Bestselling Authors Collection 2012(82)
“Easy now,” came his steadying voice. “You’re safe. He can’t get to you.”
His mouth drifted across the top of her head in the lightest of caresses. Reassuring. Passionless. Compassionate. Although she appreciated the reassurance and compassion, she didn’t want passionless. She wanted to feel something other than fear. She curled tight against his bare chest. His warmth surrounded her, easing her bone-deep chill, while the calm, steady beat of his heart soothed her.
“Nightmare,” she explained through chattering teeth. “Bad.”
“I gathered.” She thought he might have feathered another kiss across the top of her head, though she couldn’t be certain. But it gave her hope. “It’s not real,” he soothed.
“I know. At least, part of me knows. The other part—”
She broke off with a shrug. Unable to help herself she pressed closer, sliding her arms around his waist and clinging. To her relief, he didn’t push her away, though she sensed a serious internal debate raging. Not that she cared. She was scared and alone, and tired of being both. It wasn’t a case of “any port in a storm.” She needed Constantine. Only Constantine.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
He swore in Italian, a soft, intently masculine comment that under other circumstances would have made her laugh. “Gianna, this is dangerous.”
“I’m not asking you to make love to me.”
“I may not be able to help myself.”
“You’re not David.”
He stiffened. “No, I’m definitely not d’Angelo. But I’m still a man. You’re vulnerable right now. It’s late and I’m tired. And you’re not wearing many clothes. For that matter, neither am I.” He adopted a reasonable tone. “Admit it, Gianna. Given our reaction to each other, it’s a volatile combination.”
True. That didn’t change anything. “I swear I won’t take advantage of you.” To her relief, he released a snort of laughter. “But right now I need someone to hold me.”
He sighed. “I should have taken you to your parents.”
“Probably,” she conceded. “Since you didn’t, you’re stuck with me.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. Lie down.”
She did as he requested. To her surprise, he jerked the covers up to her chin so she was completely cocooned, then slid an arm around her while he remained on top of the sheet and blanket.
“Seriously?” she asked.
“Seriously.” The metaphorical—or maybe not so metaphorical—immovable object. “Now go to sleep. It’ll be daylight in another few hours.”
“Would you do one more thing for me?”
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“No.” She leaned into him, doing her best to be an irresistible force. In her case, definitely not a metaphorical one. “Would you kiss me good-night?”
“You are determined to test the limits of my self-control.” He spoke in Italian, a dead giveaway.
“Would you rather David was the last man to have kissed me?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Absolutely. Totally. The. Wrong. Thing.
The soft light from the bedside table cut across the rigid lines of his face, striking off the hard planes and sinking into the harsh angles. He gazed down at her, his eyes black crystals of barely suppressed emotion, anger in the foreground, hot desire glittering behind. He said something else in Italian, the words fighting each other. Biting words that came too fast for her to catch. Not that she needed to understand each and every word. The underlying message came through loud and clear.
Constantine wasn’t a man to taunt.
He moved so fast she never saw it coming, stripping away the covers and baring her to his gaze. He took his time, looking his fill. The cotton shift she wore provided next to no protection, the fabric so sheer it revealed more than it concealed, hugging her feminine curves and misting his view just enough to make it all the more enticing.
He took his time, studying the generous curve of her breasts, the nipples tight coral peaks thrusting against the cotton and betraying the extent of her hunger. He noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not? His gaze wandered lower, across her belly which quivered in reaction. Lower still. To the soft brown shadow at the apex of her thighs.
He lifted his hand and for a split second she thought he’d touch her. That he’d rip off her nightshift the way he’d ripped off her gown in the gas station parking lot. Her breath caught and held, waiting for that touch. It never came. Instead his hand hovered a scant inch above her, before following the same path as his gaze. He splayed his fingers, heat pouring from his palm and burning through her shift. Not once did he touch her, though her body reacted as though he had.