Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin

Now, he thought, and he moved over her, positioned himself between her thighs and entered her, teeth gritted with the determination to do it slowly.

He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to hurt her—

Her legs closed around his hips, urging him on.

Rafe flung his head back, thrust deep, flew over the edge of the earth and took his wife with him.

Chiara lay beneath Raffaele’s hard body, her arms still holding him to her.

His heartbeat was slowing or maybe it was hers. They were so close that she couldn’t tell the difference. And he was still inside her.

She closed her eyes.

A man, inside her. No. It was this man who was inside her. This man, who had taken her on a journey so intense she’d never wanted it to end.

This man.

Her husband.

The thought sent a sweet tremor through her. Raffaele stirred. Without thinking, she tightened her arms around him.

“Hey,” he said softly, and she blushed as she realized he wanted to get off her. Of course he did.

Her mother had told her some things that were obviously incorrect but some were surely accurate.

For instance, when a man finished with a woman, he had no further wish to remain in her bed.

This was Raffaele’s bed, not hers, but the principle was the same.

What an idiot I am, she thought, and let him go.

He rolled off her, but he didn’t go anywhere. Instead he gathered her into his arms and drew her close. Surprised, she let him do it—she loved having him do it—but she wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d hold her for very long.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded and burrowed a little closer, her nose just at the juncture of his shoulder and arm.

She loved the smell of him there. Back home, there’d been times the very scent of a man’s body made her belly knot and her throat clench but this was different. Rafe’s scent was masculine and musky and exciting.

“Chiara?” He ran one hand into her hair as he cupped her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

He had, at that last amazing moment, but she’d have died rather than have stopped him. The feel of him, deep inside her…It had been pleasure so incredible that even remembering it made her tremble.

“Damn,” he said gruffly, “I did.”

“No. It’s all right. I did not mind.”

“You didn’t mind?” Suddenly she was no longer lying cradled against him, she was on her back and he was leaning over her. “Damn it, you have every right to mind,” he said gruffly. “I tried to go slow but—”

“Raffaele.” She smiled. “It was wonderful.”

He grinned. Such a becoming grin! But then, why wouldn’t it be? He was beautiful.

“Yeah?”

“Wonderful,” she said softly.

“The next time we make love, it’ll be even more wonderful.”

Her heart filled. They had not had sex, they had made love. How wrong her mother had been!

“What?” he said, smiling at her.

She smiled back. “Nothing. I was just thinking…”

“Me, too.” His smile tilted. “About next time.”

“I am glad you are thinking that, Raffaele,” she whispered. “Very glad.”

Rafe kissed her. She sighed and opened her mouth to his. His kiss deepened, his hand cupped her breast and her nipple engorged at his touch.

“Oh,” she said softly, “oh, yes…”

He slid his hand down her body. Cupped her. Slipped a finger inside those plump folds…And saw her wince. Cursing softly, he gathered her into his arms.

“See? I did hurt you. Forgive me, baby. It’s much too soon.”

“No.” Her cheeks turned pink. “If you would like to…to make love again—”

“I would like to make love straight into tomorrow,” he said solemnly. “But this is your first time and you need to take it easy.”

She would have protested but he kissed her again, then rose from the bed. She sat up, the sheet drawn over her breasts, and watched him. Had he changed his mind? Was he leaving her now?

No. He was not. Unashamedly naked, he went into the connecting bathroom and shut the door.

Chiara lay back against the pillows. She felt boneless and happy and exhausted. It was as if she had experienced a miracle. That sex—that making love could be like this…

But it was not really love. Love was not what Raffaele—what her husband felt for her, and that was all right because…because it was not what she felt for him, either.

Tears welled in her eyes. And what for? What reason was there to weep? Something that had begun as a disaster had turned into something, yes, wonderful. She was free of her father, of San Giuseppe. And she was with a man who had taught her that sex could be the most wonderful experience of a woman’s life—