The Italian's Token Wife

He lowered her gently to the bed, parting her legs and coming down, quite as naked as she, upon her.

‘Dio, I will be as gentle as I can, but the waiting has been hard—’

He arched over her, his lean body like a perfect bow, eager to find its mark, his mouth plundering hers, then moving down to capture each peaking breast as his hands swept down over her slender body. Hungrily he sought the ripening core of her body, preparing it for himself—preparing her for him. At his touch she moaned, incoherent with the desire rushing through her.

His words echoed her own longing. ‘I want you so much—right now…’

She was like a pale flame beneath him, burning like a lens, reflecting all her heat into him, his body.

‘Rafaello—’

‘Yes—say my name. I want to hear it—want to hear you cry it out aloud, to me, now, right now—’

He held her poised beneath him and then, as if of their own accord, her hips lifted to his, gyrating very slightly, feeling his hard, powerful length ready to pierce her. He needed no second invitation, and with a low growl he thrust within her.

And then her body was welcoming him, remembering him, moving around him, beneath him, clasping him to her so that he groaned again and lifted his head from her.

‘Dio—what are you doing to me? How can I hold back? Cara—come with me—I must…’

He surged within her, and as if a match had been thrown into driest tinder she scorched into flame around him. A cry was wrenched from her throat, an answering cry from his, and he thrust, and thrust again as she lifted her hips to him, every muscle straining. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closing tight shut as wave after wave of sensation broke like an unstoppable tide through her.

His possession was total—as was hers of him. She clasped him to her, her hands folding and unfolding on his smooth, muscled back, her arms reaching across its broadness as she held him to her and he surged to the very utmost of her limits.

‘Rafaello! Rafaello—’

It was a dying fall, a homage to him, to his beauty, to his possession, to her desire for him—and his for her, which seemed so wondrous she could not believe it was really true. And yet it was true. As the tide of sensation gave one final, blissful breaking through her convulsing body she knew, knew that the intensity of what she had felt had been as strong for him as it had for her. He had wanted her, desired her as she had desired him, and the wonder of it, the glory of it, made her weak.

For a long, timeless while they lay together, wound in each other’s arms, no words left, no words possible. She wanted nothing more in all the world.

She must hold this moment, hold it for ever—this sweetness of bliss, this wonder of joy that was filling her and flooding her.

I love you…

The words formed on her lips, welling out of her heart, and she felt their power and their glory. But they were silent words, breathed into his living skin, into her soul.

I love you…

A silent promise. A secret gift.

‘Rafaello! No. Someone might see!’

‘Who? There is no one for miles.’

‘Shepherds—farmers—people on holiday.’

He grinned, a wolfish parting of his teeth. ‘There’s not a soul around, cara, no one to save you from me.’

He rolled her over on the rug, spread beneath shady chestnut trees in this most remote spot, a sheltered slope with no habitation for miles. One by one he spread her hands above her head and arched his body over her.

‘No one to save you from me,’ he echoed, the smile on his mouth, the expression on his eyes, all portending one intention only.

She gazed helplessly back into his eyes.

‘I don’t want to be saved,’ she breathed.

‘Bene—the very words I want to hear,’ he told her. Slowly, infinitely slowly, he kissed her, and she thought she would die of it, it was such bliss. He drew back a little, still arched over her, his palms pressed onto hers. Then he kissed her again, his warm, wine-sweetened mouth moving with leisurely exploration. She felt desire stir yet again, and wondered at it.

They had spent all morning in bed together. She had woken to discover that once again Rafaello had woken before her, and whisked Benji off to Maria. But this morning instead of bringing him back to Magda he had returned alone, informing her that Maria was taking Benji to play with her infant great-nieces, and that he would be happy and entertained and not miss her for a moment—which was highly convenient, as it happened, because right now Magda would have no time, no time at all, for paying attention to anyone else but him…

In the shuttered bedroom Rafaello had done what he had wanted to do the day before—kept Magda entirely and absolutely to himself, feasting and feeding on her without satiation, without end. It had been a sensual overload that had melted every fibre of her body, dissolving the hours in endless, timeless bliss until at last Rafaello had risen from his bed and declared it was time, finally, to get up for the day.