Шэрон Кендрик - The Italian's Christmas Housekeeper

Her heart was crashing against her ribcage as she stared up into his rugged features and greedily drank them in. ‘I don’t care if it’s a bad idea,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe I want it as much as you do.’

Her response made him tense. She saw his eyes narrow and heard him utter something which sounded more like despair than joy before pulling her almost roughly into his arms. He smoothed the hair away from her cheeks and lowered his head and the moment their lips met, she knew there would be no turning back.

At first his kiss was slow. As if he was exploring her mouth by touch alone. And just when she was starting to get used to the sheer dreaminess of it, it became hard. Urgent. It fuelled the hunger which was building inside her. He levered her up against him, so that her breasts were thrusting eagerly against his torso and she could feel the rock-hard cradle of his pelvis. She should have been daunted by the unmistakable bulk of his erection but she wasn’t, because her hungry senses were controlling her now and she didn’t feel like good, rule-following Molly any more. She felt like wanton Molly—a victim of her own desire.

And it felt good.

More than good.

His laugh was unsteady as he splayed his fingers over one of her breasts, the nipple instantly hardening against his palm. ‘You are very passionate,’ he murmured.

Molly gave a small gurgle of pleasure as he found the side zip of her dress because suddenly she felt passionate. As if she had been waiting all her life to feel this way. ‘Am I?’

‘I don’t think you need any reassurance on that score, bedda mia .’

He was wrong, of course—but he wasn’t to know that and Molly certainly wasn’t going to tell him. She felt breathless as he peeled the plain black dress away from her body and let it fall to the ground before stepping back to survey her. And wasn’t it funny how a look of admiration in a man’s eyes could be powerful enough to dispel all a woman’s instinctive insecurities? Because for once Molly wasn’t thinking that her tummy was too plump or her breasts unfashionably massive. Or even that her bra didn’t match her rather functional pants. Instead she was revelling in the look of naked hunger which made his eyes resemble black fire as they blazed over her.

And then he picked her up. Picked her up! She could hardly believe it. He was carrying chunky Molly Miller towards the bed as if she weighed no more than a balloon at a child’s birthday party, before whipping back the brand-new duvet she’d purchased that very morning and depositing her beneath it. It was the most delicious sensation in the world, sinking into the mattress and lying beneath the warmth of the bedding, her body sizzling with a growing excitement—while Salvio De Gennaro began to undress. She swallowed, completely hypnotised as she watched him. The shoes and socks were first to go and then he unbuttoned his shirt, baring his magnificent chest before turning his attention to the zip of his trousers. But when he hooked his thumb inside the waistband of his boxers, Molly squeezed her eyes tightly closed.

‘No. Not like that. Open your eyes. Look at me,’ he instructed softly and she was too much in thrall to disobey him.

Molly swallowed. She couldn’t deny that it was slightly daunting to see just how aroused he was and as she bit her lip, he smiled.

‘Me fai asci pazzo,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

‘Wh-what does that mean?’

‘It means you make me crazy.’

‘I love it when you talk Italian to me,’ she said shyly.

‘Not Italian,’ he said sternly as he slipped into bed beside her. ‘Neapolitan.’

She blinked. ‘It’s different?’

‘It’s dialect,’ he said and she noticed he was placing several foil packets on the antique chest of drawers beside the bed. ‘And yes, it’s very different.’

The appearance of condoms somehow punctured some of the romance, but by then he was naked beside her and Molly was discovering that the sensation of skin touching skin was like nothing she’d ever known. It was heaven

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