The Truth About De Campo(47)
She trembled in his arms. Dug her nails into his shoulders. He pushed her back, held her hair away from her face so he could see her. “You are the most beautiful, responsive woman I have ever had,” he said huskily. “Never ever doubt your ability to feel, Quinn.”
Her chin quivered, her fingers curling around his shoulders in a fierce grip that telegraphed her struggle. Then she brought her mouth to his and kissed him blindly. Soulfully. Until their union was taken to another level completely.
He dug his hands into her hips and lifted her. Brought her back down on him in a rhythm so slow and deliriously good he closed his eyes and savored it. The sound of them filled the air, the raw push and pull of their bodies heart-stoppingly erotic. Quinn buried her head in his shoulder and whispered encouragement. Faster. Harder.
Her body tightened around him. Brought him torturously close to the boiling point. She begged him to make her come, needed his guidance. And he did, pulling her hips hard against him, placing a hand against her bottom and grinding them together. “Like that,” he told her. “Use me.”
She leaned forward and rubbed her flesh against him with every stroke. His body tightened, ready to explode, and he cursed and told himself to hang on. Hold on for ten more seconds so that she could get there. Be with him.
Her soft cry shattered the air. She shook wildly beneath his hands as the orgasm tore through her and caused his. He arched his hips and let loose a guttural, primal grunt of satisfaction that might have traveled to Pluto it rocked him so furiously. They stayed like that, aftershocks ricocheting through their bodies, until he picked her up and carried her to the shower. Sensuously, reverently, he washed her beautiful body all over until he couldn’t help but want her again and took her against the wall.
It occurred to him he might never stop wanting her.
CHAPTER TEN
ON THE LAST LEG of what seemed like an impossible journey to reopen Le Belle Bleu, things were finally falling into place. The night before the reopening, Quinn could almost see the light, although she wouldn’t dare say it aloud for fear some other disastrous calamity might occur. But she was smiling for the first time in a week.
Optimistic enough that she had agreed to a stir-crazy Matteo’s plan to take an hour’s break to go for roti at the shack on the beach, legendary with the locals for its version of the piquant Caribbean specialty.
They both needed a break. Needed to let off some steam. A walk on the beach might do it. She pulled on shorts and a T-shirt in the bedroom she and Matteo were sharing in the suite at Le Belle Bleu in the hectic lead up to the relaunch, his clothes left in the other bedroom for optics, and pulled her hair into a ponytail as he showered. She hummed to herself while she slicked on some lip gloss, the glimmer of Matteo’s sleek gold watch catching her eye on the dresser. She picked it up and tested the weight in her palm. It was an exquisite timepiece with diamonds marking the hours and an understatedly elegant black pearlescent background. A collector’s edition, likely.
She turned it over to examine the back. Saw there was a finely drawn inscription laced across the matte gold surface. It was in Italian. And although she knew she shouldn’t do it, that it was private to Matteo, she sat down and typed it into her computer to translate.
You meant everything to my son. Take him with you always. Affonso.
Her heart stuttered in her chest. The watch was Giancarlo’s.
She replaced it on the dresser. Stood looking at it. Matteo’s darkness had receded since that night at Paradis, but it still had him in its grip. She saw it in those unguarded moments, when his mask slipped and the haunted look returned. As if it never really went away.
She frowned. He called her a closed book. If she was a closed book, then he was a buried story. Pretending to be open to the world when he was anything but.
The sun was setting as they walked along the beach to the restaurant, if you could call the ten-foot-by-ten-foot brightly painted slatted wooden structure that. She kept the conversation light while they shared their rotis on the sand in front of the rolling waves, a cold beer beside each of them.
Matteo lifted his beer to his mouth and took a long swallow. “Have you heard from Warren yet?”
She shook her head. “I rarely hear from him while he’s in Asia with the time difference. He may not get back to me until he returns to Chicago.”
“He needs to know,” Matteo said sharply.
“And he will.” She slid him a sideways look. She didn’t understand why he seemed so anxious about her telling Warren and the board about them. It was she who should be stressed. It was she that was severely curtailing her career with this decision. Her father and the board would ultimately make the right choice. The fair choice.