Natalie Anderson - The Italians - Luca, Marco and Alessandro - Between the Italian's Sheets / The Moretti Heir / Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny

He couldn’t resist her, couldn’t stop the words tearing from him, low and harsh. ‘Because I wanted to see you again.’

‘You’re seeing me now.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘What, you want to have your wicked way with me again?’ She tossed her head to glare at him, all spirit and spark.

‘ Wicked? ’ He challenged her right back.

She closed her eyes at that. ‘Wild.’

It had been one wild, wonderful afternoon. He denied any wickedness—they had both wanted it. They both still did—he just had to get her to admit that too. Another tumble with her was all he wanted. As much as he hated to admit it, once hadn’t been enough. ‘Say yes, Emily, and we could do that again.’

* * *

Emily battled the satisfaction thrilling through her. He still wanted her. He’d come after her for that very purpose.

Unrelenting need .

Hadn’t she been aching with it for days now? But she tried to let rational thought have a moment of supremacy over that most basic instinct governing her. This was different. This might lead to a mess. As it was she’d been feeling below par. It had to be different this time—there had to be more.

She breathed deep, spoke carefully. ‘That afternoon was so complete. So perfect. Should we run the risk of ruining the memory of it?’

‘Yes.’ Decisive. Emphatic. No hesitation in his reply.

‘Why?’

He stepped even closer. ‘Because it wasn’t complete. It wasn’t perfect.’ His head lowered towards hers. ‘We were left wanting.’

Her lips tingled, his were so very near and the rush of memories was mixing with the present. It felt so natural and right for her to tilt that little bit further forward.

Her mouth touched his, clung to the warmth. Would have parted further and let him in if he’d made the move. But he lifted away, just a fraction, and she barely controlled the moan of disappointment, failed to suppress the sigh. Frustration .

His smile was slight, and his eyes were dark with determination. ‘See?’

There were commuters rushing all around them. Staring straight ahead, pacing along the footpath, keen to get home, to after-work assignations, to the gym, to whatever it was that they were looking forward to after a long day at the office. But in their tiny patch of the universe, less than a metre square, there was stillness, save their slow breathing.

‘Let’s get dinner.’ His mouth hardly moved as he spoke.

‘I’m not really dressed for dinner.’ She didn’t want to be dressed at all. His gaze frisked her. She knew he’d caught her thought and she also knew his reply. He’d be happy to eat there and then and she was the dish of the day.

‘Dinner. Tonight. Now.’ He seemed to have lost the ability to form whole sentences.

‘OK.’ Just as she had lost the ability to think at all.

As she stared out of the window Emily’s whole body quivered, tightening with the thrill of remembered ecstasy. She could only hear the rush of her pulse, not the reason of her mind. A tiny part of her was tense with warning, but the rest tense with longing. He was staring ahead at the road, his face shadowed by a frown, concentrating harder than the slow-moving traffic warranted.

‘Have you been busy with work?’ Oh, it was inane, but she had to break the taut silence somehow.

‘Very,’ came the brief reply. Then he too seemed to make the effort. ‘It’s always pretty busy. But things have been really hectic the last couple of weeks.’ He glanced at her. ‘What about you? Have you found a job?’

‘I haven’t really been looking. I’m still deciding what I want to do so I’ve just been cruising.’

‘Are you enjoying not working?’

‘Well, I don’t miss being on my feet all day.’ She laughed. ‘It’s weird not having to be anywhere at a prescribed hour.’ Or having anyone to talk to. She’d easily spent more than one day not talking to anyone in this city of millions.

‘How have you been filling your days?’

‘Just walking. Sightseeing. There are lots of sights in London.’

‘So you are still on your feet all day,’ he teased.

‘It’s a little different.’ She grinned.

She watched him drive, his sure, calm control of the machine. It wasn’t long before they were back in the heart of the city. He pulled into a parking space, escorted her with his innate politeness to the door. Unlocking it, he swung the heavy wood wide, before pressing a security keypad on the inside wall. She stepped forward into the surprisingly light foyer and looked at the calm colours, the polished wooden floor. Spacious, with high ceilings, wide doorways, and a long staircase, his house was beautiful. He didn’t stop to give her the tour, led her straight to the airy kitchen at the back of the ground floor, where he fiddled with buttons on the oven. Then he reached into a cupboard, drawing out a bottle of red with one hand and tossing her a box of grissini with the other. And she watched—every sure movement of his strong body. His large, confident hands worked the cork out of the bottle, the glass fitted snugly into his palm as he poured generously. He had beautiful hands. He had beautiful everything.

She kept watching as he pulled out a tray from the oven—smothered in vegetables, roasted to perfection and a joint of meat resting in the middle. Her mouth was watering but it wasn’t because of the food.

‘Just a little something you prepared earlier?’ she asked, amazed.

A half-smile twinkled. ‘I have a housekeeper—Micaela. She works every weekday. On weekends when necessary.’

Of course he had hired help. That was OK. It had still been his idea—like the picnic in Verona. Memories haunted her muscles. Emily fiddled with the box of grissini—anything to keep her hands from fiddling with him. The ache inside was becoming a pain now. He was here, he was so close and she wanted .

‘You hungry?’ he asked, watching the tray as he lifted it to the bench.

‘Mmm-hmm.’ She couldn’t trust herself to speak. Her voice already felt rusty, desire corroding it.

He turned, lanced her with his all-seeing eyes and spoke dryly. ‘Don’t hold back, Emily.’

She broke free of his piercing gaze, ripped at the box and grabbed a breadstick as others spilled across the bench.

He took the two steps to get right into her space. She couldn’t not look at him then. He knew. She knew he understood the depth of her need. And as if to prove it his fingers lightly danced down her throat, sliding down her chest until his palm moved to cup her swollen breast, thumb tormenting her taut nipple as it had those few weeks ago.

The breadstick snapped between her fingers.

His face lit up with that smile. His other hand slid up her leg then, under her skirt all the way up to her knickers. They were no barrier and she gasped in pleasure as his fingers slipped under the elastic, testing and instantly moving to tease as he felt the full extent of her appetite.

‘Luca…’

‘If you’re hungry, Emily,’ he instructed solemnly, ‘you should never hold back.’

So she didn’t—couldn’t. Her insides were like lava. Her deeply hidden core that she’d always thought firm and cool, rational and sensible, was now molten, blistering hot and bending her towards him. Driving her. Rocking her pelvis into his hand, she met his mouth with hers open and needy, her hands moving, fighting to touch him—going straight for the kill.

He groaned as his fingers stroked deep. ‘I’ve been wanting this again since the moment I left you in Verona.’

‘So what took you so long?’

‘I’m stubborn.’

‘Why do you want to fight it?’ Panting, she unzipped his trousers with a rough jerk. Got her hands on him the way he had his on her—intimate and demanding.