The Italian's Bride

CHAPTER NINE

THE driven urgency of Lucenzo’s passion, his hungry need, inflamed Portia and her own out-of-control wildly emotional responses exulted her. As the yielding softness of her body was welded to the hard male lines of his, her hands flew up to cradle his head, her fingers twining convulsively in the soft dark silkiness of his hair.

The insistent, yet utterly seductive thrust of his tongue was drugging her and her heart was beating to the wild rhythm of blind adoration when he finally broke the kiss. His broad chest heaved as he struggled for air, gathering her even closer as she gave a tortured gasp of loss.

And then he was husking something in his own language and nuzzling her hair aside, his mouth finding the pulse-beat at the base of her throat, kissing her there. Her heart grew wings of soaring joy, her fingers sliding over the breadth of his shoulders then curling into the fabric of his shirt.

He wasn’t going to push her away. This time her answering passion didn’t disgust him! She shuddered deliciously as his feathering kisses moved lower, down to the neckline of her dress where the pouting swell of her breasts began.

Portia gave a low whimper of pleasure. She felt delirious. She wanted more and more and more. Feverishly her fingers scrabbled at the tiny buttons. She wanted to remove the barrier of fabric, to offer her peaking breasts for his pleasure, for her immeasurable delight, needed to hold on to an ecstasy she had never known existed—needed him, loved him. Loving this man so very much, she ignored the whispery little voice in what remained of her thinking processes which reminded her that she really hadn’t meant to fall in love with him at all.

She heard his breath hiss through his teeth and then his hand was covering hers, moving her frantic fingers away from the seemingly hopeless task before slowly, carefully, undoing the buttons himself, parting the fabric and sliding it off her shoulders. His smouldering eyes were intent on the soft mounds of her breasts, intent still while he deftly disposed of the black satin bra, intent until they drifted closed as he bent his head to suckle her.

His whole body was tense, shaking with tiny tremors, and Portia clung to him, her head thrown back, every inch of her on fire for him. Her hunger was savage and uncontainable, so that when he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the fabulous bed she couldn’t even think of protesting but cradled his head between her hands again and covered his face with fiery kisses.

Clothes were frantically disposed of. Lucenzo didn’t know who had undressed whom. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but what was happening between them.

Three weeks away hadn’t tamed this pagan need, his desire to have her. She was a primitive fever that hadn’t attacked him for longer than he could remember. Gesu! She was so exquisitely beautiful! So fantastically responsive, generous and willing! What more could any man want?

Her loving arms enfolded him and he gave a throaty groan as his mouth closed hungrily over hers.

Sam’s cry woke her. Portia, her mind and body sated, her limbs still boneless with the after-effects of the passion of the night. Struggled feebly within the tangle of sheets. The darkness was thick and velvety, just a tiny glow from the nursery nightlight showing through the partly opened door.

‘Wait.’ Lucenzo’s voice was soft and languorous, and the hand that had been resting on her tummy stroked her there before moving away. ‘Stay where you are. I will bring him to you.’

He flicked the bedside light on and Portia struggled up against the heaped pillows, watching him as he slid off the bed, her soft lips parted, her eyes drowsy, dreamy with love. So much love.

Naked, he was utter perfection, and her heart kicked beneath her ribs as she took in the wide shoulders tapering down to the narrowness of his waist an

d hips, the neat buttocks and long, lithely muscled legs, the olive tones of his skin lightly dusted with dark body hair.

She couldn’t believe that such a man could find her desirable. But the way he had made love to her through the night proved that he did, proved that she possessed a streak of wild sexual generosity where he was concerned. Beneath the drugging expertise of his hands her body had become passionately wanton, demanding, enticing, shamelessly willing.

Hot colour stole into her cheeks as he disappeared into the nursery and her baby’s cries stopped as if they’d been turned off by a tap. She could hardly believe what had happened. The past few hours seemed like a fevered dream. Quivering with the explicit memories, she put the tips of her fingers to the burning skin of her face, testing for reality, wondering if all this was just a dream, only seeming to be real because she’d wanted his lovemaking so very much.

But it had happened. She was wide awake now. It only seemed like a fantasy because before tonight she had never understood what true, out-of-this-world ecstasy was.

When her conscience had pricked her into spending that weekend with Vito, she remembered—to make their engagement really special, or so he had pleaded—all she had felt was a vague discomfort and quite a lot of embarrassment. Her only consolation had been that she’d made him happy.

Vito had said that wanting her and not having her was driving him crazy. Vito had said he loved her, but he’d lied. Lucenzo had said very little beyond murmured Italian endearments and he hadn’t said he loved her. Lucenzo had more integrity; he wouldn’t lie.

Sudden tears welled in her eyes. She grabbed a corner of the sheet and scrubbed them away. What sort of woman was she? Comparing one brother with the other. Oh, how shameful! And was she the sort of woman who threw herself into bed with any man who said he wanted her?

Stuffing the sheet into her mouth to stifle a howl of anguish, she mentally tried to calm herself down, to assure herself that of course she wasn’t.

Lucenzo hadn’t had to say a word. He’d only needed to touch her. And believing herself in love with Vito had been understandable, hadn’t it? He’d appeared to be offering her everything she’d ever wanted—the ordinary, simple, uncomplicated things in life because she was an ordinary, simple, uncomplicated creature.

Besides, at that time she’d had no idea what real love was—something dark, dangerous, driven and compulsive, all mixed up with an aching tenderness, a need to give as much of herself as was humanly possible. Like her feelings for Lucenzo.

And what must he be thinking of her now? That she was sex-starved? Anybody’s? It didn’t bear thinking about, not right now when she didn’t feel up to coping with it. With tear-blurred eyes she gazed at the nursery door. The single bedside lamp made the bedroom, this huge four-poster bed, look like a shadowy cave. It was beginning to give her the creeps—and, come to think of it, what was happening through there? Why was Lucenzo being so long?

About to go and find out, she was paralysed by a thought so cataclysmic she couldn’t move a muscle.

Neither of them had used any protection. Falling pregnant by one Verdi brother could be viewed as careless—falling pregnant by two—!

When she’d let Vito make love to her it had been her first time, and she’d naively believed that he would take care of that side of things because although they’d planned to have children that was something that would happen in the future, when they were married and more secure financially. Falling blindly into bed with Lucenzo with no thought of future consequences was inexcusable!

Tears of mortification were trickling down her cheeks when Lucenzo walked back into the bedroom, cradling Sam in his arms. He was actually cuddling the tiny boy, she noted, furiously scrubbing her cheeks, which meant that her baby didn’t remind him of the child he had lost, didn’t give him pain. And that was something to be glad about, she told herself, giving him a wavery, watery smile as he put her baby into her arms.