The Italian's Pregnant Mistress

‘Oh, nothing that I can’t put on hold if I need to. Consider the day yours if you’re brave enough to take the plunge.’

She stood up and he hooked his fingers around her wrist and with a little tug pulled her back down, in a tangle on his lap, laughing as she stared up at him with affronted eyes, laughing and sure of himself, of her.

She was clear-headed only for the length of time that it took for his mouth to find hers and, when it did, she sank into the kiss like a drowning man finding land. She felt the thrust of his tongue against hers and groaned when his hands curved beneath the formal white shirt, pushing it up until he was cupping her breast, feeling its weight through the lacy bra.

Then he was sliding down on the sofa, taking her with him and fumbling with the small buttons of her blouse. Now the shirt was finally off. Getting his own off was considerably quicker, especially as he didn’t give a hoot if he ripped a few buttons off in the process. He just wanted her naked and on top of him.

Although there was a lot to be said for watching her luscious breasts in that sexy, low-cut lacy bra. As if reading his mind, or maybe reading his mind was just something she could do, she raised herself up, dangling her breasts over him and smiling when, with a little growl of impatience, he scooped them out of their constraints so that he could lower one pouting nipple into his mouth.

‘Kinda sexy making love to a semi-clothed business woman,’ he murmured roughly and Francesca made a noise halfway between a laugh and a moan as his mouth continued to circle her tightened bud.

He sucked on the moistened circle, pulling it deep into his mouth, and ran his hands along her thighs and up her skirt until he could loop his fingers over the elasticated waist of her underwear, which he proceeded to pull down, allowing her to squirm her way out of them completely.

He was bare-backed but still in his work trousers and he could feel his throbbing erection pushing against the zip. Anticipation soared through him. He pulled down the zip of her neat grey skirt and watched as she stood up and completed the job of divesting herself of the last piece of clothing covering her.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Francesca glanced back towards the door, then looked at Angelo, comfortably sprawled on the sofa, his eyes fastened on her.

He had been right. They had been right. Right to acknowledge the power of their mutual sexual attraction, right to eliminate all the frills and fuss of possible emotional ties that would never happen. He wanted her, she wanted him, and his invitation was to indulge their joint desires until such time as they presumably became bored with one another. Of course, he would be the one to grow bored with her. That was just a reality she would have to accept and deal with because without any emotional ties whatsoever boredom followed hard on the heels of predictability and her initial allure would soon become tarnished around the edges. She would deal with that when the time came. She, too, would indulge her desires and her love which could never amount to anything, not with a man like him. It would be better than nothing—which, frankly, was what she had had for the past three long years.

‘This sofa is big enough for the both of us,’ Angelo said thickly, devouring her naked body with his eyes and restraining himself from leaping up and dragging her down to the ground like an animal on heat. ‘Unless advancing middle age has made you lose that exploring edge of yours.’

Francesca laughed, picked up the nearest cushion from one of the chairs and threw it at him. ‘Middle age indeed! I’m twenty-seven!’ She approached him, knelt down by the side of the sofa and cupped his beautiful face in her hands, sighing as he stroked her back. ‘You should be the one to be careful, Angelo. You’re an old man compared to me. No need to prove your virility by pretending that you’re still capable of making love in unusual places.’ She giggled and kissed him on the mouth, stifling his immediate protest. With one hand, she slowly fiddled with his belt, finally unhooking it and setting to work on the button of his trousers and the zip. She could feel the hard bulge that told her how much he wanted her and was fired by a wild, giddy passion.

‘Prove my virility? You realise that you’ve laid down a gauntlet and, like any self-respecting red-blooded male, I’m going to have to take it up?’