Her mind—her will—was in free fall—cascading into surrender.
And the hands which had been braced in the beginnings of protest against the wall of his chest lifted and locked at the nape of his neck.
At first it was a gentle, almost leisurely exploration of her mouth, as if he was learning the taste—the texture of her. Then, slowly, the kiss deepened, imposing new demands. Testing the outer limits of her control. And his.
Her body was pressed against him, making her aware that he was powerfully aroused. The hurry of his heartbeat seemed translated into her own being.
He pushed a hand into her hair, twining the silky strands round his fingers, drawing her head backwards so that the long, lovely line of her throat was exposed and vulnerable to the lingering passage of his caress. His lips found the pink shell of her ear, then travelled down to the frantic tumult of her pulse.
She gasped as she felt the heated, animal surge in her blood. As his lips encountered the delicate hollows at the base of her throat, pushing aside the narrow strap, baring the curve of her shoulder.
The long fingers found the rounded curve of her breast, moulding it gently as his thumb moved delicately, voluptuously on the hardening nipple. Flora leaned her forehead against his shoulder, eyes closed, lost in exquisite shuddering sensation.
Whatever coherency remained in her mind told her that she had never felt like this before. Never dreamed it was possible that she could want like this. That she could welcome every new intimacy and long for more.
She heard herself say hoarsely, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Everything.’ His voice was a husky whisper, the single word an affirmation. Almost a warning.
He kissed her again with slow, sensual purpose, while his hands continued their absorbed, teasing play with the heated peaks of her breasts, making her sigh her pleasure against his lips.
She wasn’t even sure when he released the zip at the back of her dress, letting the soft fabric slide away from her shivering skin.
He lifted her into his arms, sinking back with her on to the sofa, holding her so that she was lying across his thighs, the black dress pooling round her hips, her entire body attuned—accessible—to the touch of his hands and mouth.
She heard him murmur in throaty appreciation as his dark head bent to adore the scented mounds he had uncovered, and she quivered as she felt the burn of his lips against her skin—the flickering glide of his tongue on her nipples.
She made a little stifled sound and he lifted his head, looking down at her, the green eyes warm and slumbrous.
‘You don’t like that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Too much—too much.’
He stroked each taut peak with a gentle finger. ‘They are like tiny roses,’ he told her softly. ‘Only more sweet.’
Her own hands were pulling feverishly at the buttons on his shirt to free them, touch the heated, hair-roughened skin beneath, and he helped her, dragging the loosened edges apart, then lifting her triumphantly, almost fiercely, so that her naked breasts grazed his own.
His mouth closed on hers with renewed fire, and she clung to him, half dizzy with abandonment, aware of nothing but the pagan clamour of her flesh.
He moved suddenly, lifting her away from him, setting her on her feet, and for an instant she looked at him in mute bewilderment. He smiled slowly up at her, letting his hands drift down her body to disentangle her finally from the ruin of her dress.
When it was done Marco stared at her for a long moment, absorbing the contrast between the creaminess of her skin and the silken black of the tiny undergarment which was her sole remaining covering.
He said softly, ‘All evening I have been imagining how you would look at this moment, and you are more beautiful than any fantasy, Flora mia.’
His fingers spanned her waist lightly. ‘Because you are real.’
His touch lingered on her flat stomach. ‘And warm.’
His hand moved downward, brushing over the fragile silk, until he reached the scalding secret core of her, where he lingered.
‘And wanting me,’ he added huskily.
With one lithe movement he was on his feet, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and walking with her out of the room, and across the passage into the stark whiteness of her bedroom.
Still holding her, he bent slightly, switching on the lamp beside the bed, then took hold of the immaculate bedspread, pulling it back and tossing it to the foot of the bed before lowering Flora to the mattress.
She looked up at him through half-closed eyes as he stood over her. She was aware of the thud of her heart, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as sudden nervousness lent an edge to her excitement. And she was conscious too that it was a stranger’s face that looked down at her in the lamplight, shadowed and almost feral in its intensity.
Her throat tightened. ‘Is something—wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ The sound of her voice seemed to awake him from some spell. His smile banished the shadow—or had that just been a figment of her overwrought imagination? ‘Except that you are still wearing too many clothes, mia bella.’
‘So,’ she whispered, ‘are you.’
‘You think so?’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Well, that is easily remedied.’
He stripped with deftness and grace, and without apparent self-consciousness, although she knew he was watching her watch him.
Watching her widening eyes, and the swift, betraying flush that stained her cheeks as she absorbed his lean, strong, totally masculine beauty. The flutter of the muscles in her suddenly dry throat, as apprehension took hold. As she remembered…
Her eyes and her mind went blank. She wanted to run—to hide—to be a thousand miles from this place—this room—this bed—where pain and humiliation waited for her all over again.
The flame in her veins was cooling to ice. The swift, mindless rapture that had consumed her such a short time ago had burned itself out, leaving her with only the ashes.
She thought, Oh, God—what can I do? What can I say…?
She felt the bed dip as he came to lie beside her. Heard him say her name with a question in his voice.
Fingers as gentle as the brush of a feather stroked her hot cheek, then inexorably turned her face towards him.
He said quietly, ‘Tell me.’
Pointless to pretend she didn’t understand.
She said, falteringly, ‘I’m not a virgin—at least, not completely.’
She’d been afraid he would laugh, or be scornful, but instead he nodded, the green eyes thoughtful.
‘You are telling me that you have made love with your fidanzato after all?’
‘Not—exactly.’ She swallowed. ‘This is—so difficult to explain.’
‘No,’ Marco said. ‘You forget—I have seen your eyes, mia bella. And I do not believe that your first surrender was a happy experience for you. Is that what you are trying to say?’
‘Yes—I suppose.’ She flushed unhappily, avoiding his gaze. ‘But it wasn’t Chris’s fault. I just didn’t realise it would—hurt so much.’
She tried to smile. ‘It’s so ridiculous. I’m a twenty-first century woman, not some early Victorian. It never occurred to me…’ Her