Grimly he stripped off his robe and joined her. In silence he drew her into the curve of his body. She settled as she always did, but he could feel the guard she had placed on herself that was stopping her from melting against him.
The urge to say something got the better of him, even at the risk of causing yet another scene. ‘I don’t like to fight with you,’ he admitted as he nuzzled his lips into the scented flow of her hair.
‘I know,’ she replied. And she did, he realised. He found it rather disturbing to have to admit that she knew him a whole lot better than he actually knew her. ‘But this changes nothing, Marco,’ she obviously felt compelled to add.
Was she talking about leaving him? On that dark thought, one of his hands found her breast, one of his legs hooked over hers to keep her close, with the curve of her lower body nestling into the cradle of his hips. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said on a heavy sigh, while willing himself not to challenge that final statement and just take his own advice and go to sleep.
It was a crazy idea. You didn’t sleep when you’d both been through the emotional mill as they had tonight. You didn’t sleep when it was all still churning round in your head.
And you didn’t sleep when the woman in your arms was implying that she intended to leave you.
What you did was move closer to that same woman. You let your hand increase its pressure on what it was holding. You buried your face in the sweet scent of her hair.
Beneath his palm he felt the tightening of her nipple, lower down, his own natural response caused the muscles in her body to flex sensually. He allowed his thumb to replace his palm and began a slow circling of that pretty rosebud tip. Her pulse began to quicken, her breathing altered pace. On a muffled groan he nuzzled deeper into silken tresses until he found her nape.
Her response was to twist around until she was facing him. Their eyes met. He knew what his were saying, but hers were still trying to fight it.
‘You don’t play fair!’ she protested.
‘Grazie,’ he replied, as if she had just paid him a great compliment, and claimed her mouth with a kiss aimed to kill any kind of argument.
What followed was an in-depth demonstration as to why what they had was too special to throw away. It was hot and it was good, and as his body hardened with masculine arousal hers began to soften to a sensual pliancy that invited any intimacy.
She was beautiful. He adored her. No other woman had ever made him feel this deeply. He kissed every sweet sensational inch of her until she gave up trying to hate what he was doing and, on a helpless sigh, began to join in. What she found she couldn’t reach with her mouth, she touched with tender knowing fingers. By the time he took final possession she was his entirely; there was no doubt about it. He watched her build towards her climax, he watched her reach and tumble into it, and he held her there. With gritted teeth and burning loins he held her, held her in magical suspension for as long as he could possibly manage it. Only when she eventually opened her eyes to look at him in dazed astonishment did he surrender and give her back what she had just given him.
Himself. He gave himself.
It really was the perfect moment to glide past everything that had gone before it and just be content to drift into sleep on the soft cloud of knowledge that neither of them was going to throw this away.
Lying there, with her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand covering the steady beat of his heart, escape into sleep was certainly all that Antonia wanted to do.
But Marco didn’t agree. He was basking in self-confidence again, and that set his brain working. ‘Tell me what Anton Gabrielli is to you,’ he said, and very effectively shattered the peace.
‘You just can’t stop yourself, can you?’ she snapped, pulling away from him to sit up with a sigh.
‘I don’t like mysteries,’ he explained. ‘And you knew the man, cara, no matter what you try to say.’
Knew him? A short laugh accompanied the weary shake of her head. Well, she mused bleakly, did she tell him and get it over with, or was this one secret better kept to herself? ‘My mother was his mistress years ago.’ She went for the compromise with part of the truth. ‘He set her up in an apartment in Naples, visited her regularly, and took her out with his friends. He adored her on the face of it—but forgot to tell her he was married. When she found out, she left him.’ That seemed the simplest way of saying it.
‘You were around to witness this?’ Quiet though it was, huskily gentle though it was, Antonia knew what he was thinking.
Learn by example.
‘Yes, I was around,’ she answered, while her fingers plucked at pale blue sheeting. Then, with a toss of her head, she made herself look at him. ‘So you see, it was just another case of mistaken identity,’ she explained bitterly.