Sara Craven Tribute Collection

‘Of course. Why do you keep asking me all these questions.’

‘Because I want to know all about you, mia cara. Every last thing.’

Her throat tightened. ‘But no one can ever know another person that well.’

‘Then perhaps I shall be the first.’ He closed the photograph album and laid it aside. He rose, taking off his jacket and tossing it across the back of the sofa, then walked across to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her to her feet. She went unresistingly, her heart beating a frantic, alarmed tattoo, her eyes widening in a mixture of panic and strange excitement.

He said softly, ‘And I shall start with your mouth.’

‘No,’ Flora said hoarsely as his arms went round her, drawing her against the hard heat of his body. ‘You can’t. You said—you promised—that I’d be safe tonight.’

‘And so you have been, mia bella.’ There was laughter in his voice, mingled with another note, more dangerous, more insidious. ‘But midnight has come and gone. It is no longer tonight, but tomorrow. And from this moment on I guarantee nothing.’

He added softly, ‘You can command me not to touch you, but not to stop wanting you. Because that has become impossible.’

Then he bent his head, and his lips met hers.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f4c819d8-e5fd-5e72-ae16-17d450497d3e)

SOME distant voice in her mind was telling her that she should fight him. That she should kick, bite and punch, if necessary, before the warmth of his mouth on hers sapped every last scrap of resistance from her being.

That she should hang on, with every ounce of will she possessed, to her life—her safe, planned future with Chris.

And to her reason—her sanity.

But it was too late. Indeed, she realised helplessly, it had always been too late—from that first time she had seen him in the restaurant. And, even more, from that fleeting moment when his lips had first touched hers.

It was pointless to remind herself that she had no moral right to be doing this. That she was engaged—committed—soon to be married. That this was a madness she could not afford. Because logic, reason, even decency no longer seemed to matter.

And the most shaming thing of all was that he was using no force—because he didn’t have to. Because her lips were already parting in acceptance, and welcome. And with a growing hunger she was no longer able to disguise, even had she wanted to.

Her mind—her will—was in free fall—cascading into surrender.

And the hands which had been braced in the beginnings of protest against the wall of his chest lifted and locked at the nape of his neck.

At first it was a gentle, almost leisurely exploration of her mouth, as if he was learning the taste—the texture of her. Then, slowly, the kiss deepened, imposing new demands. Testing the outer limits of her control. And his.

Her body was pressed against him, making her aware that he was powerfully aroused. The hurry of his heartbeat seemed translated into her own being.

He pushed a hand into her hair, twining the silky strands round his fingers, drawing her head backwards so that the long, lovely line of her throat was exposed and vulnerable to the lingering passage of his caress. His lips found the pink shell of her ear, then travelled down to the frantic tumult of her pulse.

She gasped as she felt the heated, animal surge in her blood. As his lips encountered the delicate hollows at the base of her throat, pushing aside the narrow strap, baring the curve of her shoulder.

The long fingers found the rounded curve of her breast, moulding it gently as his thumb moved delicately, voluptuously on the hardening nipple. Flora leaned her forehead against his shoulder, eyes closed, lost in exquisite shuddering sensation.

Whatever coherency remained in her mind told her that she had never felt like this before. Never dreamed it was possible that she could want like this. That she could welcome every new intimacy and long for more.

She heard herself say hoarsely, ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Everything.’ His voice was a husky whisper, the single word an affirmation. Almost a warning.

He kissed her again with slow, sensual purpose, while his hands continued their absorbed, teasing play with the heated peaks of her breasts, making her sigh her pleasure against his lips.

She wasn’t even sure when he released the zip at the back of her dress, letting the soft fabric slide away from her shivering skin.

He lifted her into his arms, sinking back with her on to the sofa, holding her so that she was lying across his thighs, the black dress pooling round her hips, her entire body attuned—accessible—to the touch of his hands and mouth.

She heard him murmur in throaty appreciation as his dark head bent to adore the scented mounds he had uncovered, and she quivered as she felt the burn of his lips against her skin—the flickering glide of his tongue on her nipples.

She made a little stifled sound and he lifted his head, looking down at her, the green eyes warm and slumbrous.

‘You don’t like that?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Too much—too much.’

He stroked each taut peak with a gentle finger. ‘They are like tiny roses,’ he told her softly. ‘Only more sweet.’

Her own hands were pulling feverishly at the buttons on his shirt to free them, touch the heated, hair-roughened skin beneath, and he helped her, dragging the loosened edges apart, then lifting her triumphantly, almost fiercely, so that her naked breasts grazed his own.

His mouth closed on hers with renewed fire, and she clung to him, half dizzy with abandonment, aware of nothing but the pagan clamour of her flesh.

He moved suddenly, lifting her away from him, setting her on her feet, and for an instant she looked at him in mute bewilderment. He smiled slowly up at her, letting his hands drift down her body to disentangle her finally from the ruin of her dress.

When it was done Marco stared at her for a long moment, absorbing the contrast between the creaminess of her skin and the silken black of the tiny undergarment which was her sole remaining covering.

He said softly, ‘All evening I have been imagining how you would look at this moment, and you are more beautiful than any fantasy, Flora mia.’

His fingers spanned her waist lightly. ‘Because you are real.’

His touch lingered on her flat stomach. ‘And warm.’

His hand moved downward, brushing over the fragile silk, until he reached the scalding secret core of her, where he lingered.

‘And wanting me,’ he added huskily.

With one lithe movement he was on his feet, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and walking with her out of the room, and across the passage into the stark whiteness of her bedroom.

Still holding her, he bent slightly, switching on the lamp beside the bed, then took hold of the immaculate bedspread, pulling it back and tossing it to the foot of the bed before lowering Flora to the mattress.

She looked up at him through half-closed eyes as he stood over her. She was aware of the thud of her heart, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as sudden nervousness lent an edge to her excitement. And she was conscious too that it was a stranger’s face that looked down at her in the lamplight, shadowed and almost feral in its intensity.

Her throat tightened. ‘Is something—wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ The sound of her voice seemed to awake him from some spell. His smile banished the shadow—or had that just been a figment of her overwrought imagination? ‘Except that you are still wearing too many clothes, mia bella.’

‘So,’ she whispered, ‘are you.’

‘You think so?’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Well, that is easily remedied.’