Sandra Marton - The Scandalous Orsinis

“My response, I mean. It was wrong. I have no explanation to offer. I can only say I regret it and—”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, his voice even rougher. “Don’t regret it, sweetheart. Please.”

“But I.” Color flooded her face. “I should not have kissed you back.”

“Chiara. That was a good thing. A healthy thing. Responding to a man’s kisses. To my kisses.”

“But I do not. I have never…”

Her voice faded. She looked away from him. She’d known this would be difficult, admitting that what happened whenever he touched her was as much her fault as his, but what she hadn’t expected was that seeing him would make her feel light-headed. Almost dizzy. Afraid to keep meeting his gaze because looking into his beautiful blue eyes made her want to… want to.

She felt a light touch on her hair. His hand, stroking the curls back from her temples. His fingers, threading into the strands. A moan rose in her throat. What was happening? She wanted to sigh his name, lift her face to his.

“No,” she said quickly, “no, it must not happen again. Those things I did—”

“You kissed me,” he said in a low voice. “And I kissed you. Kissing isn’t wrong, sweetheart.”

Somehow, his hand was cupping her chin. Somehow, her face was lifting to his.

And then his mouth was on hers.

He was kissing her, kissing her gently, and she was kissing him back. She caught his sweater in her hands, knotted the soft cotton in her fists and rose to him.

His arms swept around her. He gathered her against him and she framed his face with her hands, her lips soft and warm against his. She was making little sounds, moans of pleasure and desire, and he knew she was his for the taking.

He had only to lift her into his arms, carry her up the stairs to his bed. What he wanted, what he had wanted from the first time he’d kissed her, would become reality.

He would make love to her.

Take her innocence.

Take it, and be no better than bastards like her father and Giglio, men who would exploit this beautiful, brave woman instead of honoring and protecting her.

He kissed her one last time. Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“Chiara.” His voice sounded rusty; he cleared his throat.

“Sweetheart. I have a great idea. Let’s… let’s start over.”

“Start over?”

“Yes. You. Me. The situation we’re in… We don’t have to be enemies, Chiara. We can be friends.”

She looked baffled. Why wouldn’t she? It was probably the last thing she’d expected him to say. Hell, it was the last thing he’d expected to say. But it was right, and he knew it.

He would be her friend, not her lover, even if it killed him.

“I would like that,” she said softly. “To start over with you, Raffaele.”

Then she smiled, and he wondered how it was possible for everything good in the world to be captured in a woman’s smile.

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