Читать книгу Spaniard's Baby Of Revenge - Clare Connelly - Страница 12

HIS WORDS WERE heavy in the air, mesmerising, and she could only stare at him, and his beautiful body. She could only stare at him, lost to this and him and whatever was happening.

‘I...’ She frowned, unable to form anything more intelligible. And then her hand was lifting slowly, almost as though it were dragging upwards, pulled by the sheer magnetic force of his body.

She pressed her fingers to his chest, swallowing at the instant bolt of recognition that juddered through her system. Her eyes jerked to his, uncertainty laced with desire, and her fingertips moved across his chest then up to his shoulder.

He made a throaty, groaning sound and then his head dropped forward, or perhaps she pushed up onto the tips of her toes. Whatever it was, on autopilot their lips were meshing, bodies fused together, his broad and hard, his strength emanating from him. His lips moved over hers and she made a gasp of surrender, opening her mouth so that he could deepen the kiss. His hand lifted to the back of her head, his fingers curving around her, holding her where she was so that he could explore her until she was incandescent with pleasure.

‘Antonio...’ She kissed his name into his mouth, deep into his soul, and felt him answer. Her world was being blasted apart by a simple kiss.

No, there was nothing simple about this—it was crazy and mad and she knew nothing about him, only his name and that their grandfathers had once been friends. And yet she was his for a song in that moment.

She didn’t care what had brought him to her door; she cared only that he was there, and that he wanted her as she did him. Desire—something she had never known nor understood, was rampant in her system now.

As if the heavens were ratifying her surrender to something as elemental as passion, a loud clap of thunder rumbled around the small cottage and a moment later a blade of lightning sliced the sky apart and the house was plunged into darkness. Not complete darkness—Amelia had strung fairy lights generously throughout and, powered by batteries, they offered a golden glow, faint but enough to see by.

He didn’t react to the power outage. But his hands roamed her body, running over her sides, finding the hem of her shirt and pushing it, so achingly slowly, up her body so that her skin was covered in goosebumps, her nipples tight against the simple cotton of her bra. He broke the kiss, pulling away from her just long enough to rip her shirt over her head and she pushed her arms skywards at the same time, as fevered as he. In that brief moment of separation their eyes met and something passed between them—an understanding, a commitment to this, come what may—and then he was kissing her again, this time dragging his mouth from her lips to her throat, flicking her with his tongue so that she whimpered with the strength of sensations he was stirring.

He pushed at his own shirt as his mouth claimed hers, dispensing with the fabric confines so his chest was bare.

Her fingers ran over his body without meaning or intent, certainly without forethought, and then her hands found his trousers and, of their own accord, her fingers were loosening his belt buckle then moving to the button and zip, pushing at them while his kiss held her body utterly captive. He stood out of his trousers as she pushed at them, and then her hands were curving around his naked buttocks, feeling his warmth in a way that was elemental and ancient.

He made a growling noise of awareness and dropped his hands to her back, pulling her hard against him so she could feel the strength of his arousal for herself. Surprise made her eyes flare wide and she swallowed, but then he was kissing her again, and now he lifted her as though she weighed nothing and she wrapped her legs around his waist and he rolled his hips so that his erection found her feminine heart, the pressure through the fabric of her jeans enough to make her cry out at what was to come.

He whispered words in Spanish and then he eased her to the ground, just for a moment, so he could retrieve his wallet from his trousers. He pulled out a condom. No, condoms, she corrected with pink cheeks, and she opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, to tell him that she was a virgin, because she was sure he wouldn’t enjoy discovering that fact for himself. But then his hands came to her jeans and he was unfastening them, pushing them down her legs, and he crouched in front of her and brought his mouth to her inner thigh and she was lost again. She tangled her fingers in his hair, throwing her head back as he kissed her legs.

And then he dragged her simple cotton briefs down her body and she was complicit, stepping out of them. In the back of her mind, in the small part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought, she was surprised by how unselfconscious she was. She was almost naked in front of him and she didn’t care.

He brought his mouth to the apex of her thighs and flicked his tongue against her womanhood and now Amelia cried out louder, harder, as pleasure licked through her like wild flames. She said his name over and over again, and her fingers ran faster through his hair before dropping to his shoulders and holding on tight. Pleasure was a rollercoaster and she was buckled in, riding it harder and faster, unable to stop the rush of momentum—not wanting to either.

His mouth drove her over the edge and she cried out as an explosion of delight, unlike anything she’d ever imagined, much less known, blew away the last vestiges of any idea that she might not be a sexual being. If this was sex, she could easily become an addict.

But there was no time to recover. He was straightening, lifting himself up, and in one movement he snaked a hand behind her back and unclasped her bra, and she pushed out of it at the same time. His head came crashing down to her breasts, his lips moving from one nipple to the next, circling her sensitive flesh, and desire was rampant in her bloodstream, running like a pack of leopards through her system.

She heard the opening of the condom and felt his hands move against her stomach and something, some thought, was pushing at her brain, but she couldn’t catch it. Pleasure was her all—nothing mattered beyond the feelings he was invoking. She was a wildling, abandoned completely to this, and only this.

His hands on her hips were strong and commanding; he lifted her easily and, in her tiny kitchen, he pressed her against the wall and she cried his name, ‘Please, please, please,’ begging him for a release she couldn’t articulate beyond knowing that it was a necessity.

His eyes, glowing in the soft light, burned into hers for several beats. ‘You want this.’ It was a statement but it dragged her out of the drugging haze of desire, if only for a second. He needed an answer.

An answer beyond her constant begging?

‘Yes,’ she groaned. ‘Oh, God, yes, please, Antonio. I need this.’

And his dark eyes sparked with something new, something like relief and determination, and he moved his body forward and brought her down on his length in one swift, possessive movement.

She froze as the invisible barrier of her innocence was taken by him, and stiffened as an unwelcome and sharp pain pushed all pleasure aside.

He swore in Spanish, sensing what had happened, and she winced, and then his eyes held hers and he whispered softer words, Spanish words, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her from the wall, holding her tight, keeping himself inside her and holding her close to him as the pain subsided.

Pleasure returned and it was different and more demanding than before, because he was inside her and muscles she hadn’t known she possessed were being stretched and taunted and desire was being stirred that demanded an answer.

‘Please,’ she said again and he lifted a hand to her cheek, curving it in his palm.

‘You are sure, querida?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

And, with a look she couldn’t interpret, he began to move again, softly this time, gently, and he pressed her against the wall, and he kissed her as his body stirred her back to fever pitch, and he watched her as she blew apart for a second time, this time in his arms and with his erection deep inside her.

And then he eased her back to the ground, her feet on the floor, but only for a second. He scooped down and lifted her, cradling her to his chest as he carried her upstairs, along the hallway. The lighting here was dimmer than downstairs; she had only a few strings of lights on the landing. He looked in one room first—her study—and the next was her bedroom, and apparently there was sufficient light for him to make out at least the shape of the bed. He strode in, laying her down on the mattress gently, then standing. She could just make out the silhouette of his body in the darkness of the house.

Her breath was rushed and she was grateful there was no lighting, glad he wouldn’t be able to see the tangle of emotions swirling in her eyes.

‘You should have told me,’ he said simply, but there was no recrimination in the words, only regret. And then he brought his body over hers and his lips caught hers, and he kissed her as his arousal found its way to her core once more. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he pushed inside her and she groaned as pleasure already began to build anew.

‘Your first time should not be with a man you hardly know,’ he said, but she barely heard. The words were hoarse and she was way beyond logical, rational thought. When he kissed her his tongue duelled with hers in time with his body’s possession of hers and this time, when she found release, he came with her, holding her tight, kissing her, passion saturating them both.

He stayed where he was, inside her, straddling her, but sat straighter; it was impossible to discern anything in his features owing to the blackness of her room.

But his hands found hers and his fingers weaved through hers, holding her, reassuring her.

‘I had no idea,’ he said.

‘I know that.’ Now that the bright burst of passion had receded, she had room to feel self-conscious. Not regret, not remorse, only a desire that she’d been better able to meet him on a level of experience closer to his. ‘I probably should have told you.’

She was glad it was dark and that he couldn’t see her blush and that she couldn’t see his face—and the irritation she was sure would be there.

‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. ‘If only so I could have made it perfect for you.’

She lifted her hands to his chest, running her fingers over his muscles thoughtfully. ‘That was perfect,’ she promised. ‘I had no idea...’

His laugh was soft and, inside her, he jerked with the movement and she let out a soft moan as embers of pleasure began to stir anew.

‘I mean it,’ she repeated huskily. ‘I never really got the whole sex thing.’

At that he sobered and when he spoke his voice was husky. ‘I’m surprised to hear it.’

He might have meant it as a general throwaway comment, but that was unlikely. He came to her that night knowing who she was, knowing her name, because their grandfathers had been friends. He knew more about her than she did him, and that certainly included knowledge of her mother and her behaviour. ‘I think lots of people expect me to be just like her,’ she said with a small shrug. ‘And I’m not.’

‘You didn’t want to be,’ he clarified gently, and he pulled away from her and rolled them at the same time, so she made a squawking sound of surprise. He held her close to his body, tucked in one arm, and she relaxed against him. His fingers stroked down her back and she sighed softly. New pleasures were vibrating inside her.

‘No,’ Amelia agreed, hating that it still felt like a betrayal to admit that.

‘You haven’t dated?’

‘Of course I have,’ she was compelled to declare, hating what a novice she was! His fingers paused in their stroking for a moment before resuming their leisurely trail along her back. ‘But never seriously, never for long.’ She shrugged against his side. ‘Whereas you, I imagine, have a long list of ex-girlfriends.’

‘Not really,’ he said, surprising her. ‘I don’t really date.’

Of course. How gauche of her. ‘Lovers, then.’

He laughed. ‘Enough,’ he agreed after a moment.

She bit down on her lip. ‘But I bet it’s been a long time since you were with a virgin.’

‘I’ve never been with a virgin,’ he said simply. ‘Not even my first time.’

She blinked at that confession. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah.’

So she was his first? She couldn’t explain it, but she liked that. It was as though they’d both shared a new experience together, and it meant more to her than it should.

‘How do you feel?’ The gravelled question sent her pulse firing anew.

‘Relaxed and satisfied,’ she purred and he laughed, a throaty sound of wry amusement.

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Stay here.’ And he pulled away from her, standing and moving out of her room.

‘What are you doing?’ she called after him, but the words were soft, consumed by a yawn. And, instead of asking again, she collapsed back against the bed, closed her eyes and remembered. Remembered the madness in the kitchen that had brought his lips to hers, or was it the other way around? Remembered the way they’d exploded at that first touch and everything had seemed predestined in some way.

A moment later she had her answer, anyway. The sound of the bath running, then the bathroom cabinets being open and shut. She lay there, a smile on her face, listening, and a little while later he returned.

‘Are you asleep?’

She squinted one eye open and then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘No,’ she said, sitting up. ‘Are you taking a bath?’

He laughed. ‘No. You are.’

He reached for her hand and she wriggled off the bed, standing on legs that had suddenly turned to jelly. He understood and he lifted her once more, so she joked, ‘I could get used to this. Like some kind of Rajah.’

He stepped over the threshold, into the bathroom, and her breath caught in her throat. He must have found every candle in the house and the bathroom was glowing and warm, like something out of a fairy tale.

Don’t! she alerted her subconscious.

Don’t even think like that.

Fairy tales. Don’t. Exist.

How many times had she seen her mother go down the rabbit hole of thinking a man was her Prince Charming and that their ‘happily ever after’ was at the end of the next party or vacation or new home or fresh start? Only to wake up alone, miserable, depressed and looking for consolation in the bottle or vial of whatever drug she was into at the time.

Amelia was not Penny—and that meant knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that fairy tales didn’t exist.

Still, fairy tale or not, the bathroom was beautiful in this lighting. The tub was half-filled and an extravagant layer of bubbles sat on top of the water’s surface. There was an aroma of lavender in the air—so he’d found her bath oils.

He placed her over the edge of the tub, easing her feet into the water, and she smiled as the perfect warmth wrapped around her legs. She sank into it slowly, lying back against the edge and letting the water enfold her.

‘Heaven,’ she said softly and then blinked her eyes open to find him staring at her.

‘Enjoy it.’ His eyes sparked with something like promise and her heart turned over in her chest. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ He retrieved a towel and placed it within easy reach of the bath, then moved to the door. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he warned as he left and she smiled.

Fat chance.

She wasn’t going to fall asleep all night. Not when she had Antonio Herrera as her own personal pleasure centre. Having discovered what her body was capable of feeling, she wanted more. She wanted everything.

And she wanted him to show her.

* * *

He collected his scattered clothes from the kitchen floor, and he dressed with true regret. He didn’t want to put barriers up to more pleasure. He wanted to take her to bed and make love to her slowly, to seduce her all night long, like he would any other lover.

But there was danger in that—danger in forgetting why he’d come to her, why he’d spent a year trying to locate her. Why he needed her signature on the documents he’d brought with him, her agreement to sell her shares to him.

He had buried his father a month earlier and there was no way he was going to let his desire for a woman cloud his judgement.

He was so close to achieving his goal, and Amelia diSalvo was the key to that.

Sex with her had been a mistake. A stupid, careless mistake—because it had the power to confuse things between them. Because it muddied the water of what he needed from her.

With a grim expression on his face, he let himself quietly out of the house, walking towards his car with a growing sense of determination. The rain had stopped but the clouds were still overhead, covering the moon and the stars so everything was in pitch darkness.

The documents were on the front seat. He grabbed them out, tucking them under his arm before making his way back to the house. Silence came from upstairs.

He fought a desire to go and check on her, to see if she needed anything. A passionate encounter didn’t a relationship make—there was no need for him to play the part of the solicitous boyfriend. It was better for both of them if he focused on his reason for being in the cottage.

Revenge was close—so close he could feel it. And it would be better than anything he’d ever known—even the pleasure he’d just felt in the bed of his arch-enemy.