Page 59 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Back in the bedroom, she glanced at the bed. Everything about this day had been so magical, that she wanted to savour this experience.

“We don’t need to rush this,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

He pulled on sweatpants and offered her his navy dressing gown, then she retrieved her glasses from her room, before joining him downstairs. She curled up on the sofa while he set the scene with rose-scented candles and soft music. She didn’t even care that he was so adept at setting the scene for romance, and had no doubt done this for many other women before her. It was pleasant to be seduced for a change, rather than be rushed into bed.

When he joined her on the sofa, he pulled her into his lap, whispering soft-spoken words in Italian that needed no translation, his voice a rough, sexy vibration against her skin. They kissed and touched and explored, and it was by far the best make-out session she’d ever experienced. Slow, unhurried, reverent.

When at last his big, warm hand dipped beneath the gap in the gown to cup her breast, she arched her back, letting the pleasure of his touch roll through her. The storm outside receded into the distance, leaving in its wake a steady patter of rain, but inside, the candlelit living room felt safe and snug.

He pushed the gown off her shoulders, exposing her breasts, and sighed in pleasure at the sight of her. God, but this man did amazing things to her ego. His fingers sparked sensation as he stroked her skin, then he bent his head to suck one taut nipple into his mouth. Need shot through her, pooling between her legs, and she straddled him.

He groaned, his hands smoothing down her arms, to settle on her hips, rocking her against him. “I want to take you to bed,” he said, and she knew it was a question.

“Yes.” She nipped his lip between her teeth.

He rolled her off him, rising and setting her on her feet. “You are sure?”

She’d never been more sure. She nodded.

They held hands as they climbed the stairs, back to his bedroom, where he gently removed her glasses, slid the gown off her shoulders, stripped off his sweatpants, and then walked her backwards onto the bed, rolling her beneath him. She sighed into his mouth as he kissed her, pressed her body against his, protested when he pulled away to slide down her body. He kissed her stomach, and for once she didn’t think about her stretch marks or love handles, or the fact that she wasn’t ten years younger. She felt beautiful, as she’d never felt before.

Then his mouth moved lower, her legs dropped apart, and she gave herself over to the pleasure of his lips and tongue. Her orgasm started as a shimmer beneath her skin, growing and growing until it overwhelmed her, and she threw her head back, her whole body arching off the bed with pleasure.

Afterwards, he cradled her against him, his erection jutting hard against her hip. Idly, she stroked it, admiring its length and thickness, the skin taut and smooth beneath her fingers, until he reached across her, into the bedside table, for a condom. He fumbled getting it on, for once not as composed or as in command of himself as he usually appeared, and she had to help. Then he held himself over her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, his dark gaze holding hers as he paused, his erection nudging against her, awaiting her permission.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I want you,” and on a long sigh he entered her, slowly, steadily burying himself deep.

ChapterTwenty-Five

Il sole dopo la tempesta mette gli uomini in festa.

(Sunshine after a storm creates a festive mood.)

When Cleo woke, the room was dark, but grey light oozed between the slats of the shutters. Dawn. The time she’d usually go out for her morning run.

Luca’s arm draped over her hip, heavy and reassuring, holding her close against him. His breathing was deep and even as he slept, interrupted by the low, rumbling snores that made her want to giggle. It was oddly reassuring to know he wasn’t without flaws.

Soft, steady rain pattered against the windows. She eased out from under Luca’s arm and moved to perch on the narrow window ledge, opening the unshuttered window to look down at the neighbour’s garden. The sweet apricot-scent of the riot of pink oleanders mixed with the smell of rain-wet earth, but the view was blurred and distorted by the rain. It was a soft rain, warmer than English rain, but she still had no desire to go running in it. She turned back to the bed, where Luca lay asleep on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes, and that glorious expanse of bare chest on display.

Even looking at him, her whole body warmed. Not with desire—well, notonlywith desire—but with a sense of rightness.

Beneath the eaves, a pigeon cooed, echoed by another, and Luca shifted in his sleep, reaching for her. With a smile, she moved back to the bed, sliding beneath the covers, to snuggle against his warmth. This was the perfect weather to stay in bed. Still smiling, she drifted back into sleep.

He woke her later, with kisses along her collarbone, his fingers slipping between her legs, and she murmured her approval. The room was brighter now, suggesting the rain had stopped, and promising a warmer, brighter day. She could see the shape of him, the contours of his shoulders, against the light. He proved, again, the benefit of getting to know a woman before making love to her—he knew exactly what she needed, how to play her body until she was breathlessly calling out his name.

After, her body sated, she lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to a normal rhythm beneath her ear. And that was when her brain finally woke. Last night had been incredible. Better than incredible. But what was she thinking? This could go nowhere.

She closed her eyes, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Did this have to go anywhere? Surely she could do what her friends suggested—hell, what she herself had once told Sarah to do—and indulge in a holiday fling knowing it had no future. She’d enjoyed holiday romances before and walked away with her heart intact.

But there was the problem. Luca wasn’t some lifeguard on a Spanish beach, to have a little fun with and walk away from. This was more than a holiday fling.

They’d become friends. They worked together. They’d spent nearly every waking moment together for weeks, and instead of growing bored, as she usually would have done by now, they’d grown closer. He was considerate, intelligent, fun to be with … and then there was the sex.

Sex with Luca was … different. Sure, it was hot and sweaty and a little dirty—all the things great sex should be—but it had also been slow and intimate, as if it was more than just sex. As if he was making love to her.

Could she do this without getting her heart broken?

She breathed in the salty scent of his skin, stroked a hand over his taut stomach. She would have to, because no way was she going to deny herself these next two weeks.

---