Mistress By Blackmail(63)

Before she could think or feel or move, he was upon her. Tugging her into his wet, hot arms. Plastering her along his damp clothes, his heated body. She lifted her head to complain or yell or cry, but before she could utter a sound his mouth slammed down on hers.

He spoke to her without words.

His lips took hers in a passionate call, a masculine supplication to her female powers. His tongue lanced into her like a sword of male need.

“Stop.” She pushed the word out, trying to remember all the hateful things he’d spoken only minutes ago.

“I can’t.” His big body shuddered against hers. “I can’t.”

The anguish in his voice made her lift her hands to his face. She tugged his searching mouth away so she could look into his eyes.

Smoke swirled around pure agony. “Please,” he choked. “Please, Darcy.”

All her determination to hold onto her pain and hold him apart from her vanished. How could she keep her love under wraps when this man needed it? How could she tell him stop, tell him to go? How could she not throw herself into his arms and pray that in some way they could make this work?

She couldn’t.

Her hands wrapped around his neck, caressing him with her unwanted love. She leaned in, letting her tongue dance with his, accepting his need and answering it with her own.

A low groan came from the depths of him.

Lifting her into his arms, he paced out of the room, down the hall. All the while his mouth devoured hers with driving lust. Within seconds, their clothes were on the floor of his bedroom and they were on his bed.

Heat poured from his body as he lifted himself over her. With one thrust, he took her and claimed her. He filled her with himself and filled her with joy. He wanted her. Even after he’d said no, told her he wasn’t going to.

He couldn’t help himself. Just as she couldn’t help loving him.

This time she was determined to be the lover he needed and deserved rather than lying beneath him stunned and overcome. This time she was going to be a full participant and leave him wanting more and more of her. Only her.

He’d given her a second chance. She wasn’t going to waste it.

“Carita,” he rasped as he thrust once more. His gaze was filled with a silver desire and something else. Wasn’t there something else? Or were her dreams getting in the way of reality?

“Toccarmi.”

His accent rolled around the word, making it sexy and seductive. She remembered the word. Knew what he wanted. Her hands slid down his sides, stroking his heated skin. His muscles bunched at her touch. His hands pushed him up, arching over her, displaying the width of his shoulders, the delineation of the muscles of his stomach.

He was all male magnificence and he was hers.

His virile splendor built her desire to take him, pull him into a need so great he would never reject her again. Her fingers danced across his chest and slid down to his abdomen.

“Dio.” His big body shuddered. He threw his head back as he thrust into her warm, willing core.

Remembering, she slipped her legs over his hips, lifting herself into him. Her hands whispered across his back and down over his surging buttocks.

A string of Italian words poured from him. The music of his native tongue husked a magic that spoke to her heart. She didn’t need to understand with her mind. She knew in her soul.

This was a joining for both of them. A coming together that wasn’t about lust—it was about spirit.

He looked down and met her eyes.

And told her everything she needed to know without words.



* * *



The sun shone bright and warm, yet the air was crisp and cold. Darcy didn’t mind. She was bundled into a nice new coat Marc had brought her the night before. Insisting she needed more clothes. She didn’t. Still, she appreciated the gift because of how he’d gazed at her as she opened the package.

With love. Surely it was love in those smoky eyes.

She held on tight to her hope. The hope she’d secretly nurtured these last five days. His passionate loving every night fed the hope. The gifts of flowers and chocolate and clothes he continued to give her every evening sprinkled more hope in her heart. The way he watched her when he came home nourished the hope even more.

Home.

The word trembled inside her. She’d begun to dream. She dreamed as she cooked him another dinner. Dreamed of the changes she wanted to make to his penthouse. Dreamed of a life with Marc filled with laughter and love.

She stepped onto the sidewalk of Bayswater Road and browsed an assortment of watercolors and oils as she chatted with the artist. The wind picked up, whisking the last of the autumn leaves around her boots.

A shiver ran down her spine.

They hadn’t talked about his past or her fears. No final confrontation about Matt or blackmail or what they felt for each other. They’d both avoided the issues bubbling between them and instead had settled into a fragile peace. But every minute they spent together, the fragile peace was building a bridge between them.