Читать книгу The Italian Boss's Mistress of Revenge - Trish Morey - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

THE NAKED SKIN of lean shoulder-blades glowed pearlescent under the wash of light angling from the bathroom door, while copper-lit mahogany hair flowed in waves across the pillow. Her face was turned away, but even shadows couldn’t hide the fine line of her jaw or the sweep of long lashes over high cheekbones.

Some welcome package, he thought with reluctant appreciation, muscle weariness morphing into testosterone- fuelled interest in an instant. He moved closer to the bed. By rights, his bed.

He had to hand it to the staff here, they were nothing if not creative. Nowhere else had the personnel tried the Goldilocks approach, trying to soften his attitude by pressing a little tender flesh onto him. And that flesh did look tender, he mused. Tender, smooth and very inviting.

Not that he was really interested. No-one decided who Dante Carrazzo slept with. And no whore was about to change his mind about what he had planned for this place. She would just have to find herself another bed to warm tonight. It shouldn’t take her long, given her obvious attributes.

He was about to rouse her when he caught sight of himself and cursed. In this state, he’d never convince her that her services weren’t required.

Wrapped in one of the white hotel-robes from the closet, he reached once again for her shoulder, just as a clap of thunder shook the room, the curtained windows lighting up a scant second later. She stirred and murmured, and he thought his job already done, but she merely rolled over, sinking back into oblivion on a sigh.

Breath hissed through his teeth as his eyes drank in the new, improved view. Even with her eyes closed she was some temptress, her lips full and inviting. But it was the cream-skinned breasts topped with dusky nipples that shook his resolve, nipples he could see were already firming with their exposure to the air.

Not the only things around here firming.

Heat targeted his groin, ramping up the pressure to an ache, and relaying the message that he was now way, way overdressed. What had been before no more than a general but suppressible interest in the fairer sex, had combusted into something much more carnal. Much more necessary. What would it take to wake her up? If she could sleep through a storm like this, it might take a while to wake her by conventional methods.

Which left him with the unconventional.

He made a sound like a growl. Maybe he had been too hasty, wanting to dispose of her so soon. It wasn’t like he was about to change his mind about this place, but he was due a celebration. What better place to have it than in the very room where Jonas and Sara had lain the night before they’d smiled like sharks and had told him the truth?

Pain, savage and raw, sliced through him at the memories, turning to bile in his throat, as if it had only been yesterday and not all those years ago.

Damn them! He would bury every part of their memory, every part of their legacy, just as he buried himself deep inside this woman.

Then he would toss her out.

He returned to the bathroom, locating what he needed before dispensing with the robe. Now it was time to find out just how difficult his Goldilocks would be to rouse. The more difficult the better, he acknowledged. For tonight he didn’t want conversation.

Tonight was all about retribution.

She was still on her back when he returned, her face to one side, her arms flung wide, her perfect breasts exposed for the taking. His taking. He took a moment to drink her in. The face was almost angelic in repose, while the naked form of a goddess called to him like a siren. He took in the twin globes of her breasts, and the shapely dip to her waist, and what lay lower, hidden for now by the covers, but hinting at more hidden treasures. If he wasn’t mistaken, her lower end was just as bare as her top—and, if he’d had any doubt that his surprise visitor wasn’t intended for his pleasure, the fact she lay there naked removed any such doubt in a heartbeat. So, she was into saving time? He appreciated such little economies, especially tonight.

He dragged in a sudden burst of air, and needed to balance the weight of blood pooling in his groin. He was glad she hadn’t awakened when that clap of thunder had rent the skies. This way would be much more entertaining. ‘And much more satisfying,’ he murmured as he gently knelt down on the bed alongside her.

She barely stirred, even when he pushed a wayward coil of hair from her face. Unable to resist a further touch, he ran the back of one finger down one shadowed cheek and was rewarded by the merest hint of a sigh, her lips parting as she drew in air, lifting her chest and doing amazing things to those breasts.

His gaze lingered there, taking in the creamy glow of her skin and the pebbled peaks of her breasts, calling to him now like beacons. He would answer that call, but there was no rush, and right now he hadn’t finished with her mouth.

With the pad of one thumb, he gently traced the outline of her lips, feeling her warm breath against his skin, taking her murmur of pleasure as a sign of encouragement.

He dipped his head, drinking in the warm, feminine scent of her skin before giving her mouth the briefest of passes. She sighed, her head rolling to one side. He brushed her lips with his own, finding them warm and welcoming. She moved under his mouth, even in sleep finding that sweet spot where their lips meshed perfectly, inviting him to linger, inviting him to explore further.

Reluctantly he pulled away, watching her shadowed face as her body reacted to what he was doing, looking for any hint of her wakefulness but finding none. It was different, he realized, pleasuring a woman asleep, different and more arousing. There was something more evocative, more empowering.

Sex by stealth.

He allowed himself a smile as his hand found her shoulder, cupping it, enjoying the contrast of toned flesh and bone under his hand as his mouth once again met hers. Even in sleep her movements mimicked his, wanting to participate, trying to hold on longer to the fantasy. His tongue traced the line of her mouth, and she shuddered beneath him, turning the kiss electric. ‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped into his mouth on a sigh.

Her breathing was quickening, and he lifted his head, half-surprised at the jolt he’d just experienced, half-expecting that first flicker of wakefulness, because he knew she’d felt it too. But still it didn’t come, despite the firmed breasts and jutting nipples, despite the noticeable shallow hitch to her breathing. She was dreaming about sex, he could tell, imagining a lover who visited deep in the night and made her every wish come true.

He growled and gave a smile. Only too soon she would open those eyes and discover he was real. What colour would those eyes be? he wondered absently as he ran his fingertips along the curve of her collarbone. Brown, he decided, his fingers dipping into the space between them. They would have to be brown with her colouring. His hand made the return journey, his fingers spread wider this time so that his thumb scooped across the rise of her breasts.

This time she moaned, arching her back and shifting fractionally in her sleep, sending her bed clothes lower, exposing a hint of curvy waist above the sensual flare of hips. Honey-smooth skin, gleaming in the lowlight. His mouth went dry. Even asleep and unknowing she was an invitation. How much more so would she be when awake?

The ache in his groin turned more insistent, more demanding, the beast alive, wanting and hungry. Then she murmured something—a name, almost an entreaty. Richard?

Suddenly his little game lost appeal. Half of him wanted to take his time and play this game for all it was worth, to explore every curve and hollow of her flesh, to savour the secret pleasure while he waited for her to awaken, but the other half of him craved release. Release, followed by blessed sleep. The last thing he wanted was her thinking of someone else while he made love to her. He wanted her awake. He wanted her to realize just who it was making love to her, and then he’d proceed to obliterate every trace of ‘Richard’ from her memory.

And there would be time enough to explore later. Now it was time for business. His fingers scooped down her chest. Right now her breasts were at the top of his agenda.

‘Time you woke up, Goldilocks,’ he said, before his mouth descended on one perfect nipple.

The dream was back. Her night caller was here again—the one who spoke to Mackenzi not with words but with heated lips and sweet caresses, the dark stranger who drugged her with sensuality and reassured her that she was desirable and warm and all woman. The one who made her want to believe it.

And tonight he seemed more persuasive, more convincing and more real than ever.

But it was a dream—it was always a dream—and she knew the rules; that if she opened her eyes her dream lover would vanish and it would be over. And yet for just a dream her senses were buzzing, her pulse racing, and she wished more than anything that for once it was more than just a dream—because tonight she felt like a real woman, and because she wanted to believe, more than anything, what he was telling her.

So, so much!

She felt his fingers stroking her hair and her face, setting her skin tingling. She felt his lips pressed gently on her own, she even imagined she could feel his warm breath on her face.

So real.

So real that, she wondered, would tonight be the night? Or would her dream lover flee once more before the dawn and leave her tossing and turning, damp and slickened with sweat, yet still unfulfilled, and doubting herself more than ever?

And, worst of all, believing that what Richard had told her must be true.

That she was no kind of lover at all.

That she was frigid.

She drifted then, on a sea of sensation and unearthly pleasures, wondering vaguely why her mystery lover would return for a repeat performance if she was, wondering why only he seemed to unleash such unfamiliar passion in her. She sizzled inside now, as her mystery lover’s lips moved over hers, and heat became electric as she felt the dart of moist flesh zip from one side of her mouth to the other. She trembled under the caress, imagining that this time she could even taste him, while she willed his attentions on further. Further south. Where her need was building in an increasingly desperate ache.

If he could make her tremble like that by nothing more than a mere touch of his lips, what more could he do by moving his attention to other, more demanding locations?

She gave herself up to the sensations spiralling down her body, the sensual drug taking control as a familiar unfairness echoed once more through her senses. Richard. How was it that he had never elicited anywhere near such a physical response in her as her dream lover? Had it really been all her fault?

And then nothing mattered—not Richard, or her questions or her self-doubts. Her heart was beating so loudly now, her pulse a sensual drumbeat that turned to a throb deep down inside and drowned out such plaguing thoughts. If her dream lover could make her feel so good, so real, even just for the moment, then who cared? Not her. She just wanted to enjoy for as long as it lasted.

Sound outside her heartbeat interrupted her thoughts— a voice, and words that made no sense, tumbling together into fairy tales and nonsense—and then all was silent apart from her groan as she felt his tongue circle her nipple, sending flaming arrows deep down inside. From somewhere in the passion-blinded recesses of her mind it occurred to her: her dream lover had never spoken before, not with words.

Fear shimmied up her spine as she pushed away at the remnants of sleep, still at war with herself, torn between not wanting to do anything to banish her dream lover, and yet knowing that this time was different—that tonight something was majorly out of step.

Jagged lightning hastened her ascent, and she opened her eyes to a booming roll of thunder that made the building shake around her. Yet it was nothing compared to the thunderclap of finding his dark head at her breast.

It wasn’t a dream! The sensual web that had wound itself around her while she’d slept was no figment of her imagination, her arousal no fantasy. This man—and what he was doing to her—was shockingly real.

She cried out something garbled and panicked, jerking herself away, her hands reaching for the bed clothes and dragging them higher.

‘Good morning, Goldilocks, I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.’ His voice soothed, even as what felt like a steel band clamped around her, anchoring her to the bed. But she couldn’t have moved a muscle, even if she’d tried, not when another bolt of lightning lit up the room and the face of her dream lover with it.

A moment of frozen shock turned into a chill of abject horror, for even after the lightning had passed and the room plunged back into darkness, the lines and planes of the face hovering close remained boldly etched in her mind’s eye. The lines and planes of a face she knew only too well.

‘Dante!’

The very man with the power of life and death over the hotel. The very man she’d sworn to fight tooth and nail to ensure he wouldn’t destroy this property and the livelihoods of all who worked within it.

It hadn’t been a dream.

And the reality was far, far worse.

It was a nightmare.

He gave what looked in the gloom like a predatory smile, full of dark meaning and sinful intent, and she felt her insides lurch. He touched the back of the fingers of one hand to her cheek and against her better judgement it was all she could do not to lean into his electric touch. ‘I never would have guessed,’ he said cryptically, before unhooking the arm holding her prisoner and reaching for something on the bedside table. The spell broken, Mackenzi took the opportunity to back away across the mattress, clutching the bed clothes to breasts still too-acutely tingling after his tongue’s ministrations. She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh God, that had been Dante Carrazzo’s tongue!

‘I…I should be going,’ she stammered, still trying to come to terms with what he was doing here so early, and cursing herself for taking the easy option of making use of his vacant room rather than dragging a pull-out bed to the laundry. But even harder to come to terms with was how any man, least of all him, could have had that effect on her and made her feel so alive, so aroused.

And then she heard the rip of foil and he turned back with something in his hands, and she discovered in a rush of awareness something new about her late-night visitor— that, from what little light there was in the room, the gleam of his muscled torso told her he was, like her, completely and utterly naked. Her gaze moved lower and she swallowed, her tongue tied, her brain scrambled, forgetting everything in the rush of hormones that flooded her system.

Hormones she wasn’t supposed to have.

Hormones that wanted to leap from her skin when she watched in fascination as he rolled the condom along his long length. It was dark in the room, but even the shadows couldn’t disguise the dimensions being sheathed. How would that feel inside her? she wondered dry-mouthed as every bit of moisture in her body headed south. If indeed it were possible. And suddenly, inexplicably, insanely, she wanted more than anything to find out.

‘You don’t want to leave now,’ he assured her, taking advantage of her confusion when he’d finished his task to gather her in his arms, and leaving her to wonder whether now he’d taken to reading her mind. ‘Not when we’re only just getting to the main event.’

Even if she’d wanted to, she doubted she could have moved. Her body acted of its own volition, resisting any and all attempts to protect herself from his advances—especially when he dipped his head towards her breasts, his lips latching onto a nipple. She gasped, giving into temptation while battling to locate logical thought. This is a bad idea, she seemed to register from somewhere under the battery of sensations that accompanied his suckling. A very bad idea. But for the life of her she couldn’t work out why.

Not such a bad idea after all, another sinful voice crooned, if finally you get to experience what Richard’s been telling you you’re incapable of. And where’s the danger? the voice argued. It’s dark, he’ll be asleep in five minutes, and he’ll never even know it’s you.

He’ll never know it’s you.

The words echoed in her head like a mantra and she tried to keep hold of it, to believe it. She had to believe it. Because she’d reached the point of no return. Now there was no going back, no escape, even if she wanted to. She didn’t want to.

His hand ran down her side, tracing the curve of her hip and the outside line of her leg, and she shuddered into his touch. Then he turned at her knee and started the slow, sensual trip back along the inside. She pressed her head back into the bed. Had anyone ever died of anticipation? When his hand found her curls and lingered there, combing her lazily with his fingers, she could believe it. When he parted her and found that tightly wired centre of her existence, jolting her like an electric shock, she could almost believe she had.

‘Please,’ she urged, not sure what she was asking for, just that it be mercifully quick.

His heated mouth moved to her throat, nuzzling below her ear and turning her spine along with her defences to liquid. So it was no wonder that her legs fell open when he levered himself up and positioned himself between them.

Later she knew she would be shocked by her complicity, but what choice did she have? If only it didn’t feel so good, she told herself. If only it didn’t feel so right. But how could she fight what felt so essentially good? And how could she fight what seemed so essential?

It was as if her dream lover had come to life and had stayed to beckon her on, even after she’d opened her eyes. It was as if her every wish for sexual gratification had come true. She was too far gone, too fuelled by a sensuous dream that had primed her senses to within a fraction of release, her body already hell-bent on a course that demanded completion, a completion drawing deliciously closer by the second.

He nudged, poised against her opening, and her whole being focused on that one spot, that one sensation, where her muscles instinctively tightened to draw him in. She reached for him then, unable to pretend she was uninvolved, that this was merely something happening to her. For she was part of this too. Hot and smooth, skin had never felt so delicious, and it was impossible to resist running her hands down his toned sides to his flanks, drinking in the heat through her palms, testing the firmness of his tight buttocks with her fingers.

He groaned against her throat, and gave a thrust of his hips that sent him surging into her. So this was how it felt, she thought, as every nerve ending in her body lurched with the thrill, every muscle focused on accommodating him; this was what it should be like.

He pulled away, and she wanted to cry out with the sense of loss, but he returned on another stroke, pressing deeper, giving her more of him. She accepted hungrily, a delicious pressure mounting inside her, and each successive thrust taking him further until he was planted deep inside. He paused then, and if that had been the end of it it would have been enough, the sensations he’d awakened in her already too many and too wondrous to catalogue. But he started to move again, to rock back and forth, setting up a rhythm, a delicious friction. She angled her hips up to receive him, as if it were possible to take him deeper still, using muscles she’d never known she had, making moves she hadn’t known she knew, feeling things she hadn’t known possible to feel.

Already she wanted to cry out in exhilaration for all she felt, and still he was taking her higher.

Her hands clung to his chest, clung to heated skin now slick with sweat, against chest hair that coiled possessively around her fingers, against a nipple that intruded tight into her palm as his heartbeat thumped out a song to lure her in. She tossed her head from side to side as he continued the onslaught, leaving her gasping for air as her senses seemed determined to spiral out of control.

But instead of oxygen the air she breathed was filled with the scent of him, the testosterone-laden notes intoxicating, compelling, compounding the experience until he was everywhere—inside her, around her, in the air she breathed.

His pace was frantic, her own need building with it, having no choice but to go with the forces spiralling inside her. He dropped his head to one breast and took a nipple deep into his mouth, suckling on it tightly and triggering what felt like lightning bolts inside her. Her back arched and her fingers lodged tight in his skin, the combination of excruciating pleasure and exquisite pain connecting with the delicious fullness between her thighs, completing the circuit.

She came apart like the force of a sky rocket, exploding into myriad tiny stars that sparkled and shone and floated on the breeze as they drifted back down to earth.

He followed her, pumping his release with a roar that sounded like a cry of victory, before collapsing alongside her on the bed.

She dragged up the sheet and lay there panting, staring up at the darkened ceiling, disbelief uppermost in her mind. Disbelief that someone who’d been told she was frostier than the polar ice-caps could have burned up so completely with a stranger. Disbelief that that stranger should be none other than Dante Carrazzo.

Fear zipped down her spine. Now that she’d been satisfied, now that she’d given into her body’s desperate desires, there was no place for her mind to hide, no place for her fear.

What the hell had she done?

She squeezed her eyes closed, clamping one hand over her mouth to prevent her from crying out in distress. What had she been thinking? How could she have allowed anyone—especially him—to do that to her?

But there’d been no room for thinking, no room for logic, not with the bevy of sensations he’d triggered off inside her. Even now her muscles still hummed, as if clinging onto the memories of unfamiliar passion. Unfamiliar yet very welcome passion.

Would she have done anything differently if she’d had her time over? She doubted it. She dragged in a breath, sorting out her options.

He’ll never know it’s you. The words of her mantra came back to her. She stole a sideways look at him. Oh no, it wasn’t as simple as that. Dante Carrazzo couldn’t recognize her—or her cause was doomed even before she’d started.

She sensed the subtle change in him that she hoped signalled sleep. She turned her head as the digital clock behind him flicked over to three a. m., the light from the display casting a red glow on his outline, making him look even more ruthless than she knew him to be, the chiselled line of his jaw hard and uncompromising, his mouth set and unyielding.

Unlike before…

She waited a few moments more, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and assuring herself he was really asleep, before easing herself from the bed, gathering up the pile of folded clothes she’d left on an armchair and bolting from the room.

Oh no. She would not think about how amazing that mouth had felt on her skin.

She would not!