Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child

He wanted to tell her how he had missed her. How it felt to hold her again. But the need to kiss her, taste her, the need to possess her, make her his again had a hot urgency that drove away reason.

It was the same for her.

He could tell by the little sounds she made, the way she clung to his neck. By the motion of her body against his; that long, elegant body he had, yes, never forgotten.

And her mouth.

Sweet. Soft. Giving. A man could lose himself, just taking her mouth again and again, but it wasn’t enough, not now, not after all these endless months. He drew her away from the door, backed her against the wall, tore open her robe and swept his hands over her silken skin. Her hands were on him, too, at his jeans, undoing the closure, unzipping him, and he groaned as she closed her hand around him and said his name in a broken whisper that almost drove him to his knees.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, sweetheart.”

He hooked his fingers in her panties. Eased them down. He knelt; she put a hand on his head to steady herself as she stepped free of the scrap of silk. He clasped her ankle. Rose to his feet, his hand moving up and up her leg. His touch was warm and possessive and it made her tremble.

“Open for me,” he said in a strangled voice, and when she did, he put his hand between her thighs.

A cry burst from her throat. She was wet and hot for him, only for him, and he couldn’t wait. Not anymore. He had wanted this without knowing it, waited for this for more than a year, and if he didn’t have her now, he’d be lost forever.

He reversed their positions so that the wall was at his back. And as she sobbed his name, he lifted her, brought her down onto his rigid length. Her arms tightened around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist. She buried her face against his throat and he could feel the heat of her breath, hear her breathy moans of ecstasy.

Too fast, his fevered brain told him, dammit, too fast….

She cried out. Sank her teeth into his flesh. And as she convulsed around him, Dante drove deep, rode her even harder, and flew off the edge of the world.

They stayed that way for long minutes, breathing hard, letting the aftermath of their passion ease.

Then Gabriella gave a soft laugh. He remembered that laugh, low and delicious and earthy.

“What?” he said, his lips curving in a smile against her forehead.

“All those years of yoga that I took…” Another husky laugh. “Turns out they were worth it.”

He grinned, let her down slowly. She looked up at him and she was so beautiful…the tightness in his chest almost overwhelmed him.

“Gabriella.”

“Mmm?”

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said quietly, “just…” He bent his head and kissed her. Then he lifted her in his arms and carried her to his bed. She lay with her head on his shoulder, her hand playing with the dark curls on his chest.

“What are you thinking?”

Gently he stroked a tousled mass of golden curls from her cheek.

“That I’ve missed you.”

She turned her face, pressed a kiss to his skin. “Me, too.”

In truth he was thinking far more than that. He was thinking that a man went through life certain he knew what he needed to be happy. Success in his work. The love of his family. Friends who stood by him. Things that seemed simple and attainable.

It wasn’t enough.

He needed this.

Gabriella, in his arms. Winding her arms around his neck as he gathered her closer, returning his kisses as if nothing in the world mattered but him.

He gathered her closer. How had he lived without her?

Without warning, a thought raced through him like a gust of cold air. This could be dangerous.

There was so much to discuss, to work through. But then Gabriella sighed, kissed his throat and he knew that nothing mattered but her.

The swift tide of desire rose inside him again.

Kissing her, he rolled her onto her back, caught her hands in his and laced their fingers together.

He drew back a little, just far enough to see her.

She was exquisite.

Her hair was a tangled mass of gleaming golds, her eyes were wide and luminous, her lips were softly swollen from his kisses. Everything had happened so quickly that she was still wearing his robe and, under it, his T-shirt. He bent his head, kissed her throat, the pulse racing wildly in its hollow. His tongue dipped into her mouth, capturing the honeyed sweetness he had never forgotten.

“Gabriella.”

His voice was thick, his breathing ragged. He ached, not only to make love to her again but to see all of her. Gently he eased the robe from her shoulders and slid his hands under the hem of the shirt. Her skin felt like silk; the scent of her arousal made his blood pound even harder.

The back of his hand brushed against the soft curls between her thighs. She moaned; the sound inflamed him. Watching her face, he parted her labia with the tips of his fingers. Her head fell back, her lashes drooped over her eyes.