Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

Marco’s grip on her wrists tightened. He kissed her, his mouth hard and demanding on hers. She returned his kiss with the desperation of a woman who wants everything a lover can give.

When he drew back, she sobbed his name.

“Open your eyes,” he said roughly. “Look at me.”

Slowly, she did as he’d commanded. Her heart turned over.

She saw his beautiful face, hard-edged with passion; his eyes, opaque black pools that could carry her into an oblivion that would never end.

“Marco,” she whispered, and he drove deep into her.

She came instantly, her scream of rapture thin and high, and filled with wonder. She tried to free her hands. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, draw him into the abyss with her, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Whose woman are you?” he said, his face a mask of hard-fought control. “Tell me.”

She bit his shoulder, tasted salt and sweat and man.

“Yours,” she said brokenly.

“Only mine.” he said, the words rough with command.

He drove into her again and, God, she shattered, wept as she spasmed around him, bucked against him as the world spun away.

He let go of her wrists. She wound her arms around his neck. He slid his hands under her bottom and lifted her to him.

Together, mouths and bodies fused, they flew into the fiery heart of the sun.

******

After a long, shared shower they dressed casually in jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, and had breakfast on the bedroom terrace.

Tiny strawberries flown in from Africa. Café au lait. Chocolate croissants.

Emily bit into one and reached into her lap for her napkin but Marco leaned across the glass-topped table, caught her hand with his and kissed the tiny smear of chocolate from her lips.

“Just trying to be helpful,” he said solemnly.

She smiled. “Such a Boy Scout.”

“Trust me, cara. I was never a Boy Scout.”

“No Scouts in Italy? That’s where you grew up, isn’t it?”

“Si. I was born in Sicily.” He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth. “And I suppose there must be Scout troops there but not where I lived.”

“Where was that?”

She’d meant, in what town or city, but his answer was more specific.

“I grew up in what you would call public housing. In Palermo.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“What I meant was… “

“I know what you meant.” He shrugged. “And yes, it is a long journey from a slum to this.”