Her other hand slid down his thigh, the muscles there hard and powerful to a point. And then...she stilled, frowning as her fingers recognized the change in skin and the uneven shape. A scar, and a very deep one, she suspected.
“Enough playing,” he said, dragging her exploring hand to his chest.
His fingers found her core, stroking, teasing, and the questions that had ballooned to her mind popped. Each stroke strummed a lover’s song that whispered around them like silken ribbons, the melody intoxicating to her senses.
She’d dreamed of being loved like this for years, not believing it could ever come true. That sex with a man could only be better if she imagined it.
Now she knew that wasn’t true. Now that Luciano was literally in the palm of her hands, she would savor this forever. Her timidity and hard-learned caution diminished as desire and awareness of her own sensuality increased.
There was power in sex. Power in her own needs. Power in satisfying his as well.
She would deal with the consequences of embarking on an affair tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever they returned to the real world. For now she just wanted to savor the pleasure.
* * *
Luc lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The lull of her even breathing and relaxed body tempted him to sleep as well. Yet old demons chose now to haunt him and remind him how close he’d come again to letting tender emotions blind him.
He was right there on the edge, enjoying this special moment with Caprice, wanting to believe she was nearly innocent. But how could he? Was it possible for a vibrant, passionate woman to have had experienced sex once yet satisfy a man of his experience?
His heart said yes but his cynical mind warned something was off, that she was not being straight with him.
He’d learned to distrust women from the best.
Isabella had been a very convincing liar. She’d said all the right words and done all the right things. His charming, deceitful wife had had great fun with the lofty position marriage to him had afforded her and had enjoyed spending his money on her every whim.
She’d relished using him.
Tension tightened his muscles and glazed his heart in ice, for he’d never denied her anything.
Isabella had been the supreme actress, sleeping in his bed and his arms every night. Professing her love.
A damned lie. She’d sneaked away during the day to be with her lover.
The hell of it was he hadn’t known, hadn’t suspected. Perhaps he never would have if he hadn’t spontaneously decided to fly to London and surprise her there during one of her solo shopping trips.
That was the end of his marriage. Divorce was the expected outcome, and she hadn’t fought it, seeking only a fat settlement.
Looking back on it now, he wondered if he should have gone through his life loving her, loving any children produced of their marriage. If he could have found contentment, she would be alive today. But he’d sent her away. Shamed. Scorned.
And she’d died in a horrible auto accident.
Guilt was a horrible thing to bear. His wife’s death. His brother’s crippling accident. Both could be laid at his door.
Those events had changed him. Hardened him.