The Truth About De Campo(33)

His olive skin took on a ruddy hue as she sank to the floor in front of him, his gray eyes darkening to a sultry, mesmerizing slate. “This could have been another of my fantasies,” he muttered as she lowered her mouth to the taut muscle just above the band of his briefs. Dragged her lips across the elastic band. “I’m going to give you the thumbs-up on that,” he encouraged hoarsely, his big body stiffening beneath her, “but ask that you pick up the pace.”

She slid her fingers into his boxers and sought him out. He was velvet soft over hard steel, so very masculine her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to learn this part of him too. To worship him as he’d worshipped her. To make him feel as desirable as she had.

She moved her hands over him, stroked him, explored him until he arched his hips toward her, his eyes tortured.

“Dammit, Quinn—more.”

She lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Heard his guttural growl of approval. It was heady, empowering to be in control when she had never been in the past. Slowly at first, then faster she took him until he was covered in perspiration, until he was shaking beneath her, as out of control as she’d been. Until he couldn’t be thinking about anything but what she was doing to him—just as she had. And the demons were banished.

Then she didn’t hold back. His breathing fractured. His hands reached for her, tangled in her hair. “I want you with me.”

Her stomach twisted, too many memories, too many humiliations filling her head. She pushed his hands away and took him deeper in her mouth. Increased her rhythm. His low curse filled the air. His hips jerked into her hands, his big body ready to explode.

“Maledizione, Quinn.”

She lifted her head and watched as he caught himself with his hands and came with an explosive force that made her heart pound like a jackhammer.

Primal, erotic, beautiful. She was spellbound.

The room was silent except for the harsh force of his breathing. The weight of his gaze sat on her. Probing.

“I need to clean up,” he muttered, rolling to his feet. “Do not move.”

He came back in another pair of black boxers and drew her into his arms on the sofa. Set his lips to her hair. “When I said I wanted you to knock me senseless I didn’t expect you to take it literally.”

She laid her head against his chest. “I wanted it that way.”

“I have condoms, you know.”

“It wasn’t about that.”

He sighed. “You don’t want to talk about it.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. For the first time in so long, she felt at peace. As if there wasn’t a fractured part of her ready to disintegrate at any moment. She wanted to hold on to it. Savor it. Because it couldn’t last. This had been one night. One night to get Matteo through the fire and one night to make her feel whole again. That’s all it could be.

Minutes, hours passed. When she woke, Matteo’s chest was moving slowly up and down beneath her cheek. The sky outside was pitch-dark, not a sound in the air.

She eased herself off him, looked down at his beautiful, hard-edged face. Shadows were painted beneath his eyes, making her wonder when the last time he’d slept well had been. But his jaw was relaxed, his body slack. He was peaceful now and she thought he would sleep for a long time.

Quinn walked silently to the piano, picked up her underwear and made herself walk out the door.



Matteo woke to flickering shadows. He blinked and sat up. Struggled to get his bearings. He was alone, the suite dark, the sky over the volcanoes just beginning to lighten.

Quinn’s perfume lingered in the air. Her taste, her smell was all over him. Pieces of the night before stormed back, came together like puzzle parts. His near desperation. His struggle to rid himself of it at the piano. Quinn’s appearance. The mind-blowing intimacies they’d shared...

The fact that he’d broken the one promise he’d made to his brother...

His stomach lurched. Yes, Quinn had needed this as much as he did; she’d had her own demons to slay. But it still didn’t make it right. Nothing made it right.

A sheen of perspiration covered his body. Drove him to the fridge for water. He snatched out a bottle, twisted off the cap and tipped it into his mouth, the icy liquid chilling his throat like the most horrific of wake-up calls. He had slept with Quinn Davis. It would be impossible for him to believe he’d done it if she wasn’t all over him. If the image of it wasn’t so graphically implanted on his brain.

One night, she’d said. This has nothing to do with the deal.... Yet wasn’t that exactly what Angelique Fontaine had promised just before she had destroyed him crying out her sorrows to her father?