HE DIDN’T OFFER HER a coffee, nor a drink. He didn’t even put the lamps on. Alannah didn’t know whether Niccolò had intended a slow seduction—but it didn’t look as if she was going to get one. Because from the moment the front door of his Mayfair apartment slammed shut on them, he started acting like a man who had lost control.
His hands were in her hair, he was tugging her coat from her shoulders so that it slid unnoticed to the ground and his mouth was pressing down on hers. It was breathless. It was hot. It was…hungry. Alannah gasped as he caught her in his arms. He was burying his mouth in her hair and muttering urgent little words in Sicilian and, although her Italian was good, she didn’t understand any of them. But she didn’t need to. You wouldn’t have to be a linguist to understand what Niccolò was saying to her. The raw, primitive sounds of need were international, weren’t they?
He placed his hands on either side of her hips and drew her closer, so that she could feel the hard cradle of him pressing against her. He kissed her again and as the kiss became deeper and more urgent she felt him moving her, until suddenly she felt the hard surface of the wall pressed against her back and her eyelids flew open.
He drew back, his eyes blazing. ‘I want you,’ he said. ‘I want to eat you. To suck you. To bite you. To lick you.’
She found his blatantly erotic words more than a little intimidating and momentarily she stiffened—wondering if she should confess that she wasn’t very good at this. But now his palms were skating over her dress to mould the outline of her hips and the words simply wouldn’t come. She felt his hand moving over her belly. She heard him suck in a ragged breath of pleasure as he began to ruck up her dress.
‘Niccolò,’ she said uncertainly.
‘I want you,’ he ground out. ‘For ten years I have longed for this moment and now that it is here, I don’t think I can wait a second longer.’
Niccolò closed his eyes as he reached her panties and impatiently pushed the flimsy little panel aside, because she was wet. She was very wet. He could detect the musky aroma of her sex as he slid his fingers against her heated flesh and began to move them against her with practised ease.
‘Niccolò,’ she whispered again.
‘I want to see your breasts,’ he said, moving his shaking fingers to the lapels of her silky dress and beginning to unbutton it. Within seconds two luscious mounds were revealed—their creamy flesh spilling over the edge of her bra. He narrowed his eyes to look at them. ‘Madre di Dio,’ he breathed, his fingertips brushing over the soft skin. ‘In the flesh it is even better. You have the most beautiful body I have ever seen.’
And suddenly he knew he really couldn’t wait a second longer. Besides, she seemed more than ready for him. He felt as if something had taken hold of him and made him into someone he didn’t recognise. As if this wasn’t him at all but an imposter who’d entered his body. Unsteadily, he unzipped himself and he wanted to explode even before he positioned himself against her honeyed warmth.
She went very still as he entered her and for a moment he paused, afraid that he might come straight away—and when had that ever happened? But somehow he managed to keep it together, drawing in a deep breath and expelling it on another shuddering sigh as he began to move.
One hand was spread over her bare bottom as he hooked her legs around his hips and drove into her as if there were no tomorrow. As if there had been no yesterday. Her nails were digging into his neck as he kissed her, but he barely noticed the discomfort. He tried to hold back—to wait for her orgasm before letting go himself—but suddenly it was impossible and he knew he was going to come.
‘Alannah!’ he said, on a note of disbelief—and suddenly it was too late.
Wave after wave took him under. His frame was racked with spasms as he gasped out her name, caught up in a feeling so intense that he thought he might die from it. It felt like the first orgasm he’d ever had. He closed his eyes. The only orgasm he’d ever had. And it wasn’t until his body had grown completely still that he noticed how silent and how still she was.
He froze.
Of course she was.
Remorse filled him as she put her hand against his chest and pushed him away. And although withdrawing from her succulent heat was the last thing he felt like doing he could see from the tight expression on her face that she wanted him to. And who could blame her?
There had been no answering cry of fulfilment from her, had there? He had given her no real pleasure.
With a grimace, he eased himself from her sticky warmth, bending to pull up his trousers before carefully zipping them up. ‘Alannah?’
She didn’t answer straight away—she was too busy fastening her dress, her fingers fumbling to slide the buttons back in place. He went to help her, but her voice was sharp.
‘Don’t.’
He waited until she’d finished buttoning and whatever little insect brooch she was wearing was surveying him with baleful eyes, before he lifted her chin with his finger, so that their eyes were locked on a collision course. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does.’ He heard the flatness in her voice. ‘I’m not usually so…out of control.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry, Niccolò. I won’t tell anyone. Your reputation is safe with me.’
His mouth hardened and his body tensed. It was her cool response which made something inside him flare into life—a feeling of anger as much as desire. A feeling set off by wounded male pride and an urgent need to put things right. This had never happened to him before. He was usually the master of control. He had always prided himself on his lovemaking skills; his ability to give women physical pleasure—even if he could never satisfy them emotionally.
A shudder of comprehension made his blood run cold.
Did he really want her to walk away thinking of him as a selfish lover? As a man who took, but gave nothing back? Was that how he wanted her to remember him?
‘Let’s hope you don’t have to,’ he said, his voice full of sudden resolution as he bent down to slide his arm behind her knees and then lifted her up.
‘What…what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she spluttered as he began to carry her along the wide corridor.
‘I’m taking you to bed.’
‘Put me down! I don’t want to go to bed. I want to go home.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, kicking open his bedroom door and walking over to the vast bed, before setting her down in the centre of the mattress. His knees straddling her hips, he began to unbutton her dress, but she slapped his hand away and he realised that his normal methods of seduction weren’t going to work with her. Come to think of it, nothing felt remotely normal with her—and right now, this felt a million miles away from seduction.
He smoothed the tousled hair away from her face, staring down into the reproachful belligerence of her blue eyes, before slowly lowering his head to kiss her.
It wasn’t a kiss, so much as a duel.
For a few seconds she held back, as if he were kissing some cold, marble statue. She lay there like a human sacrifice. He could sense her anger and frustration, so he forced himself to take it slowly—so slowly that it nearly killed him. He explored her lips with a thoroughness which was new to him—until he felt he knew them almost better than his own. And as she gradually opened them up to him—when she had relaxed enough to let his tongue slide inside her mouth—it felt like one of the most intimate acts he’d ever taken part in.
Her hands reached for his shoulders and he took the opportunity to press his body close to hers, but the shudder of delight as their bodies crushed against each other was entirely new to him. And still he took it slowly—still feasting on her lips until he was certain that her own desire was strong enough to make her wriggle against him with a wordless message of frustration.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. Something told him that she didn’t want him to undress her and he suspected that doing so would shatter a mood which was already dangerously fragile. His hands were trembling as they slid beneath her dress to reacquaint themselves with the hot, moist flesh beneath her panties. He heard her give a little moan—a sound of pleasure and submission—and his heart hammered as he unzipped himself and tugged her panties down over her knees.
He was only vaguely aware of the awkward rumpling of their unfastened clothing, because by then he was caught up with a hunger so powerful that he groaned helplessly as he slid inside her for a second time. It felt… For a moment he didn’t move. It felt out of this world. He looked down to see an unmistakable flare of wonder in her eyes as he filled her, but just as quickly her dark lashes fluttered down to veil them. As if she was reluctantly granting him access to her body—but not to her thoughts.
He moved slowly. He kept her on the edge for a long time—until she was relaxed enough to let go. She wrapped her legs and her arms around him and held him close and Niccolò thought he’d never been quite so careful before. He’d learnt a lot about women’s bodies during a long and comprehensive sexual education, but with Alannah it became about much more than technique.
Her body began to change. He could feel the tension building until it was stretched so tightly that it could only shatter—and when it did, she made a series of gasping little sighs, before she started to convulse helplessly around him. He was dimly aware of the groan he gave before he too let go, his every spasm matching hers, and he could feel her heart beating very fast against his as his arms tightened around her.
He must have fallen asleep, because when he next became aware of his surroundings it was to feel her shifting out from under him. His fingers curled automatically around her waist. ‘What are you doing?’ he questioned sleepily, moving his head so that her lips were automatically redirected to his and his voice was indistinct as his tongue slid into her mouth. ‘Mmm?’
She let him kiss her for a moment before putting distance between them. He felt her lips ungluing themselves from his as she moved away.
‘It’s late, Niccolò—and this is a school night.’
He knew what she was doing. She was giving him the opportunity to end the evening now, without either of them losing face. He wondered if this was what she normally did—give into a hot and mindless lust without much forethought, before following it up with a cool smile as if nothing had happened?
Without much forethought.
The words struck him and imprinted themselves on his consciousness. Suddenly he went hot and then cold as he realised their implication and he stared at her with growing horror.
‘You know what we’ve just done?’ he questioned and there was a note in his voice he’d never heard before.
She tilted her chin, but he could see the way she had instinctively started to bite her lip. ‘Of course. We’ve just had sex. Twice.’
His fingers dug into her forearms, his voice suddenly urgent. ‘Are you on the pill?’
He saw the exact moment that it registered. That would be the moment when her blue eyes widened and her lips began to tremble.
‘We…’ she whispered. ‘We’ve…’
‘Yes,’ he completed grimly. ‘We’ve just had unprotected sex.’
She swallowed. ‘Oh, God,’ she breathed. ‘What are we going to do?’
He didn’t answer at once. It was pointless to concentrate on the anger and frustration which were building up inside him, because he could see that harsh words of recrimination would serve no useful purpose. His mouth hardened. He should have known better. How could he have failed to take contraception into account?
‘I think that there is only one thing we can do,’ he said. ‘We wait.’
‘I…guess so.’
He frowned as he noticed that her teeth had started to chatter. ‘You’re shivering. You need to get into bed.’
‘I don’t—’
‘I’m not listening to any objections,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’m going to undress you and put you to bed and then I’m going to make you tea.’
She wriggled. ‘Why don’t you go and make the tea and I’ll undress myself?’
He frowned, and there was a heartbeat of a pause. ‘Alannah, are you shy?’
She attempted a light little laugh, which didn’t quite come off. ‘Me? Shy? Don’t be ridiculous. How could I possibly be shy when I’ve exposed my body to the harsh glare of the camera?’
Placing his palms on either side of her face, he stared down into her wide blue eyes. ‘But stripping for a camera is a very anonymous thing to do,’ he said slowly. ‘While stripping for a man is intensely personal.’
She pulled a face. ‘Stick with the day job, Niccolò—I don’t think analysis is really your thing.’
Niccolò frowned. No, it wasn’t his thing at all. Normally he ran a million miles from trying to work out what was going on in a woman’s head. But most women weren’t perplexing enigmas, were they? They didn’t answer one question and immediately make you want to ask them a hundred more.
‘You’re shy,’ he repeated. ‘Are you going to tell me why?’
Alannah stifled a sigh as she looked at him, because telling Niccolò anything was the last thing she wanted. His lovemaking had left her feeling soft and vulnerable enough to have her defences weakened. And she wasn’t stupid. She might despise the men who persisted in thinking of her as nothing but a body—yet surely that was the main attraction for Niccolò, no matter how much he might try to deny it. Wouldn’t he be disappointed to discover the mundane truth about her?
Because iconic glamour models were supposed to typify sexuality, not belong to a band of women who had always found sex rather overrated until now.
‘Yes, I’m shy,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘I don’t really like men looking at my body. I’m hung up about it. I hate being thought of as nothing but a pair of gravity-defying breasts. That’s probably why I’m not usually able to relax very much. Why my sex life has been…’
Her words tailed off as she became aware that she’d said too much and she braced herself as she waited for him to distance himself, like a man who thought he’d bought a racy sports-car—only to find that he’d landed himself with a second-hand model which kept breaking down.
‘Why your sex life has been, what?’ he prompted softly.
She pulled a face. ‘You really want me to spell it out for you? Isn’t your ego healthy enough already without the added boost of me telling you how good you are in bed?’
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, unable to hide his slow, curving smile of satisfaction. ‘Am I?’
‘You know you are.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘I’m sure I’m not the first woman to tell you that.’
‘No, but you’re the first woman who is such a mass of contradictions that you have my head spinning. You have a wildness…’
‘Niccolò—’
He silenced her with a long kiss and when he finally raised his head, it was to subject her to a look of narrow-eyed thoughtfulness. ‘I think we’ve done the subject to death for tonight,’ he said. ‘You’re tired and so am I, and you’re right—it is a school night. Bedtime,’ he added firmly.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Well, I am. Relax, mia tentatrice.’
He was unbuttoning her dress again and suddenly Alannah had no desire to stop him. She lay there as he slid the silky garment from her body until she was left in just her hold-ups and her bra and, automatically, her palms moved towards her breasts—to protect them from his seeking gaze. But to her surprise he wasn’t even looking at her breasts. He was sliding down her hold-ups as impersonally as if he’d been undressing a child who had been caught in a storm. Even her bra was removed with nothing but deft efficiency, so that she was naked and snuggled beneath the warm duvet almost before she’d realised it.
She blinked as he captured her in that searing ebony gaze.
‘Now…was that so traumatic?’ he questioned silkily.
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t expecting…’ Her words tailed off.
‘You thought I would be unable to resist drooling as I ogled your breasts? That you find yourself surprised by my sensitivity?’
‘Something like that,’ she mumbled.
He smiled, the pad of his thumb trailing a path over her bottom lip and causing it to tremble. ‘You and me both,’ he said drily, before getting up to let himself quietly out of the room.
While he was gone, Alannah took the opportunity to look around what was one of the most impersonal bedrooms she’d ever seen. There were no photos on display. No real hints as to what kind of man Niccolò really was. She knew his parents were dead—but there was no misty-eyed memorial of their wedding day. She remembered Michela clamming up whenever anyone had asked her about her folks—and hadn’t she been a bit like that herself if people wanted to know about her father? It had seemed too crass to tell them the truth. Oh, my mother was fresh out of Ireland and she had her drink spiked…
She hadn’t found out the whole story until three days before her mother had died. That Bridget Collins had woken up in her dingy hostel room with a splitting headache and vague, shifting memories of what had happened the night before—as well as a terrible soreness between her legs. She’d never seen the man again and the shame of it was that she didn’t even know his surname. Nine months later Alannah had been born and her mother’s over-protectiveness had kicked in.
Alannah stared at the photograph opposite the bed—a smoky, atmospheric monochrome study of a brooding Mount Vesuvius. If she’d known all that stuff before…if she’d been able to make sense of why her mother had been so unbelievably strict with her—would it have changed anything?
Probably not. And even if it had—it was all irrelevant now. Because you could never go back. You could never wipe out the things you’d done. Everyone knew that.
She was almost asleep by the time Niccolò returned, carrying a tray of camomile tea. Her eyelashes fluttered open as he sat down and the bed sank beneath his weight.
‘This will help you sleep,’ he said.
She didn’t think she needed any help, but she drank the flower-filled brew anyway and then settled back down against the bank of pillows while Niccolò gently stroked her hair.
She wriggled her bare toes and stretched out her body and at that precise moment she didn’t think she’d ever felt quite so blissfully content. Until a dark memory flickered into her mind like an evil imp—reinforcing the disturbing thought that they hadn’t remembered to use protection….