. His hand was smoothing her hair, his voice murmuring, and then, even as at last the flood began to ebb, even as she felt the pulsing of her core, he was there, seeking entrance, strong and insistent, and yet with absolute control, easing inside her.
She took him in. The pulsing of her body drew him into her, and she felt his fullness pressing against her aroused, sensitised tissues. She gasped again, eyes flying open to see him looking down at her, his expression one of absolute focus, one of intensity.
The intensity of desire. Absolute desire.
For her.
Now. Now.
He moved within her, and as he did the ebbing fire in her started to lick again. Her lips parted in wonder, and he saw that wonder, and with a brief, flickering smile he moved again. And then, once more, the intensity took him over.
‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes.’ And lifted her hips to him, instinctively tilting to let him move more deeply within her, parting her straining flesh around him, moulding herself around him. He moved again, and yet again, and with each stroke she felt the bliss not just of possession, but of renewed desire.
She heard him speak again, a staccato fragment, and then an urgency took him over. Stroke after stroke, his body surging within her, he took her with him, closer and closer still, to that place where she had been.
And then she was there. Like a white heat sensation flashed through her, sweeping through her limbs. She cried out, and heard his voice too, and she was clutching him, her hands working into the smooth, heated planes of his back, her breath crying through her, her throat arching as the fire took her, took him with her.
It went on and on, until, as the final echo began to ebb, she was left with the sweet, honeyed exhaustion of fulfilment in every fibre of her being. She felt the tautness go from him, felt the full heaviness of his body on hers, and emotion flooded through her. Her arms wrapped around him, her cheek pressing against his. She wanted to hold him close, so close.
Wonder filled her, and a sweetness that was beyond comprehension. She held his warm, strong body in her arms, feeling the hectic beat of his heart gradually slow. His head was sunk against her shoulder. She felt his cheek, his soft, silky hair, the warmth of his breath. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxing, letting go.
Languor stole through her—a peace so deep that it was like a balm, a blessing. At her hips, still conjoined, she felt his heaviness, felt the low throb within her as her body remembered the imprint of his possession, her own ecstasy. Her languor deepened as her own heart rate slowed, and sleep began to steal over her in her warm, sated drowsiness.
Her hands slackened around his back and she felt his skin begin to cool beneath her fingers. He had slipped over into sleep, she realised, and with the last of her conscious mind she pulled the dishevelled coverlet over him. Then, with a low, soft sigh, she let sleep take her.
‘Principessa—je suis enchanté.’
Her hand was being taken, and kissed with courtly gallantry. Lizzy smiled uncertainly. Jean-Paul straightened and bestowed a highly appreciative look at her. He said something in French to Rico, which Lizzy did not understand.