Page 26 of Italian’s Christmas Acquisition

Mostly.

She realized that she was still touching his face. He moved without warning. Like lightning. And suddenly, his iron grip was around her wrist. She gasped and tried to pull away, but with his eyes still closed, he yanked her toward him. “Why are you so far away?” he asked.

His breath was hot against her cheek, and her breasts were crushed to his chest. She didn’t even know if he was conscious of what he was doing. Or if he was absolutely and completely delirious.

“Rocco...”

“You smell good,” he said.

She shivered. He was so hot. And she knew it was because he was feverish, but this felt... It felt like more. It felt like something else. Something that it wasn’t.

She couldn’t let herself get carried away by this. It was a sickness. Psychotic.

But her heart was pounding wildly, and it wasn’t because she was afraid.

“You should be in bed with me,” he said.

And any resistance that she had access to before was gone. She felt herself melting into him, and then he shifted, and his mouth connected with hers.

She had never been kissed before.

It was so... Disruptive. She had always imagined that a kiss would be sweet. That it would be a lovely, comforting sort of thing.

She did not feel comforted.

His mouth took no prisoners, it moved over hers with expert precision. And she found herself parting her lips for him, allowing him to push his tongue between her lips and stroke it over hers.

She gasped, and that only let him take the kiss deeper.

And she wanted it.

What did that say about her? The man was in a delirium. A feverish haze, and he also was supposed to be her enemy. No matter that she couldn’t seem to cement that idea in her mind.

Enemies.

But he kissed like every dream she hadn’t been experienced enough to have, and she couldn’t bring herself to move away from him. She let him claim her. Let each pass of his tongue make her into something new. Into someone she didn’t recognize.

She wanted him. She wanted this.

He moved his hand to the back of her head, holding her to him as he kissed her, on and on. She shivered, the sensual haze spreading from where his mouth met hers, through her limbs. She felt drugged in the most delicious way. Like she had just had a hot toddy by the fireplace, and everything in her was languid and warm.

She moved her hand down to his chest. Remembered what he had said. About wanting her to rub his chest.

She let her fingers drift over him. The prickly hair, firm muscles, hot skin...

What are you doing?

She gasped, and ripped herself away from him.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“You’re sick,” she said. “You don’t even know who I am. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

“Sure I do,” he said.

But he never opened his eyes.

“You can’t consent,” she said.

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