Читать книгу Modern Romance November 2016 Books 1-4 - Линн Грэхем, Cathy Williams - Страница 22

CHAPTER TWELVE

DANTE’S EYES WERE shards of blue so cold that Willow could feel her skin freezing beneath that icy gaze. ‘You don’t love me?’ he repeated slowly.

Willow nodded, hanging on to her composure only by a shred. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

She began to babble, as if adding speed to her words would somehow add conviction. ‘It was just a part we were both playing for the sake of your grandfather,’ she said. ‘You know it was. It was the sex which made it start to seem real. Amazing and beautiful sex—although I’ve got nothing to compare it to, of course. But I’m guessing from your reaction that it was pretty special, and I guess that’s what made us get carried away.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Made me get carried away, you mean?’

Keep going, she told herself. Not much longer now. Make him think you’re a cold hard bitch, if that helps. ‘Yes,’ she said with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I guess.’

A strange note had entered his voice and now his eyes had grown more thoughtful. ‘So it’s only ever really been about sex, is that what you’re saying, Willow? You decided early on that I was to be the man who took your virginity, and you were prepared to do pretty much anything to get that to happen, were you?’

All she had to do was agree with him and very soon it would be finished. Except that something in the way he was looking at her was making her throat grow dry. Because the softness had left his face and her breasts were beginning to prickle under that new, hard look in his eyes. Willow licked her lips. ‘That’s right.’

Dante stared at her, wondering how he could have got it so wrong. Had he been so bewitched by her proximity that he had started believing the fantasy which they’d both created? Had his reconciliation with his brother made him overly sentimental—making him want to grab at something which up until recently hadn’t even been on his agenda? Perhaps his grandfather’s illness had stirred up a primitive need inside him and he had made a bad judgement call. She didn’t want him, or his babies. She didn’t love him. She didn’t care.

A smile twisted his lips. Ironic, really. He could think of a hundred women who would fight to wear his ring for real. Just not Willow Hamilton. And just because she’d never had sex with anyone before him didn’t make her a saint, did it? He’d turned her on in a big way and it seemed he had liberated her enough to want to go out there and find her pleasure with other men. He felt a savage spear of something else which was new to him. Something he automatically despised because deep down he knew it would weaken him. Something he instinctively recognised as jealousy.

And suddenly he knew that in order to let her go, he had to have her one last time. To remind himself of how good she felt. To lick every inch of her soft, pale skin and touch every sinew of her slender body. To rid himself of this hateful need which was making his groin throb, even though he told himself he should be fighting it. But he couldn’t. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t. His sexual self-control was legendary and he had walked away from women when they’d been begging him to take them. Willow was not begging—not any more. His bitter smile returned. But pretty soon she would be.

‘Well, if it’s only ever been about sex, then maybe we ought to go out with a bang.’ He smiled as her head jerked back, her shock palpable. ‘If you’ll pardon the pun.’

Willow’s heart pounded as she looked into his eyes and saw the smoulder of intent there. She told herself that this was dangerous. Very dangerous. That she needed to get out of here before anything happened.

‘Dante,’ she whispered. But the words she’d been about to say had died on her lips because he was walking towards her with an expression on his face which was making her blood alternatively grow hot and cold. She could see the tension hardening his powerful body as he reached her. She could smell the raw scent of his arousal in the air. As he stroked a finger down over her arm, she began to shiver uncontrollably. This was wrong. It was wrong and dangerous and would lead to nowhere but pain and she knew she had to stop it. She had to. ‘Dante,’ she whispered again.

‘One for the road,’ he said in a cruel voice.

And then he kissed her in a way which shocked her almost as much as it turned her on. It was hard and it was masterful—an unashamed assertion of sexual power. It was all about technique and dominance—but there was no affection there.

So why did she kiss him back with a hunger which was escalating by the second? Why didn’t she just press her hands against that broad chest and push him away, instead of clinging on to him like some sort of limpet? He was strong enough and proud enough to accept her refusal. To just turn and walk away. They could end this strange relationship without stoking up any more emotional turmoil and then try to put the whole affair behind them.

But she couldn’t. She wanted him too much. She always had and she always would. She wanted—how had he put it?—one for the road.

Did he see the sudden softening of her body, or did her face betray her change of feelings? Was that why he reached down to her delicate silk nightdress and ripped it open so that it flapped about her in tatters? His eyes were fixed on hers and she wanted to turn her head away, but she was like a starving dog sitting outside a butcher’s shop as he swiftly bared his magnificent body and carelessly dropped his clothes to the floor.

Naked now, he was pressing her down against the mattress as he moved over her, his fingertips whispering expertly over her skin, making her writhe with hungry impatience. His big body was fiercely aroused, and even though his face looked dark and forbidding, Willow didn’t care. Because how could she care about anything when he was making her feel like this?

She shuddered as he palmed her breasts and then bent his head to lick them in turn, his breath warm against her skin as she arched against his tongue. She could feel the rough rasp of his unshaved jaw rubbing against her skin and knew that it would be reddened by the time he had finished. And when he drew his head back she almost gasped when she saw the intense look of hunger on his face, his cheekbones flushed and his blue eyes smoky.

‘Ride me,’ he said deliberately.

She wanted to say no. She wanted him to kiss her deeply and passionately, the way he usually did—but she recognised that she had forfeited that luxury by telling him she didn’t love him. All she had left was sex—and this was the very last time she would have even that. So make it raunchy, she told herself fiercely. Make him believe that this was what the whole thing had been about.

She slid out from underneath him to position herself on top, taking his moist and swollen tip and groping on the nearby bedside table for the condoms he always kept there. He had taught her to do this as he had taught her so much else, and she had worked on her condom application skills as diligently as a novice pianist practising her scales. So now she teased him with her fingertips as she slid the rubber over his erect shaft, enjoying his moan of satisfaction—even though it was breaking her heart to realise she would never hear it again. And when she took him deep inside her and began to move slowly up and down, he felt so big that she was certain he would split her in two. But he didn’t. Her body quickly adapted to him, slickly tightening around him until she saw his fingers claw desperately at the rucked sheet on which they lay.

For a while she played the part expected of her and for a while it came so easily. Her fingers were tangled in her hair and her head was thrown back in mindless ecstasy as she rode him, glad she didn’t have to stare into his beautiful face, scared that she might falter and give away her true feelings. Blurt out something stupid, and very loving. But suddenly he caught hold of her hips and levered her off him. Ignoring her murmur of protest, he laid her down flat against the mattress and moved over her again.

‘No,’ he said, his voice very intent as he made that first renewed thrust deep inside her. ‘I want to dominate you, Willow. I want to remind myself that everything you know you have learned from me. I want to watch your face as you come, and I want you to realise that never again will you feel me doing this...and this...and this...’

She cried out then, because the pleasure was so intense it was close to pain. And if the first time they’d ever made love she had begged him not to be gentle with her—not to treat her as if she was made of glass—he certainly wasn’t gentle now. It was as if he was determined to show her everything he was capable of, as he drove into her with a power which had her nails digging helplessly into his shoulders.

She almost didn’t want to come—as if her orgasm would be a sign of weakness and by holding it back she could retain some control over what was happening—but already it was too late. Her back was beginning to arch, her body spasming around him as she opened her mouth to cry out her satisfaction.

But for once he didn’t kiss the sound away and blot it into silence with his lips. Instead he just watched her as she screamed, as cold-bloodedly as a scientist might observe an experiment which was taking place in the laboratory. Only then did he give in to his own orgasm and she thought it seemed brief and almost perfunctory. He didn’t collapse against her, whispering the soft words in French or Italian which turned her on so much. He simply pumped his seed efficiently into the condom before withdrawing from her and rolling away to the other side of the bed.

Several agonisingly long minutes passed before he turned to look at her and something about the coldness of his blue gaze made her want to shiver again.

‘Time to get on that road,’ he said softly.

And he walked straight towards the bathroom without a backward glance.

Willow’s hands were trembling as she gathered up the tattered fragments of her torn nightdress and stuffed them into her suitcase, terrified that one of the staff would find them. She had composed herself a little by the time Dante emerged, freshly showered and shaved and wearing a dark and immaculate suit which made him seem even more distant than the look in his eyes suggested he was.

‘Are you...are you going somewhere?’ she said.

‘I am.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘I’m leaving. And obviously, you’ll be coming with me. We will drive to the airport—only we’ll be going our separate ways from now on. You’ll be heading for London, while my destination is Paris. But first, I need to speak to my grandfather.’

‘Dante...’

‘Save your breath, Willow,’ he said coolly. ‘I think we’ve said everything which needs to be said. I guess I should thank you for playing such a convincing fiancée. But I’m going to sit down with Giovanni and tell him that our relationship is over, and to remind him that he knows better than anyone that marriages simply don’t work if there is no love involved.’ His eyes glittered. ‘If you’re willing to sign a confidentiality clause, you can keep the ring. You should be able to get a decent amount of money for it.’

‘I don’t need to sign a confidentiality clause. And I won’t talk about this to anyone. Why would I? It’s not exactly something I’m very proud of.’ Her voice was trembling as she stared at the huge diamond and thought about how much it must be worth. Shouldn’t she keep it and sell it, and use the money to do some real good—for people who badly needed it? And wouldn’t it help if he thought of her as greedy and grasping? If she could give him yet another reason to hate her? She curved her mouth into a speculative smile. ‘But yes, I will keep the ring.’

The look of contempt on his lips was unmistakable as he turned away. ‘Be my guest. And now pack your case and get dressed,’ he said harshly. ‘And let’s get out of here.’