Hold You Against Me (22 page)

I blink slowly, the words percolating through my brain like a hot summer rain in parched earth. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re everything, the end and the beginning. I’ve never touched another woman, never wanted to. It was always going to be you or nothing at all.”

It feels impossible. “You’ve never had sex?”

His thumbs brush gently at my hips, slipping beneath the lace. “You don’t have to worry that I’ll hurt you. I’ll be so careful with you. I’ll learn your body until you come apart.”

I already know he’ll make me feel good. “Then that night? In the conservatory?”

He moves his hands to frame the triangle between my legs. “You taste so good, bella. One night and I’m already addicted. I want to feel your sex tremble against my tongue. I want to lick you until you scream my name.”

A shiver runs through my body, quivering at my core. “God, please.”

That was his first time tasting a woman, and he tore down all my defenses, ripped them apart and put me back together again. What would he do with practice? I won’t survive it.

He kisses my mound over the small scrap of lace, then opens his mouth and bites gently against my skin. I shiver, unable to push him away, unable to pull him close. He nibbles his way down to my clit, teasing me through the fabric—which suddenly feels as sharp as a briar patch. My gasp sounds loud in the secret of the room, my breathing giving away more than words.

I wait impatiently for him to pull down my panties, but he doesn’t. Instead he moves up my stomach, sucking pale skin, leaving red marks with the shadow of his jaw. He stands and pulls me flush against him, supporting my back with his arm, bending me so that he can nip at the exposed flesh of my breasts.

“Beautiful,” he groans, tracing the lacy curve with two fingers.

With the severe facets of his face, the tone almost like gratitude, I can’t deny the truth of it. And there’s something sweetly vulnerable about being almost naked, with my hands at my back, while he is fully clothed. He could do anything like this—hurt me, take me. Instead he touches me as if that is the end goal, as if he cannot get enough.

My hips rock against him in silent plea.

I expect him to smile, maybe tease me about my impatience. It’s what he would have done years ago, I think. But when he looks up at me, there isn’t a hint of mirth in his expression. Only stark need, and I realize how much control it’s taking for him to hold himself back.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You can do it.”

Then he does smile, though it’s strained. “Always rushing me. First in your room and now here. You aren’t in control here, bella.”

The sigh that escapes me is both resignation and relief.

He cups the back of my head, and I let myself fall into his embrace. His lips meet mine in a slow, inexorable claiming, every light touch of his tongue infused with possession, every subtle scrape of his teeth marking me as his. I’m not allowed to control this, can’t fight it any longer.

I let myself sink into the space he made and find it to be shaped like me. Only enough space to feel, to breathe, to moan as his hand slides between my legs. Maddeningly, he remains over the lace, using it to gently abrade the sensitive skin, dragging it over my damp flesh like a sandpaper tongue.

“Please,” I whimper. “Undress me.”

“I could have looked at you like this all night,” he says, one finger trailing over the curve of my butt. “I can’t deny you, though. Not when you’re so wet for me.”

He hooks two fingers into my panties and tugs them down around my thighs. They’re actually more restrictive this way, biting into my skin when I try to spread my legs. I can’t help it when he pushes two fingers around my clit on either side. I fight the bonds at my wrists, at my legs. Even the bra feels like bonds, restraining me.

Giovanni gently pinches my clit between his fingers, and I squirm, still supported by the iron band of his arm from behind. He dips his head to nip at my collarbone. I gasp, moving against him in a rhythm I know his body understands. He’s hard and burning hot even through the fabric of his slacks. I press my tummy against him, wishing I could feel him somewhere else.

“Christ,” he mutters, hands tightening.

It’s a delicious squeeze, and I shudder in his arms. “I’m ready. I’m ready.”

He shakes his head slowly, and I could cry.
You aren’t in control here, bella.
And I feel out of control, my body burning hot and moving against him on its own, my mind a haze of kisses and warmth. I’ve never felt a man inside me before, but there’s a new emptiness, my inner muscles clenching around nothing.

“I plan to use you all night, understand? I’m going to touch you everywhere, taste you everywhere.” He pulls something from his pocket, small and black. I flinch when a silver blade flips open.

He places the pocketknife beneath the lacy bra strap, dull metal against my skin. A quick slice and the cup leans away from my breast. He cuts away the other side and the material drifts to the floor.

I flush as he draws a fingertip over the slope of my breast. He catches a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, pinching softly. He saw me the other night in the conservatory, but it was dark there. While not completely bright, there’s enough light from the lamp by the table that he can see me clearly. His touch is achingly thorough, circling the full weight of my breasts, teasing my nipples to hard peaks.

He explores my shoulders and back and stomach with the same intensity, as if mapping my body’s terrain. When I shiver, he stops and teases out another reaction—and I realize he
is
mapping me. He finds the places that make me sigh and shiver, that draw a whimper from me, that drag a groan from my throat.

He turns me away from him, and I feel a large palm caress down my back. He strokes my butt softly, finding every inch of the plush curves. Then his finger presses between to the tight knot of skin.

I yelp, pulling my hips away to escape.

“Shhh,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Even the suggestion leaves me shaken. I’m not as scared of him touching me there as I am of facing away from him. Then he does something even scarier. His hands are gentle as he bends me over the bed. He runs light touches down the side of my body and cups my butt.

He’s not hurting you.
I can’t help the way I freeze up or the slight moan of despair that escapes me.

He stops moving behind me, and I feel his concern in the silence that follows.

“Clara?” he asks, his tone careful. “I’m not going to make you do this. I won’t touch you back here.”

His words are gentle. I know he’s not making me do anything right now, but panic claws at my throat. It’s too alike, being in this house, being bent over. I fight the bonds at my wrists as hard as I can, struggling to get free. There are horrible gasping sounds coming from somewhere, and I realize it’s me.

Spots dance in front of my eyes. I can’t move, can’t breathe.

I find myself in Giovanni’s arms, right-side up. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s only his hands holding me now, that he’s keeping my arms down but only so I don’t flail. When I quiet, he releases me, using his hand to soothe me, cradle me, love me.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my temple. Some of the words he says in Italian, others I understand. “You’re okay. You’re with me, and I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

My breathing evens out in slow, painful degrees. I clutch at the fabric of his shirt, not caring that I’m naked, not caring that he’s my enemy. Right now he’s the only solid thing in a world made of waves and blistering sun. He’s my anchor.

My voice is shaky when I manage, “I’m sorry.”

“No, bella. Don’t be. It’s my fault. I went too fast. I wasn’t careful with you.”

I don’t want to explain that it wasn’t his fault, because then I’d have to explain whose fault it is. He sounds so genuinely regretful that it’s hard not to spill the truth. “Can we pretend like that didn’t happen?”

His laugh is rusty. “I’m not sure I can forget that. Not ever.”

This is exactly why I didn’t want him to know. He would look at me differently. And I’m afraid that if someone else knew, I would look at myself differently too. “Please.”

He pauses, contemplative. His surface is calm, but I can sense something hot roiling within him. “Clara, I have to ask you. The way you reacted just now. It makes me wonder… Has anyone ever hurt you?”

A ripple of fear runs through me. No no no.

“I’ve never… I’m a virgin, if that’s what you mean.” At least that much is true. He seems like he’s going to push the matter, so I reach up and press my lips against his. “Gio. I want to be with you.”

Part of me knows I’m falling into my old habits, pleasing someone out of fear. It’s not the same as it was with my father, but in some ways it is. He trained me to be the perfect Italian wife, and I’ve learned my lessons well.

Giovanni shifts, and I think he’s going to kiss me. Or maybe bear me down onto the bed, take what we both want him to. Instead he sets me gently on the cool sheets. Then he reaches down for the blanket, tucking it around me.

I shove away the butter soft cotton. “Wait. No.”

He’s already walking away from me, showing his broad shoulders and trim waist. God, he must have put on fifty pounds of pure muscle since I saw him last. He’s different in so many ways, vital ways. I can’t love him as the boy he was before. I can only love the man he is now.

He flips off the lamp, casting the room in pale shadows. “It’s late,” he says gently, heading for the door. “You need to rest.”

And I know suddenly that I can’t let him walk away. Can’t stand to lose him.

Not Giovanni, the boy who grinned with abandon. He’s already lost. Now there’s only a man of intensity and passion, of determination and fierce loyalty. My husband.

“Gio.”

He pauses at the door without turning to face me. “Sleep.”

I cross the room and circle him, taking in the dark gleam of his eyes and the bronze skin revealed by his shirt. Moving a finger down his chest, I revel in the raised muscles that slow my path. When my finger touches the empty belt loop, he grasps my elbow in a taut grip.

“Clara. You don’t have to do anything.”

I keep my eyes on him as I fumble with the button. He makes a low sound as my fingers brush hardness underneath. The placket strains against his erection. With careful deliberation, I slide down the zipper and push the soft cotton briefs down. He makes quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it and shrugging it to the floor.

We’re both naked now, both clasped in moonlight. Both of us vulnerable.

Standing in front of him, I run a finger through the coarse patch of hair beneath his flat belly. Then I touch something achingly hot and smooth. He shudders but makes no move to stop me. His shaft pulses with life, as strong as a heartbeat. I trail my finger down the length and around his girth.

Then I touch my fingertip to the cool damp on the tip.

He sucks in a breath. “God, bella.”

I fall to my knees, knowing another way I might please him.

He catches me with a hoarse sound and returns me to standing. “If you kiss me there, I won’t be able to hold back, and I want to be inside you when I come.”

A flush subsumes my cheeks, as hot as the hard flesh of his erection. “Oh.”

With a knowing look, he takes my hand. When he lays me down on the cool sheets, I stretch out. His body reaches over me, large and dark and powerful. He plants soft kisses on my eyelids, my nose, my chin. Wordlessly I spread my legs for him.

He notches himself against my sex, heat against heat, wet against wet. I hover on the precipice of something both carnal and divine, knowing that the next few moments will change me forever.

His hands are gentle as they gather mine above my head, my wrists held loosely in the cage of his fingers. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.

I know he’s thinking about earlier, wondering if it was the restraint that upset me. But that was something else. The feel of being spread open to him, unable to stop the press of him, the push, excites me. My hips roll against him, more proof that I want this. “Gio, please. I need more.”

He enters me in slow inches, a stretch I feel deep inside. I gasp as he reaches farther, and he pauses. His head lowers to kiss my chest, my breasts. He sucks my nipple until a sharp pleasure-pain lashes my core, and I relax enough to let him in.

It feels like he’s impossibly deep. “How much more?” I ask, trembling.

He slides his free hand down my stomach to the slippery skin. Gently he teases my clit until I sigh in pleasure. It still feels full, but if he keeps touching me like that…

“About halfway,” he says, his voice like falling rocks.

Oh God. I hadn’t seen before how his muscles ripple, hadn’t seen how hard he’s working to hold himself back. He wants to thrust all the way in, I can tell, but that would rip me apart. Halfway? How is that possible? A laugh of incredulity and wonder rends the air.

Then he laughs too, soft and bemused. “Your body, Clara. It haunts me.”

“Turnabout is fair play,” I say, voice tight. My whole body feels tight, stretched to the limit. I’m not sure I can fit any more of him in. His hips are narrower than his shoulders, but even so my hips have to open wide to accommodate him. My arms are above my head. And inside, I’m incredibly full.

His fingers work at my clit in lazy circles. He swoops down to kiss my lips, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hand, the short pulses of his erection. The orgasm comes upon me like tendrils of ivy on ancient stone, slow and inexorable, taking over until I’m caught in its grip. Tremors shake me from the inside out, grasping at him, pulling him deeper.

He groans softly. “I’m not sure I’ll survive you, bella.”

“Let go,” I whisper, but I’m the one who has to let go. To relax into his hold, conform around his body. It feels a little like splitting apart, like breaking and being re-formed in some new way.

When he presses all the way inside, I feel the rough hair of him against me. I feel the choked gasp he makes, the shudder deep inside him. “I won’t last,” he gasps.