“So are you,” she allowed, moving in a way that was absolute joy, hips undulating instinctively. Irrepressibly. “I missed this, caro,” she confessed in an unrestrained whisper, growing greedy. “So much. And I want you to—” Her voice caught as climax rose hot and fast. “Oh, Sandro,” she breathed.
“Yes,” he growled. “Let it happen.” He lifted beneath her, maintaining the surging rhythm, driving her over the edge. She arched her back, not caring that he watched as her breasts flushed and trembled and she shuddered atop him, sobs of ecstasy escaping her parted lips.
Her cries died away and her bones dissolved.
“Come here,” he commanded. His hand slid up to curl around her neck and bring her down, then tangled in her hair as they kissed deeply, bodies moving in gentle adjustment. “Your hair,” he muttered, burying his nose in a handful of it as it fell across his face.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, I adore it. I want to feel it all over me. I want you like this, naked and hot around me, all the damned time. I missed this, too,” he said fiercely.
“You were supposed to come with me,” she pouted. Damn his control. She tested the sandpapery roughness of his cheek with her fingertips, unable to be truly disappointed when she felt this good and he was still hard inside her, promising another release just like the first.
With a little purr of adulation, she blanketed herself over him and took possession of his throat with openmouthed kisses.
“Make love to me again. Take me with you this time.” His hand shook as he smoothed her hair back from the side of her face so he could look into her eyes.
She felt sultry and seductive and powerful as she sat up. She was used to the stretch inside her now and began to move without restraint, wantonly, determined to unravel his willpower one rock of her hips at a time. Her skin dampened, his teeth bared, the pleasure climbed and she felt as though she was drowning in the tropical sea of his eyes.
“Now,” she told him as the waves of expansion washed up from where they were locked together. Her mouth opened in a silent scream and he pressed her hard onto his hips, thrusting up to her, releasing ragged cries of abject pleasure.
This time when she sank down to let her breasts flatten against his chest, he twisted her beneath him, withdrawing carefully before aligning her half under him, his breath still coming in pants against her cheek.
She nuzzled the prickling stubble on his chin and bit at his lips with her own.
“Mia bella moglie,” he breathed, snuggling her naked body to his own. “That was perfect. Utterly perfect.”
Not quite. He was still too contained, but they were closer than they’d been.
CHAPTER NINE
SANDRO COULDN’T RECALL having spent any real time with Octavia’s parents. His dealings with her father, Mario Benevento, had left him with an impression of a shrewd businessman. They’d hammered out the marriage contracts as objectively as any other business deal would be negotiated.
As for her mother, Trista, he recalled her coming to dinner with Mario at the castello only the once. Sandro’s mother and grandfather had been there with Giacomo and his wife. Primo had been there, too, along with a handful of others. If Trista had said more than a few words, he couldn’t recall what they were.
He’d spoken to his in-laws at the wedding, of course, even danced with his mother-in-law. Once he and Octavia settled into the town house, he recalled mentioning that they should have her parents to dinner. Octavia had said something about asking when they might be available.
They must not have been, Sandro now realized, because he had never sat at a table with just the two of them. He would have remembered an evening this painful.
It didn’t help that his respect for Mario had fallen into the gutter weeks ago, after Octavia had opened up and called the man a cheat, then plummeted further when she confided they’d forced her to end a friendship. Sandro had already thought Mario a chauvinist, but he now saw the man was an outright sexist without any sensitivity genes at all. He monopolized the conversation with politics and business, not asking his daughter how she was recovering from Lorenzo’s birth and not giving his wife opportunities to address personal topics, either. He loved his wine and had taken little notice of his grandson.
Thankfully dinner was almost over. Dessert had arrived. The baked half pear was stuffed with walnuts and honey. A ball of gelato next to it held a sprig of mint. All the food had been excellent. Sandro might have enjoyed himself if it had just been a date with his wife, but he had to tolerate this.
“Did you bring a copy of the DNA report? I want one for my files before we officiate the hand off,” Mario said as the summary of his latest and greatest executive decisions came to an end.