Page 33 of Italian Weddings
So she caught her dress in her palms as she came to straddle him, the concrete cold beneath her palms as she braced herself above him.
“I really do hate you,” she promised once more, because it felt as though it somehow lessened the betrayal of her family, a little, if she only made love to him when she was reminding them both of the true state of affairs.
“That may be the case, cara, but you also love to fuck me, don’t you?”
She sucked in a sharp breath at the confidence in his voice, and the brief spurt of indecision that fired through her—the worry that maybe this wasn’t as mutual as she’d thought?
Except then, his hand was moving to the back of her head, his fingers toying with the neat, professionally styled bun, pulling her hair out over her shoulders. His eyes had an intensity that almost burned her alive when he said, “I like your hair like this.”
It caught at something inside her chest, something she didn’t want to feel or analyse, so she moved over him then and took his length deep inside her, hard and fast, smothering a curse at the feeling of fullness, the sheer size of him, his strength.
And then, her hips were rocking to their own dance, moving in a desperate, hungry tattoo, until he was exactly where and what she needed.
She arched her back as she came, her breasts pushed forward, and through the fabric of her dress, he took a nipple in his mouth, sucking it and pressing his teeth into her flesh until she was crying out, over and over, her whole body lighting up like a Christmas tree, as pleasure burst through every single part of her central nervous system.
She’d been wrong, in Moricosia. That orgasm had been great, but this…this was beyond description. Emilia was floating, and it was impossible to care that it was all because of Salvatore.
“You bastard,” she said, staring at her reflection in a small compact mirror from her clutch purse.
She looked…like a woman who’d just been ravaged in the cold, barren wilderness of the fire escape stairwell.
She looked like a woman who’d sold herself to the devil.
Her hair wasn’t just in disarray, it was completely wild—made that way by the fast, furious tangle of his fingers, as he’d combed and pulled at the ends, in a dramatic mirroring of their making love.
But her dress was a whole other level of bad.
The soft silk was crumpled all over, a thousand tiny creases from the way it had been scrunched at her hips, and both breasts showed round circles of moisture, from where his mouth had hungrily sought her nipples, tormenting her in a way she hadn’t even registered would leave marks.
Her lipstick was smudged, too—but she could fix that. The rest was a disaster.
“You look good,” he promised, but with that infuriating, irritating, overly-cocky smile, that made her wonder if just maybe he’d planned this. To embarrass her? She wouldn’t put it past him.
“I can’t go in there like this, and you know it.”
“Why not?” His smirk made her itch to slap him.
“Oh—just—go to hell,” she muttered. Then, as an afterthought, “Actually, make yourself useful?—,”
“I thought I’d already done that. Three times, if I’m not mistaken?”
Heat bloomed over her face. “Hold this.” She shoved the mirror towards him. “And stop gloating. It’s not attractive.”
He shot her a look that was laced with skepticism but at least he did hold the mirror for her while she attempted to return order to her hair.
It only took a few minutes, and it wasn’t quite the same effect, but at least the stylist had used enough of a setting spray that it seemed to want to be molded back into a bun shape.
“You should leave it out.” The husk in Salvatore’s voice was like a fresh breath of need, catching her by surprise.
How could she possibly want him again? He was right—she’d been tipped over the edge of pleasure three times in under ten minutes.
Her first assessment of him as ‘God’s gift’ was sticking.
And, as with the first night they spent together, she knew it shouldn’t have happened, even when she easily accepted wild horses wouldn’t have stopped it.
“It would raise questions.”
“And your dress won’t?”
She threw him a frustrated look. “No, because you’re going to lend me your jacket.”
He laughed then, a sound of disbelief, but quickly sobered. “You don’t think that will raise even more? If I appear without a jacket and you’re wearing one all of a sudden?”
“I just need it to get to the ladies’ room. I’ll dry my dress there. Though next time, if you could show a modicum of restraint and not ruin my clothes, I’d be very grateful.”
“Next time, Emilia? Isn’t that a little presumptuous?”
Her lips parted in surprise at the stupid slip she’d made, and the way he’d easily capitalised on it. Embarrassment had her toes curling. “You’re right. Better to assume there won’t be a next time.”
“We’ll see.” His smile was all smug, and she could barely look at him, so she went back to fixing her face, pleased that she looked almost completely normal. “Jacket?” She held out her hand, not meeting his eyes.
He removed it, watching her the whole time—she could feel the heat of his gaze on her—before he handed it over.
The second she pushed it on, she wished there’d been an alternative, because it was still warm from his body, and it had his citrusy masculine fragrance in it. She resisted the urge to breathe it in.
He turned and stalked up the stairs and she took a few moments to collect herself before following behind.
“I’ll leave your jacket here once I’m done,” she said, frowning as she looked around for her discarded underwear.
They were nowhere to be seen.
“Salvatore…” she looked at him helplessly, but his response was just a flicker of one brow. He walked back towards her, slowly, intent in his gaze.
“You have something of mine,” she said weakly—his proximity had made it hard to speak.
“And you can get it back from me…next time.” Then, he was kissing her once more, pulling her against his body, holding her there, all fire, flame and the same urgent need that had pulled them apart earlier, and six months ago. “You have my number, Emilia.” Another kiss. “Use it.”
Anger made her want to shout after him, “Never in a million years!” but it turned out, they had something in common after all: neither of them liked to lie.