His lips moved to her neck. ‘You’re driving me crazy—do you know that?’
‘S-snap,’ she managed, through bone-dry lips.
He tried to tell himself that he shouldn’t be doing this—but hard on the heels of that one intrusive thought came another. Could he strip her bare? Was there time to have her lying naked on the floor of his office—her limbs splayed out with indolent abandon—so that he could feast his eyes on her pink and white softness while he made love to her one more blissful time?
No. This whole scenario was crazy enough—but that would be sheer madness. And what if someone came in? Urgently, Riccardo began to ruck up her dress. Nobody would dare to come in—not without knocking first. And in the meantime, he couldn’t wait any longer.
Angie shuddered as his lips moved from her neck to her jaw and then began to graze at her mouth—and as she responded hungrily to that tantalising, teasing kiss she could feel him begin to peel off her tights.
‘Should…should we be doing this?’ she managed.
‘Sì,’ he ground out, tossing the tights away and whispering his fingertip inside her panties so that she bucked.
‘Oh.’
‘Unzip me,’ he demanded unsteadily.
With infinite trembling care, Angie complied—dealing with the soft leather belt with dextrous skill and then carefully sliding down the zip and hearing him bite out his pleasure as she freed him. She had never made love like this before—with a frantic disregard for anything other than the urgent need to join together. So that clothes were merely a barrier to be removed as swiftly and as efficiently as possible.
‘Please, Riccardo,’ she begged as he began to slide her panties down over her knees.
‘Please what?’ he taunted, but he was having trouble putting on the condom, he was so aroused.
Her head fell back. ‘I’m not going to beg you,’ she slurred.
‘I’ll stop then, shall I?’ he demanded silkily.
Her eyes trembled open to find that the mocking challenge of his words was not matched by the opaque look of hunger in his black eyes—and suddenly Angie didn’t care about games, or power. All she cared about was him; but then she always had.
‘No, don’t stop,’ she whispered, and the words seemed to come straight from her heart. ‘Just make love to me.’
If he fundamentally disagreed with her choice of words—that there was little of love in this swift coupling—he was in no fit state to be able to articulate it. All he could do was thrust into her—as if driven by a force far stronger than his own will, or sense of reason. And all he could feel was her melting, welcoming tight-ness and the way she clung to him. The little sounds she made before he was forced to kiss silent her gasping orgasm—until his own made the world retreat, like the distant sound of people playing on the shoreline when you were swimming far out to sea.
It seemed to take for ever before he felt consciousness return—though it was probably only minutes—and for a moment Riccardo just registered all the sensations which were bathing his body in a warm glow. The feel of her warm breath fanning contentedly against his neck in small, even sighs. Her arms wrapped tightly around his back as if she never wanted to let him go. And her fading waves of pleasure pulsating softly against his manhood.
He felt her wriggle contentedly—and, with a reluctance which surprised him, slowly began to disentangle himself. ‘You’d better straighten your clothing,’ he said abruptly.
His harsh words shattered the dreamy thoughts she’d been having and Angie opened her eyes. If she had been hoping for passionate words to end such a passionate interlude, then it seemed she was to be badly disappointed. And there she had been—stupidly fantasising that Riccardo might actually care about her. How wrong could she be? As if a proud and patrician man could ever care about a woman who let him take her on the office floor with such careless abandon. Slowly, she sat up—still feeling dizzy and now slightly empty as she grabbed at her discarded tights, her cheeks flaming with shame.
‘I need…to freshen up,’ she said and on bare feet she walked unsteadily over to the bathroom which stood at the far end of the office suite. Once inside, she concentrated fiercely on pulling herself together—glad that Riccardo’s European sensibilities meant that he’d insisted on installing a bidet. But the act of touching herself where he had so recently touched her somehow made her feel more decadent still—and hot on the evocative memories of how he’d made her react came the tumbling feelings of insecurity.
Smelling now of spicy fragrant soap, she risked a look in the mirror—splashing cold water over her heated cheeks and raking her fingers back through the new haircut in an attempt to restore some order. But no sense of order could dampen down the tumult of her thoughts.
She half wondered if Riccardo might not have taken himself from the office during her absence—because wouldn’t that be easier for both of them? If he went away and then came back later as if nothing had happened. To pretend that such an angry and erotic encounter had never taken place. But he had not. He was still there—though thank heavens he had moved from the floor and had straightened his own clothes. Now he was leaning back against the giant desk, looking like a king surveying one of his lowly subjects as she walked back into the office with her head held determinedly high.
But she had just had sex with him, for heaven’s sake—the most unbelievably exciting sex she could have imagined. Sex that he had instigated and that she, so completely transfixed by him, had joyously participated in. So she was not going to act as if nothing had happened. It had—and she needed to know where she stood.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘So now what, Riccardo?’
From between narrowed eyes he regarded her. Or rather, he regarded the curve of her bottom since she was in the process of retrieving her shoes and putting them back on. And then she straightened up—and it was…amazing. He swallowed. Apart from the faint flush of pink to her cheeks and the extra-bright glitter to her eyes you wouldn’t think she had just been doing anything more taxing than taking dictation. And the memory of just how enthusiastically she had writhed beneath him made him begin to grow hard again. How could this damned mouse of a woman make him feel so horny?
His black eyes glittered. ‘You’re applying for other jobs. You don’t want to work for me any more.’
It was more a question of what she needed, rather than what she wanted. Because what she wanted from Riccardo he would never give her. He would never love her—and sex was simply a poor substitute. A very pleasurable substitute, it was true—but she knew that it would eat away at her if she allowed it to continue. And surely it would destroy her when it stopped…‘No,’ she lied. ‘I don’t.’
He smiled. And maybe that would be best for all concerned, in view of what had just happened. ‘Well, I have a proposition to put to you which I think will satisfy both of us,’ he said slowly.
Angie knew Riccardo well enough to sense danger. ‘Prop-proposition?’ she questioned.
‘You know that I’m travelling out to Tuscany for my sister’s wedding?’
‘Of course.’
His black eyes glittered. ‘Well, I want you to come with me.’
Confused, Angie stared at him. ‘You’re kidding?’
Riccardo allowed himself a slow smile. If she left his employment it would be a bore and an inconvenience—and he was intolerant of anything which spoiled the smooth running of his life. But he could cope with disruption. What he could most emphatically not cope with was the fact that his little Miss Mouse had been driving him crazy with desire and he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Like some invisible and persistent itch, she had burrowed beneath his skin. So that he’d found himself waking in the night—hot and hard as he imagined losing himself in that deceptively