Jane Porter: Mistress To a Latin Lover: The Sicilian's Defiant Mistress / The Italian's Pregnant Mistress / The Italian's Mistress

He reached for the hem of her narrow skirt, grabbed at the fabric, bunching the black silk into folds to find her bare thigh beneath.

Her mouth parted in a silent gasp, desire flooding her, need and memory. And when his hand slid between her thighs to pluck aside the scrap of her thong panty, his palm pressed warm and hard against her body. Cass grabbed at him, grabbing for help, for relief, for something to explain the dark mad passion she’d fallen into.

The problem was, and always had been, that his touch made her feel. Not just physically, but emotionally. His touch made her want him, need him, love him. And as he rubbed his palm slowly across her, his fingers trailing, teasing, she shuddered. This shouldn’t be happening, this wasn’t supposed to be happening, yet he was right. He knew her, knew how to arouse her, control her with just a touch.

Her shudder riveted him, his gaze locked on her face, fixed on her parted lips, watching the tip of her tongue press against the edge of her teeth.

She felt helpless. And he knew it.

And he acted on it. Still watching her with that fierce possessive ownership he’d always displayed toward her, he caressed her along the seam of her, along the tender lips and then between she panted, overwhelmed by sensation.

He was teasing her, tracing her, toying with her and her legs buckled. She arched against his hand, against the maddening touch which reminded her of everything and yet gave too little.

And then he slowly slid his finger inside her, slowly drawing out the desire, building on the pleasure. More, she thought wildly, blindly, more.

But he wasn’t going to be rushed, and he refused to hurry. He touched her slowly, almost lazily and her skin beaded damp, her muscles clenched in concentration. She wanted more, needed more and she pressed herself forward, pressing against his hand.

A flicker of triumph shone in Maximos’s dark eyes and with a deep, deliberate stroke of his finger he showed her how she loved to be touched. Showed her that he knew her body better than she did. Showed her how much she still wanted him

But he’d never touched her in anger. Never caressed her with anything but restraint. Control. He wasn’t hurting her—far from it, the feeling was shocking, intense—the raw sexual edge took her breath away, but she knew control was tenuous at best.

He stroked her deeply again, a long, knowing touch inflaming all her senses, even as her body tightened, struggling to take him, grip him, which he had no intention of letting her do.

This was torment.

This, she thought, was punishment.

Her elbows were pressed against the wall, her hands up against his chest, arms immobile between them. He’d imprisoned her so she couldn’t defend herself, couldn’t cover herself. Could only feel.

Remember.

Crave.

And she craved, horribly, desperately, wantonly. She knew he could do what he wanted. She’d let him take her and use her at will. Shameful, but it had always been this way between them. He was the only man who could strip away her inhibitions, who could make her be the wild child she’d always wanted to be.

From far away she heard her name being called. Emilio. Emilio was coming to look for her.

Cass struggled, felt Maximos’s lips on her neck, felt the nip of teeth. “He’s coming,” she choked, her body convulsing as he stroked her harder, faster.

“So are you,” he answered without the least bit of humor.

She shivered as his thumb flicked over her slick, sensitive skin. “Stop, Maximos. Stop, please.”

“You don’t want him to find you like this?”

And she closed her eyes, knowing what Emilio would see—her leg up, wrapped around Maximos’s waist, Maximos’s hands beneath her skirt, hands hidden between her bare, exposed thighs.

Blood roared through her head, a blush of humiliation. “Please.”

“Feeling a little exposed?” Maximos’s voice sounded in her ear, deep, rough, mocking. “Welcome to my world.”

But he let her go. He even adjusted her thong, straightened her skirt, made sure the silky fabric hung in proper folds. “Beautiful,” he said, but his sarcasm was like shards of glass scraping across her skin.

Emilio appeared around the corner. He didn’t look the least bit perturbed to see the two of them together. “There you are,” he said cheerfully. “You two about done?”

Maximos’s lower lip curled, jaw hardening to granite. He didn’t even glance at Cass. “She’s all yours.”

Cass clutched at the wall, legs quaking as she watched Maximos stride away, and striding he was, all massive lines of tension and fury. He looked violent. Deadly. As if he could do bodily damage to anyone and everyone.

Emilio passed Maximos with a faint mocking nod of his head and smiled as he approached Cass. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Cass didn’t even see Emilio, her gaze fixed past him, vision narrowing, focusing, riveted on Maximos disappearing back.

And then Maximos turned the corner and was gone.

She trembled as she leaned against the wall, her skin still damp, her muscles strung tight, her body quivering from the onslaught of tension and sensation. Maximos had virtually destroyed her.

An annihilation of the self and senses.

“So what did the great Maximos Guiliano have to say?” Emilio asked.

She turned her head and looked at Emilio but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t seem to see anything but the haze of love and lust which had just consumed her.

How could Maximos still do that to her? How could he possess her so quickly, so thoroughly, strip her of control and turn her into his?

Maybe she’d always be his…

Maybe there was no hope…

“He looked upset as he walked away,” Emilio continued. “Did you two have words?”

“Yes.”

“How sad.” Emilio’s lips tugged in a sadistic smile. “Fortunately we’ve got three days here. By the time we leave on Sunday, Maximos won’t even know what hit him.”

Or her, she thought, Emilio’s satisfaction puncturing her fog of misery. Emilio wanted to savor what he perceived as an early victory and all she wanted to do was slide to the floor and cover her head with her hands and cry like the little girl she’d once been.

This was wrong. Wrong every which way you looked at it. Morally, spiritually, intellectually, emotionally…

“Do you want to go back to the cocktail party or on up to our room?” Emilio asked, with a glance at his wristwatch. “Dinner will be served in about two hours.”

Cass couldn’t imagine returning to the salon for cocktails now. “I’d just as soon go to the room.”

“I’ll show you the way.”

Inside the bedroom she was to share with Emilio, Cass sank numbly onto the foot of the bed.

Emilio was moving around the room, inspecting the furniture, drapes, finishes. “It’s not the best room,” he said, closing the door behind him. “But it could be worse.”

She heard the door click shut and it filled her with fresh panic. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. She barely knew Emilio and yet now she was supposed to share a bedroom with him for the next two nights and three days. “What’s happening later?” she asked, trying not to think about the fact that they were alone together.

“The rehearsal and then dinner after. We won’t attend the rehearsal but we’ll join them for dinner.”

“And we’re really invited?”

“The invitation was sent.”

“By the groom’s family,” she said.

“Yes.”

“But this is the bride’s home.”

Emilio cocked his head. “Just what did Maximos say to you anyway? The two of you were gone a long time. He had to have said something. Something about you being here with me…”