Mistress By Blackmail(84)

Marc stood in the kitchen doorway, his hair mussed, a slight smile on his face. An old pair of jeans hugged his lean hips, a grey T-shirt lay on his broad shoulders. Long, elegant bare feet caught her eye.

My, my. She was a total goner for this guy. She even lusted after his feet.

“I always like to see my woman smile when she sees me.” He slouched on the doorframe and slid his hands in his pockets. But his gaze held wicked, intent promises.

Darcy chuckled. Trying to shake off the haze of lust, she scooped the cut peppers into a bowl and dumped them into the stew. She felt him approach; her skin tightened in response, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose as if asking for his touch.

“Smells good.” One long arm encircled her belly, as he dipped his head and nuzzled her. “I can’t decide what smells better. You. Or the stew.”

A shiver of need went down her spine. His warmth surrounded her. As well as his love. She knew it now to the bottom of her soul. She was loved and cherished.

“You have a flair for cooking, carita.” His lips formed the words on her skin.

“And other things.” He wasn’t the only one who could tease. She purposefully moved her hips, rubbing herself on him like a cat.

A groan rumbled low in his throat.

She smiled in feline satisfaction.

“I think you need to take a break from cooking.” Both of his arms came around her and pressed her tight to him. “Your husband is suddenly in desperate straits.”

“Really?” She moved her hips once more. “What’s wrong with him?”

Long fingers moved across her breasts to tweak her nipples through the simple shirt she wore. “Mmm.” Satisfaction radiated in his voice. “You’re so responsive.”

Gasping, she dropped her head back onto his chest. “That’s nice—”

“There’s more to come.” With one decisive move, he leaned over and turned off the stove. Sweeping her into his arms, he grinned at her. “I’ll show you.”

He paced out of the small kitchen and down the hallway to the one bedroom in their small cottage. The home he’d given to her on their marriage day. High in the Tuscan hills, it had become their hideout. During the first year of their marriage, they’d spent almost six full months here.

Marc had been true to his word, shifting a good part of his workload onto others. Now, more often than not, he worked from home. While she painted in one room, she could listen to his accented voice on the phone or his muttering as he worked on his computer. Whether it was in this idyllic cottage or in the redecorated London penthouse, she had his company day and night.

He’d learned. How to put his mobile down. How to trust her words.

How to love.

So, in the year she’d been his wife, Darcy had let her heart fall completely and utterly into Marcus La Rocca’s capable and willing hands.

Where she would be safe forever.

Her baby would be safe too.

Her gift to him. Her gift of trust.

The cast-iron bed stood prominently by the room’s terrace doors. At night, after making love, she often opened the doors, letting the soft sounds and smells of the Italian countryside wash across their naked bodies as they lay together, kissing and touching. The golden yellow quilt was one she cherished, for it had been a wedding gift from Matteo and his lovely Viola.

Matt, who now worked with Marc in the family business.

Her husband smiled at her, as he slowly lowered them both onto the silk cover. His eyes were misty with love and lust. “Baciami.”

She no longer needed him to translate. She knew exactly what he wanted. Drawing him down, she nibbled on his mouth, let her tongue slide across his teeth. He answered with his own taste of her essence. Within seconds, the kiss turned to hot passion mixed with infinite love.

A short laugh escaped him as he pushed himself back. “You destroy me so easily.”

“And you me,” she murmured, hearing the pulse of love in her words.

When he’d broached the subject of children shortly after their marriage, she’d seen the gleam of his intent in those eyes of his. He thought if he got her pregnant, she’d stay forever. They’d still been circling each other then: she fearful of his ability to heal, he scared of what he felt for her.

So she’d told him No.

At the expression on his face, she’d added, Not until I know for sure.

Sure that he’d change. Sure that he’d believe. Sure that he’d continue to love.

The rejection had almost destroyed the fragile peace between them. He’d been hurt, angry, and said so. Still, she’d held firm. She would never bring a child into anything but a strong, sure, safe love.

His hands now made quick work of their clothes and before long, he stood naked by the side of the bed, gazing at her. “Toccarmi,” he husked.