Bound by the Italian's Contract(68)

                They dined on a medley of vegetables, cheese and crusty breads reminiscent of Austria, and he placed their entrées along with another bottle of wine.

                “This is fabulous,” she said, scooping a generous portion of parmesano polenta dressed with wild mushrooms, sausage and tomatoes onto crusty bread.

                She held it out, tempting him to lean close, to take it from her fingers.

                And he did. Slowly. Ending with a swish of his tongue over pale skin that tasted sweet. “Delicious,” he said.

                Her tongue flicked over her lush lips; then she leaned forward, her grin challenging, her eyes sparkling with devilment. “My turn.”

                That remark crumbled any remaining awkwardness lingering between them. They ate. They drank. They flirted outrageously.

                When the generous plate of carpaccio of beef and greens arrived, they laughed and ate and drank and let go, enjoying the moment. Laughter grew softer as did the few words spoken. And through it all the wine flowed.

                “What is your dream?” he asked her when the plates were cleared and the dessert they would barely touch had been ordered.

                She smiled and laughed, but the exuberance was gone. “Part of me will always long for a home and family. Normalcy. But with my career—” She shook her head, her laugh far too brief. “You were my dream, Luciano. Nothing will ever compare so I will never try. But would I anyway? You’ve made sure my career is set. I can’t complain. Ever.”

                But did she want to? “You humble me when I don’t deserve it.”

                “But you do.” She looked away, pensive. “We come from different lives. Different wants and dreams. We end when the job ends because we must.”

                “Yes,” he said, nodding yet unsettled she’d grasped what was obvious so easily. “You’re right. It is the only way. So let’s make the most of this night.”

                “I couldn’t agree more.”

                The decadent dessert was left, as was an uncorked and untried bottle of wine. Luciano clasped her to his side and ushered her to the limo, pulling her into his arms.

                “That was so good, so good,” she said, lifting her face to his, her fingers tracing long, lazy figure eights on his back.

                In what seemed a blip in time, they reached his lodge. “We’ll take the back elevator up to my suite,” he said, guiding her into the lift.

                “You’re just full of surprises,” she said, pulling away from him and stepping back from the glass enclosure that offered a bird’s-eye view of the lodge and the Alps.

                He laughed. “It is one-way glass, bella. Come,” he said when the doors whispered open.

                In a moment, they were secluded in his suite. He pulled her into his arms, backing her into his bedroom, ravenous to taste her, to get drunk from her kisses.

                His lips found hers in a melding of lips and tongues that was pure carnal abandonment. Hands joined in, lifting her onto his massive bed and following her down, fingers sneaking beneath the constraints of clothes, finding flesh that was hot and wet and wanting.

                “Yes,” she breathed when his forefinger skimmed the heat of her core while his thumb found her pleasure point.

                “Oh, God,” she moaned, arching her back, shivering with desire.