Page 32 of Italian Weddings

S HE WALKED SLOWLY, PERHAPS giving herself every possible opportunity to change her mind.

Except, the opposite seemed to be happening.

With each careful, deliberate step lower, anticipation was building inside of her, just as it had in Moricosia over the course of their time there.

Every encounter, every brush of their hands or meeting of their eyes, had, bit by bit, built a fire of need in her belly that only being with Salvatore would put out.

Yet it still burned, even now. Six months later, despite the fact they hadn’t seen each other.

“Well?” she asked, impressed that she managed to keep her voice light and carefree. “What can I do for you, Salvatore?”

“That’s an interesting question.”

“But is there an answer?”

“There are many answers.” Once more, he raked his gaze over her body, and this time, her nipples tingled as though he were touching them, forming hard peaks against the soft fabric of her dress.

She dug her fingernails into her palms to counter the moan that was forming in the base of her throat.

No way would she so easily reveal how quickly he could affect her.

Then again, she didn’t need to moan to confirm that he was doing something to her pulse…his eyes hovered on her breasts, his smirk grew smirkier, and then, one of his hands was moving to her hip, fingers curving around her and drawing her closer.

“This dress should be illegal.”

“You don’t like it?” she murmured, perfectly aware he felt the opposite.

“I prefer what’s underneath.”

“Funny, I thought about coming to this thing naked, but I changed my mind at the last moment.”

He laughed at that, and a shot of warmth fired through her.

She tamped down on the pleasure she got from knowing she’d been the one to make him laugh.

That’s not what this was about. Slowly, she took a sip of her drink, but a second later, his hand reached down and curled around the glass, taking it from her and lifting it to his own lips.

His eyes held hers as he tasted it, and her heart did a funny little tremble in response.

“You know, you were just at the bar,” she drawled, and in response, he took another taste, eyes still on hers. This time, unmistakably, there was a spirit of provocation in their depths, like he was looking at her as though he wanted to see her lose her temper.

“Why am I not surprised? A Valentino doesn’t know how to share.”

“And a Santoro takes what he wants regardless.”

“Touché. But if memory serves, you’re the one who picked up the contract in Moricosia.”

“And don’t you just hate that?”

His eyes flashed with something raw and real, briefly belying the flirtiness of their banter. “King Ares could not award it to us. Not after he and Sofia got together.”

“Tsk, tsk,” she murmured, swiping her drink back and finishing it, staring him down as the last drop of the astringent liquid hit her mouth. “That sounds an awful lot like sour grapes.”

“You’re calling me a poor loser?”

“If the shoe fits…”

“I don’t like to lose,” he agreed. “But I’ll tolerate it when it’s fair.”

“Now you’re crying foul?”

He shrugged laconically. “If you can be happy winning work just because we were essentially disqualified…”

“Would it kill you to tell me my design was better?”

“I’ve never been much of a liar.”

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she was torn between hate and lust. “You are such a piece of work. You can’t even bring yourself to congratulate me?”

He grinned then; a sexy, twisty smile that made her wonder if he was being so outrageous just to provoke her. If so, it had worked. Spectacularly. Anger fizzed in her veins, reminding her of the fact she’d spent a lifetime hating these people with every fibre of her being.

And this line of questioning was only making it worse, because the truth was, while she believed their design was superior to the Santoro tender, ever since being awarded the project, they’d been beset by problem after problem.

From an obstructive government to a major issue with one of their suppliers, Emilia had spent the last few months practically tearing her hair out over the details—and halfway wishing they hadn’t been successful in winning the project after all.

But then, the alternative would have meant leaving it to the Santoros, and there was no way they’d ever have done that. When it came to beating this family, the Valentinos had a clear mission in life.

“I would never have come to this thing if I’d known your family was a major sponsor.”

“Scared to see me?”

“Not interested in being in the same room as you.”

“Says the woman who just followed me into the fire escape,” he pointed out, and his hand on her hip pulled her closer, hard against his body, so she felt the jut of his cock and that same smothered groan made a bid for freedom.

The most that emerged though was a quick burst of breath—an indignant sound of surprise.

“I was intrigued, what can I say?”

“And now?” His hand shifted from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her further forward. Her gaze dropped, helplessly, to his throat, locking to the stubble covered Adam’s apple there.

“ Now,” she said, desperately trying to think of something pithy and condescending to say, but her mind drew a blank.

His finger beneath her chin angled her face, so her eyes were locked to his once more, held captive by his attention, and the way he stared through her.

“Yes?”

His hand began to ruche the silky fabric of her dress, pulling it into his fist, one inch at a time, until he’d caught it all and she felt the cold air of the stairwell against her exposed legs and backside.

She wore a flimsy thong—really just a scrap of fine lace—to avoid visible lines beneath the dress, so it was easy for him to bring his other hand around and cup her naked butt.

She gasped again. “Salvatore!” His name was supposed to be a curse, a criticism, but she was very aware it came out as a plea.

Just as it had the night they’d slept together, when he’d mimicked her desperate, hungry cries and she’d sworn she’d never forget how much she hated him.

When she’d made them both swear that it would be the one and only night they shared.

“I’m not sleeping with you again,” she said, on a husk.

Another grin flickered on his lips—all sexy, confident.

“Who said anything about sleep?” His mouth meshed with hers in a manner that was as demanding as it was fierce.

It had been six long months since they’d been together—six months since she’d been with anyone, even just a kiss, a look or a touch—and her body seemed to be rejoicing in this sudden burst of intimacy, and the promise of what was to come.

A voice in the back of her mind—the sensible voice of Valentino reason—was shouting at her to knee him in the groin or pull away from him and shoot him down with a withering glare and a few choice words, but that voice was drowned out by the rampant, incessant hum of need pounding through her.

“I hate you, you know,” she said against his mouth, as her hands pulled his shirt from his pants, so her fingertips could trail over his naked flesh.

“You’re supposed to hate me,” he murmured, as he dragged his mouth from her lips along the side of her jaw, to the sensitive pulse point just beneath her ear and flicked her there.

She arched her back in an uncontrollable physical response to the waves of desire he was so effortlessly evoking. “That’s what we do, remember?”

It was hard to remember anything when his hand was pushing her thong down her legs, until she’d stepped out of them and the underwear was on the cold concrete floor beneath them.

“Hate each other,” he promised, moving his hand to her sex. While he touched her there, he pulled his head away, so his eyes could spear her, watching her reaction.

And damn it, she wasn’t quick enough to conceal the pleasure he gave her. She wasn’t quick enough to hide the way his touch set her pulse racing, the flush in her cheeks, the way her lips parted on a giddy sigh of anticipation.

“Yes, hate each other,” she mumbled, not entirely cognizant of what she was saying.

“But that’s no reason we can’t still do this,” he said, as he drove a finger into her, and she bucked her hips hard.

“Actually,” the word came as a breathless plea. “I think it’s a damn good reason we shouldn’t do this, but I don’t care,” she moaned. “Fuck me, Salvatore, now.”

“Here?”

“Unless you can produce a bed out of thin air, then here will do fine.”

His response was to unfasten his trousers and pull himself from them, at the same time he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a condom, opening the packet and unfurling it over his length.

In the minuscule fragment of her brain that was still capable of thinking rationally, she couldn’t help but register the fact he had the condom, like he knew he’d be using it tonight.

If not with her, then with someone else.

Because that’s who Salvatore Santoro was.

She’d known that even before they’d landed in Moricosia.

Whereas she’d spent the last six months in the sexual wilderness, she had no doubt he’d been happily taking whomever he fancied to bed.

But before the realisation could lead to anything less pleasant, like a change of heart and mind, he was pulling her with him, further down the stairs, sitting then on the top step of the next landing, his hard cock protruding from his pants, his brows quirked expectantly.

Emilia wished she had it in her to walk away from him. Bastard deserved it. The thought of leaving him like this, high and dry and desperate for her, was infinitely appealing—except she had no doubt he’d just zip himself up and find someone else.

And then she’d be the one going home alone, a small point scored. She’d have won this battle, yet the war would be his. A hollow victory indeed.