Wife By Force(35)

The pull of her orgasm tightened within her, yet with expert skill he   retreated, resting his hand on her inner thigh. She moaned and thrashed   against him, but he held her tight, his mouth continuing to explore her   shoulders, her neck, her collarbone. He delved once more, his fingers   moving aside the slim silk and touching her softest skin with tender   care.

"Molto bella," he breathed into her ear.

Her hands moved frantically through his hair, telling him without words   of her need for completion. This time, he answered, his fingers  creating  a dance on her flesh, his mouth sipping on her.

With an explosion, the need became white heat flashing through her   entire body and soul. Her body bowed, her legs went rigid, and her hands   clutched his hair in a tight grip. Gasping for breath, Lara rode the   crash of pleasure until it subsided into a warm, melting well of   fulfillment.

"Now that," he said, his voice smoldering, "is respect."





Chapter 14





The slap of the pool water on the tile kept her awake.

Barely.

The heat of the midday sun had ebbed until the warmth was the perfect   temperature on her skin. The rustling of the palm trees above her   created a supple, soothing glide of sound in her ear.

This was their last day.

Turning her head, Lara gazed at her sleeping husband. The poor man had been kept up half the night with her demands.

A grin tugged at her mouth.

Dante lay on his stomach, the edge of his black swimsuit riding up one   leg, showing a good length of hairy, muscled thigh. His face was turned   toward her, his black eyelashes slanting across his cheeks, his usual   austere appearance softened by sleep. Her gaze slipped along his broad   shoulder, down his wide back, over his tight rump and across his long   legs. The Caribbean sun had darkened his skin during these last couple   of weeks until it shone in bronzed and gleaming glory.

Her husband was a hunk. The king of hunks, frankly.

The grin on her mouth widened.

Who would have thought? Dante-the epitome of urbane cool and collected.   The Casartelli: smooth operator, ruthless businessman, family  patriarch.  Dante Casartelli might be all those things, but he was also a  hottie.

She could not seem to get enough of him. Every night, she went to bed   shaking with desire, touching and kissing to her heart's content. In the   bedroom, there were no cold gazes or cool words. Everything between   them was hot and sweet and passionate.         

     



 

She pushed her sunglasses down to get a better look at him.

His muscles gleamed with a slight sheen of sweat, emphasizing their   power and potential. His hair was slightly damp from the last swim in   the pool, its deep black contrasting with the diamond glitter of water   in their depths. His face still held a certain arrogance, the long nose   and firm jaw would never relax into complete softness. Yet the slight   crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and the tightness around his   mouth had been washed away during the last weeks.

Sliding over on her side, she sighed.

She couldn't claim Dante had changed. Outside the bedroom, he still was a   cool customer. He commanded immediate service in the busy jewelry   store, where he'd bought her a diamond-encrusted Piaget watch, ignoring   her protest. With a flick of his finger, he'd obtained the best table  in  the restaurant, where they dined on couscous and steamed flying  fish.  He had that aura of power as they strolled the enchanting streets  of  Bridgetown; people were drawn to him, from flirty female tourists  to  ancient local fishermen.

He still made decisions about where they were going without consulting her.

He still assumed he was always right.

He still puckered up when she dared to question him.

But then he would kiss her, and the signature taste of him-desire and   desperation-would roller coaster through her bloodstream. And she would   forget. Forget his dominating ways and demanding manner. Forget   everything except having him and taking him until they were both panting   and sweating and still wanting.

"Be honest with yourself," she muttered.

It wasn't only the sex, though that area of their marriage was off the   charts. She'd also seen smidgens of something else, something more in   her husband that drew her.

He watched out for her. Not in the way Gerry had, all rigid disapproval   and painful condescension. No, Dante subtly cared for her. He took her   hand when they reached a set of stairs. He made sure her water glass  was  full at the restaurant so she wouldn't become dehydrated. He  wrapped  his arm around her and tugged her out of harm's way when a  rambunctious  crowd of teenagers walked past them in the town streets.

Which was nice.

Not something she was used to.

Her father had always been too self-absorbed, her brother too young. Gerry's version of care had nearly destroyed her.

There were the subtle hints of his dry humor too she found herself   enjoying. He would never be a charmer, but there was no mistaking his   wit. His sly comments as they watched the parade of tourists walk by the   little café where they'd stopped for coffee had actually made her  laugh  out loud. In addition, remarkably, he didn't object to being  teased.  Unlike Gerry, who had seen it as an affront to his dignity,  Dante was  adapting.

Which was also nice.

She and Andy had teased each other unmercifully as children.

Teasing was a natural part of her; it had been very hard to keep it   under wraps in her first marriage. She found it refreshing to be   herself, not be condemned or corrected. She liked to laugh, and tease,   and surprisingly, her new husband was willing to oblige her.

Then there was the patience thing.

His utter calmness when the waiter had spilled soup on the table. He   hadn't demanded immediate firings or severe punishment as she'd half   expected he would. No, her husband had been all graciousness. There'd   been his compassion with the elderly woman who worked in the jewelry   store. Her dithering and fluttering, when she'd recognized him as the   owner of the largest hotel on the island, had been painful to watch. Yet   eventually, with Dante's low, calm tone and unhurried ways, the woman   had relaxed, her grateful glance following them as they left the store.

Lara couldn't ever imagine classifying her husband as nice … but he   was … well, compared to Gerry's curt manner with anyone he deemed beneath   him …

Dante was different.

Basically, she couldn't figure him out. She couldn't put the pieces together that made the man who was her husband.

Dictator or companion?

Tyrant or protector?

Enemy or lover?

All his disparate traits caused her to be remarkably unsettled and   uneasy. Her hate for him had been a talisman, a way to keep the impact   of his powerful presence on her at bay. The bitterness she'd held for   weeks was securely anchored inside her, protecting her emotions from   further hurt.

Those emotions were still there, weren't they? The hate and bitterness. The hurt.

No, her heart murmured. No.

She frowned down at the brightly colored towel covering her lounge   chair. She couldn't be thinking of forgiving the man. Of actually liking   him.

Impossible.         

     



 

"Lara." His sleepy rumble stroked across her skin, melting her muscles into mush.

She was in trouble. She hadn't realized it until now.

She was in real trouble.

"Bella. Look at me."

Pinning a slight smile on her face, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He sighed and turned over on his side. "My experience with women-"

"A bride doesn't like to be reminded of the women who came before her." A   ripple of distress reverberated through her. The thought of Dante with   another woman was surprisingly painful. She kicked the thoughts aside   and widened her smile.

He grimaced. "I didn't mean-"

"Though I suppose I can't complain." She gazed past him to the ocean.   "After all, I'm reaping the benefits of your vast experience in the   bedroom."

"Look at me." His tone was stark.

Her pride demanded she look straight at him.

His obsidian eyes brooded, his mouth slanted down. "I have had other women."

"I'm sure."

"However, not as many as you seem to think," he continued. "I am not a playboy."

She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and closed her eyes. Leaning back   in her chair, she tried for a nonchalant manner. Why should she care  how  many women he'd been with? It wasn't as if it mattered to her in  the  least.

Her husband groaned, male frustration pulsing beneath. Opening one eye,   she saw him swing his legs over the side of the lounge to sit facing   her. The flex of his muscles took her breath. She immediately closed the   one eye to blank out the temptation.