Page 25 of Royally Roma
He arched a brow at her. “You preferred the beard that much, did you?”
“What?” she sputtered, her flush growing even pinker. An enchanting rush of color. Like the deep, dense center of an orchid. “No.”
“No?” He angled his head toward her. “You object to the clean-shaven look, then? My apologies. I had no idea.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t care one way or another.” Her gaze flitted to his jaw, and she licked her lips.
Oh, she cared. She cared very much.
Satisfaction pulsed in Niccolo’s veins. He took a step toward her. He was already closer than he should have been. Much too close, and he didn’t care, because he could hear her sudden intake of breath, could feel the warmth rolling off her body, an ember to his flame.
“I think you do,” he whispered. “I think you care, and that pleases me, Julia.”
He wanted to press his lips to the slender column of her elegant throat. He wanted to feel the hot pounding of her pulse beneath his tongue. He wanted to unwind the wispy scarf from around her neck and use it in ways that the debauched emperors she so despised had never dreamed of.
He wanted her to fall. Fall like the ancient Rome she loved so much. And he wanted her to do so by the power of his hands, his mouth, the brutal intensity of his need.
It couldn’t happen, of course. There was a line between them, a line he couldn’t allow himself to cross. Certainly not in the short span of six hours. His family couldn’t afford another scandal. Not now, in the wake of Cassian’s naked French swim.
Even if his identity remained a secret, even if he never got caught, he couldn’t do it. It would mean taking advantage of this captivating, spirited woman. Niccolo believed in honor and the timeless quality of chivalry. Those ideas had been drilled into his head since the time he’d known he would one day be king. He couldn’t very well bed her without telling her who he was and then hop on a private plane to Helsinki.
It was out of the question.
Which was a pity. More than a pity. He wanted her. More than anything he’d wanted in as long as he could remember. And the fact that he would never have her was nothing short of a tragedy.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He looked into the wild heat of her gaze, and he didn’t feel like talking. Not at all.
One kiss.
He would allow himself one kiss, a single, decadent taste of her scarlet mouth. One kiss was all he needed, he assured himself. It would be enough.
Just one kiss.
“Later,” he growled, cradling her face in his hands and angling his mouth over hers before he came to his senses and changed his mind.
A tiny gasp escaped her, and in a moment of excruciating uncertainty he searched her gaze. Niccolo had never forced himself on a woman, and he wasn’t about to start now. He needed her to want this as much as he did.
He stood above her, eyes locked with hers, and waited for a sign. His breathing was strained, his muscles tense. He was barely able to contain the urge to consume her. In that singular moment, he felt every inch a warrior, a gladiator, a man. Like never before.
Then her lips parted, ever so slightly. And he knew.
He lowered his mouth to hers. In the final, torturous moment before their lips touched, he felt the soft flutter of her breath against his mouth, and it was like being kissed by a butterfly. The gentleness of the sensation was so at odds with the violence of his arousal that he nearly sank to his knees. He leaned against her instead, pressing her against the wall of the cave, as much to steady himself as to feel the soft warmth of her curves beneath him.
Then he kissed her. Hard. With insistence. His tongue probed her lips until she opened for him, whimpering and vulnerable. And at last he was in the warm, wet wonderland of her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside.
His hands slid from her face, down her neck, over the delicate grace of her collarbones. She trembled beneath his touch, her fists clenching in the folds of his suit jacket. Spurred by her responsiveness, he deepened the kiss, taking her lovely mouth, claiming her, making her his.
God, what was happening? He was a prince, and he was kissing a strange woman in very a public place. And he’d never been so hard in his life. His hands had somehow found their way to her waist. He let them slide around to cup her bottom, until he was lifting her, hauling her even more forcefully against him.
She cried into his mouth. Soft sounds of surrender. And he knew with tragic certainty that it would never be enough—this momentary taste of her. Impossibly exquisite, it was all too fleeting. Too temporary. The brutal truth was that he wanted to lose himself in her until he forgot he would one day be king.
This wasn’t simply a kiss. This was pleasure itself, a timeless embrace with enough passion to raise every dead Roman who’d once walked these halls.
With a groan of regret, he released her mouth before he reached the point of no return and gave into the urge to bury himself inside her, right here in plain view of every tourist in Italy.
He pressed his forehead against hers and concentrated on breathing in and out, praying for the swell of desire pulsing through his veins to somehow subside. A futile effort.
