Fire Bound (Sea Haven Sisters)(51)

“I don’t think I can stop moving,” she confessed, panting, biting her lip, trying to still her body at the command in his voice.

He loved that about her. She tried to do what he asked, no matter how difficult, and staying still was difficult. He smoothed his hand over her bottom, those luscious curves he found so intriguing, taking a breath, wanting to live right where he was. He moved then. Slow. Withdrawing. All the way, almost losing contact. Her eyes widened and her ankles locked tighter, as if she could hold him to her.



He surged forward with a hard, fast stroke, driving through her tight folds so that the friction was nearly unbearable. Fire streaked through his body. She cried out, clutching at him, sliding her hands down to his hips to grasp him, to try to urge him to keep going. He withdrew again, even slower this time and, eyes on her face, he began a slow, steady assault on her nerve endings. Driving in slow, retreating even slower, allowing her fire to surround him, to grip and milk.

“Casimir.” She wailed his name.



He kept the slow, steady buildup, keeping the friction right over her sweet little button, just enough to drive her wild, not send her careening over the edge. It cost him. Sweat beaded on his body. His blood thundered in his ears and roared through his veins. All the while he moved in her, loving her, he felt the assault on his own body, the power gathering like the force of a volcano rumbling, waiting, holding off for the bigger explosion. Arousal was so intense it was painful, arcing through his thighs, boiling in his balls, jackhammers drilling into his skull, and yet all of that only added to the pleasure burning through him.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. Fingernails bit deep. She went over the edge hard and fast, so unexpected, with such force, she swept him along in the wildfire. He plunged into her, several hard strokes while the flames burned over them, consuming both of them, and her cries reverberated in his mind.



He collapsed over top of her, pinning her small body beneath his, letting her take his full weight while he buried his face in her neck, his heart pounding wildly, his lungs raw and aching, his entire body sated. Aftershocks shook them both, her body still alive, rippling around his.

He lay there for far longer than he should have, letting his heart pound, absorbing the feel of her under him. Savoring it. She didn’t protest or attempt to push him off. She kissed his temple and rubbed her hands along his back.



“Ya lyublyu tebya,” he whispered, meaning it. He shifted his weight off of her, but stayed buried in her, his hands framing her face. “Do you understand, Giacinta? Did you hear what my body said to yours?”



She traced his lower lip with the pad of her finger. “I heard you, Casimir. I feel the same way. Thank you. I needed you tonight and I should have known you’d be here for me.”



He rolled, taking her with him so that she sprawled over top of him. Grasping the covers, he pulled them over both of them. “Go back to sleep, golubushka. I’ll wake you before you have to get back to your own room.”



She laid her head over his heart, her hands moving up and down his shoulder and biceps as she drifted off to sleep, knowing he would watch over her.





8



Patrice Lungren sat on the hard seat of the old bus and smiled at the little boy across from her. His mother gave her a quick grin in return. Patrice knew exactly what the woman saw, she’d assumed her role perfectly.

Patrice was short and very slender, almost a stick. She wore flattering trousers and a silk blouse with a short, flared jacket, very classy. Her black hair was glossy and hung just to her shoulders in a very sophisticated cut. Her eyebrows were dark and when she removed her very expensive dark glasses, her eyes and lashes were as well. She had a beauty mark just to the right of her lips. Her boots were expensive, soft leather, the color matching the dark red of her jacket.



“He’s beautiful,” Patrice said. When the woman shook her head, she repeated the observation in halting Italian.



The woman beamed at her. “Grazie. Thank you.” She tried her own English. Clearly she spoke it but had been afraid to try it out with an American. She indicated Patrice’s camera. “Pictures?”



Patrice nodded. “Shops. Homes. The ocean and countryside. Everything.” She smiled wide. “I love it here. I come as often as I can to visit. I took a cooking class in the village just a few miles away and it was wonderful.” Patrice Lungren, had, in fact, taken that cooking class.

“You like to travel?” The young mother now seemed determined to practice her English.



“I love it,” Patrice admitted. “Fortunately, I’m in a position to indulge my love of traveling and I do it often. Italy is my favorite, but I travel all over. I just find myself coming back here over and over. Someday, I’d like to live here permanently.”