Page 10 of Burning Beauty

God, could Niccolo DeLuca kiss! He didn't just use his lips and tongue, but his whole body. He swamped her senses and took her on a voyage into the pleasure of something that once seemed so simple, but under Nic's guidance became a tutelage in his brand of brutal sensuality. She didn't think her heart could take it. She couldn't catch her breath as he fucked her into submission using only his lips.

His hands were hard on her skin but not hurtful. He swept her with intent, awakening her flesh and frightening her at the same time. With every kiss, every touch, she became more and more convinced that her life was about to alter irrevocably. That this man would be her destiny and probably her doom.

It was a strange thought because Maria was a practical woman, not given to fanciful thinking. Yet the way Niccolo DeLuca owned every part of her with just a few words, a look, a kiss, told her that something significant was happening between them. Which is why she needed to stop him from hurtling her into something she wasn't ready for.

She tore her mouth from his and twisted her head to the side, panting and gripping the bedspread as she tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. He wasn't giving an inch though, his lips trailed her jaw, tasting her, tantalizing and teasing. An ache started in her throat and moved lower into her stomach and then even lower, sweeping her breath away and making her moan at the sensations he was drawing from her.

"Please," she finally managed to gasp. Her voice was so quiet, so thready, so lost in the moment that he either didn't hear or didn't take it as a signal to stop. She needed to make him understand that she wasn't going to be a willing participant. She needed to make him understand that they shouldn't be doing this.

"Nic, please!" She managed to make her voice louder and sharper.

He lifted his head to look down at her. A lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead giving him a ruffled look. It also made him look more sinister, with his seductive dark gaze that promised a lethal mix of death and pleasure. She became aware that his immaculate suit was still in place. Not even his tie was crooked, while she was completely vulnerable laying naked beneath him.

"Please, I don't want to do this," she whispered, trying to tell him with her eyes everything she was thinking and feeling. Trying to tell him that, while he lit up her body with a new kind of heat, she was terrified of taking this step with him.

"Bellissima," he spoke the endearment huskily, brushing the hair from her face and running his fingers down her cheek. She shook beneath him, feeling that simple touch right down to her bones. "There is no mercy in me."

Chapter Six

Maria woke slowly the next morning, awareness coming a little at a time. She was warm, comfortable, safe. She blinked and then blinked again, trying to get rid of the fog. When she finally opened her eyes for real she found herself looking at floor to ceiling windows, the blinds wide open allowing the light to stream in, the sunshine to caress her naked body where she was sprawled out on the bed, the covers tangled between her legs.

She gasped and jerked upright, making a grab for the blanket and dragging it up her chest, covering her bare breasts. She shoved her long thick hair out of the way and searched the room in a frantic sweep, looking for the dark Italian that had been here the night before. She glanced over at the other side of the bed. There was an indent on the pillow next to hers where his head had rested.

When she didn't immediately see him, she slid cautiously from the bed, still holding tight to the blanket. She tilted her head to the side, listening for sounds of a shower running, but nothing came to her. She was alone.

With that realization, she dropped the blanket and lunged toward the end of the bed, searching for the clothes she'd removed the night before. They were gone. Is this how he intended to keep her there? Steal her clothes until he got back? Well, she wasn't falling for it. She'd bloody well run stark naked through the hallways or borrow a towel. When it came to pride, she had none in the face of her mortal well-being.

Seconds later she found her clothes in a tidy little pile, folded neatly on an armchair with her heeled sandals sitting on the floor underneath the chair. Weird, she would've pegged Niccolo DeLuca as the type to let the hired help do the chores, but it'd only been the two of them in there the night before. It must've been him. She didn't dwell on the thought of the Italian mob boss folding laundry or touching her panties, but hurriedly tugged her dress on, slid her thong up her legs and reached for her shoes. She would put them on when she was safely away from the room.

She grabbed her purse and ran for the door, relieved when it opened easily for her. She'd been worried that Nic would somehow lock her in the suite. She was relatively certain that given his knowledge of her involvement with Franco he wasn't done with her quite yet. It didn't matter, she wasn't going to stick around to find out what happened next. She'd fucked up Franco's plan and she pissed off a powerful Italian mobster. So far, she was zero for zero.

Maria made sure the hall was empty and ran for the elevator. Just as she reached it, the doors slid open to reveal Franco's number one henchman, Ronson. Maria slid to a halt, stared at the man for a few seconds, taking in his surprised expression, then turned around and ran full tilt in the other direction toward the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

She had no idea what Ronson wanted, but she didn't really want to find out. She was going back to her shitty little hotel where she would take a long shower and think up another way to rescue her brother. She was getting desperate enough to enlist ICE, the US Immigration and Customs agency to help her find her bother. Better she and Ruis get deported than get dead.

Before she reached the door to the stairwell, it opened and Niccolo DeLuca stepped out, two take-out cups in his hands. She had just a moment to register surprise at his thoughtfulness, thinking one of the cups was for her, when she skidded to a stop again.

"Seriously?" she breathed, eyeing Nic as his eyes flickered over her and darkened in recognition and annoyance. Clearly, he’d expected her to stay in the room and await his decision on what to do with her.

Before she could choose which was the better evil to bank on, an arm snaked around her waist and she was lifted off her feet and hauled into Ronson's chest. She dropped her shoes, one of them landing on her foot, pointed heel down.

"Fuck!" she snapped, twisting to look up at the hulking giant holding on to her. "Lay off, Ronson."

"Boss wants to see you." His deep voice sounded bored, as if his boss had asked him to read pages out of the dictionary.

"Take your hands off her."

Both she and Ronson stiffened at the sound of Nic’s low voice, death implicit in the tone. Maria glanced at him and noted the altered body language, from seemingly relaxed to coiled tiger getting ready to spring. He looked ready to tear Ronson to pieces.

"Boss wants to see her," Ronson said, as though that explained everything. He hauled Maria off the floor, tucking her against his side. She grunted as his arm bit into her middle. "Boss wants to see both of you."

He started dragging her backwards, down the hall toward the elevator. Nic ditched the takeout cups in the hallway and stalked them, his eyes never wavering from Maria. Her eyes glued to Nic while she struggled in Ronson’s grip. She knew without being told that Ronson was in over his head with Nic as his opponent. Niccolo DeLuca gave off an aura of imminent death, as though he lived, ate, and breathed murder.

Ronson hit the button to the elevator and the door opened right away. He stepped backwards, into the lift with Maria still held tight against him. Nic followed without hesitation. She watched Nic as Ronson punched a code into the elevator panel and they began ascending. Nic was wearing the same suit as yesterday, only he'd left off his tie and the shirt was open a few buttons, revealing a strong tan throat.

His eyes were still on Ronosn, specifically the places where Ronson was touching her. Though his posture seemed mild, his sharp gaze and the coiled tension in his body told another story.

As they arrived in the penthouse, he spoke, pointing his middle ring finger at the other man. "You will regret touching the woman." Ronson didn't react, and as they stepped off the elevator together, Nic said, "This is a promise, my friend."

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