Page 39 of Italian Weddings

“Agreed. I don’t remember the last time I was with a woman for more than three dates anyway.”

“Then why bother having this conversation? By my count, we’re done after tonight.”

He raised both brows. “ Touché. Turns out, the forbidden fruit is hard to resist.”

She pulled a face. “Tell me about it.”

“So, how long?” he prompted.

Emilia considered that. “Well, it’s my birthday in a month, and I always go home to spend the weekend with my parents. I’ll probably stay in Italy for a few weeks, catch up with friends. That seems like a natural end-point to me.”

“A month? Easy.”

“Or sooner, if we want.”

“Great.” And there was such confidence in his tone that it was easy for Emilia to let it seep into her body and push away any lingering reservations she held.

She knew it wasn’t her best life decision, but at the same time, so long as she and Salvatore went into this with their eyes open, and took care to make sure no one ever found out, what possible harm could there be?

Absolutely none. They’d be careful, they’d be care-free, and when the time came, they’d both walk away without a backwards glance.

It was a recipe for success, and suddenly, Emilia was relishing the prospect of throwing herself into a month of no-holds-barred sex with the hottest guy she’d ever known. Starting with right now…

“ Cristo, I’m going to have to work on my stamina for the next month, if I want to keep up with you,” he teased, later, when their food had arrived and they were surrounded by the wreckage of their meals.

She stuffed a french fry into her mouth, then shook her head. “If you’re fishing for compliments, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Oh?”

“You know there’s nothing wrong with your stamina.”

He grinned. “I’m pleased to hear you think so.”

She rolled her eyes. “Anyone would think so—and I can’t believe it’s not something you haven’t heard a million times.”

“A million? Slight exaggeration there.”

“You know what I mean.”

He took a drink of mineral water.

“Can I ask you something?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Does it breech our rules?”

She considered that. “How about I ask, and if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you really sleep around as much as the internet would make it appear?”

“Yes.”

She wondered at the sudden drop in her gut.

“You look surprised.”

Damn it. She’d have to be more careful around Salvatore. For whatever reason, he seemed to possess the ability to read her like an open book.

“I suppose I thought it might be an exaggeration.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re photographed with a lot of different women.”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying you sleep with all of them?”

“Not all.”

“But most?”

“I don’t keep a tally.”

She frowned. That sounded like a lot.

“What’s the problem? You don’t approve?”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Her brow furrowed as she sought for a way to explain. “It’s just—a point of difference between us.”

“You’ve already told me that you don’t make a habit of this.”

She nodded.

“But you’ve had some experience,” he prompted.

She nodded again.

“How much?”

“You don’t keep a tally, what makes you think I do?”

“That’s a clever way of side-stepping the question.”

She had to admire him for that, too. Yet another way in which he seemed to innately understand her.

“I could torture it out of you, you know.”

“Torture?”

“Pleasure.” He reached out and brushed a hand over her exposed thigh so she gave a husky little uneven breath as her body—so tired and pleasured already—experienced the stirrings of need, all over again.

Her eyes shifted to his and scanned his face, almost as though it was committing his appearance to memory.

She blinked away, reaching for another french fry.

“I’ve dated. But I’m generally careful before I let it get physical.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, this isn’t the norm for me.”

He nodded slowly, like he was going to accept that answer, but then, all of a sudden, he was moving, bringing his body over hers, uncaring for the food that was between them and the way the chips spilled out onto the sheets.

And a second later, she was uncaring, too, because his mouth was at her throat, kissing her, sucking, tasting, and then flicking lower, to her breast, his breath warm against her skin.

Her nipples, already sensitive from so much attention, sparked the second he touched them, and she whimpered.

A plea. To stop, to never stop. She wasn’t sure.

“Ten men?” he asked, rolling her nipple with his tongue.

She groaned. “No.”

“Less? More?”

She arched her back in a silent invitation, her whole body stirring now and needing everything he could give her. Again.

“Emilia?” his tone was sharp as he lifted his head, eyes linked to hers, but then, his fingers were at her other nipple, rolling it, then squeezing, just hard enough to send arrows of need through her overwrought body.

“You’re making it hard to think straight.”

“Want me to stop?”

She shot him a fulminating glare. “No.”

“Good answer. Now, give me another one.”

“Another what.”

“Answer.” She bit into her lip as he moved his mouth to the breast he’d just been squeezing, and pressed the same pressure points, so she was practically exploding already.

“Fewer than ten.”

“Nine?” he asked, bringing his hand between her legs and separating them, hovering right at her sex so she was holding her breath without even realising it.

“Fewer,” she almost screamed, the need, pleasure, pressure, all too much.

“Interesting.” He slid a finger inside of her wet core and she bucked against his hand, heat spreading through her body and to the roots of her hair.

“Eight?”

“Fewer,” she panted, as he began to move, and her cells trembled with the promise of what he was offering.

“Seven men?”

He placed his mouth over her other nipple, tormenting this one now, as his fingers pushed inside of her mercilessly, until she was whimpering and digging her fingernails into his shoulders, the word ‘please’ tumbling from her lips over and over.

“Salvatore,” she cried. “I—can’t—think?—,”

“Then don’t think,” he said, moving his mouth higher, to claim hers, his body over hers now, the weight its own kind of delicious, addicting pleasure. “Just float.”

She groaned, riding the wave he was building inside of her, with his skillful fingers, mouth, and proximity, so she was almost on fire with delirium, and then, the flames licking through her caught, sending fire through her entire body.

She was in free fall and she didn’t care—she only cared that it wouldn’t stop.

“I—can’t—I?—,”

“I know, I know,” and then he was kissing her hard, absorbing her frantic cries, his mouth effortlessly dominating and delighting her, so she couldn’t think of a more sublime moment in her life.

And then, she was coming, again, fast, recklessly and completely, at his mercy, in a way it didn’t even occur to her to mind.

“You’re leaving?”

It was still dark out. Well, as dark as Manhattan was capable of being, given the sparkly lights in each and every high-rise. “I thought you were asleep,” she murmured. Now fully dressed, she turned back to the bed.

“I think I was.”

She smiled without realising it. “We both were.”

He shifted his weight, propping up a little and resting his head on one palm.

“Let me rephrase. Why are you leaving?”

She hesitated at the foot of the bed, the conversation she’d been playing out in her mind for the last twenty minutes still going back and forth on repeat. But she knew she’d come to the right conclusion in the end. “New rule,” she said, keeping her tone light.

“I’m listening.”

“No sleeping over.”

He arched his brows. “No?”

She shook her head.

“What’s wrong with sleeping in the same bed?”

She bit into her lower lip. “It’s just too intimate.”

“Emilia, I have tasted you and been insides you. Yet sleeping in the same bed is where you draw the line?”

She flushed to the roots of her hair. “You know what I mean. It’s different. Like being in each other’s apartments.”

“I have no issue with sharing a bed,” he said, moving to sit properly now, then standing on the carpeted floor. “But if that’s a hard no for you, it’s fine by me.”

“It is,” she said, on a wave of relief. For some reason, it just felt more personal, somehow.

Like there was more scope for getting to know each other.

Liking each other. What Emilia wanted was to keep this—whatever it was—to a strictly ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am,’ kind of scenario.

Because she wasn’t used to this. And for all they’d put guardrails in place, she suspected it was going to be harder for Emilia to keep the lines between them unblurred than it would be for Salvatore, who’d slept with so many women he’d lost count.

In fact, the sooner she got out of there, the better.

“Okay,” she nodded. “I’ll go.” She moved to the door, holding her breath for no reason she could think of.

His raw laugh chased after her though, and a second later, his hand curled around her wrist. “Wait a second. What’s the rush?”

She glanced up at him, hit powerfully by their height difference. And his broad shoulders. And muscled torso. And incredibly hypnotic eyes. She swallowed past a constriction in her throat.

His hand lifted, curving around her cheek. “Is a kiss goodbye against the rules, too?”

Her lips parted, and something in her chest kerthunked. “I didn’t have you pegged as the sentimental type.”

His grin was almost her undoing. Sexy and slow, it made her insides turn to mush.

“Believe me, there’s nothing sentimental about the way I kiss.

” A second later, he was showing her why—with a kiss that was, instead, a promise of what was to come, next time.

A kiss that was pure seduction and skill, desire and desperation.

A kiss that left her knees trembling and her pulse racing, so when he dropped his hand and stepped back from her, Emilia could only stare at him for several seconds before remembering where she was—and that she was in the process of leaving.

She stepped outside before she could do something stupid, and leap right back into bed again.