Luca's Bad Girl - By Amy Andrews Page 0,26

crockery but mostly the cold granite on the backs of her legs. But Luca didn’t give her a chance. He stepped between her thighs, forcing them apart, and claimed her mouth in a kiss that silenced all her inane worries.

A kiss that lit a fuse that ignited a powder keg. After two weeks of abstinence and an evening of sexual chess they devoured each other like a raging bushfire.

Luca slipped his hands under the hem of her skirt, pushing it up her thighs, exposing her flesh and her heat. He dragged her core hard against him, the bench top just the right height, moaning when Mia locked her ankles around his waist, wedging them together as intimately as they could be fully clothed. She gasped as he kissed down her neck—hard, biting kisses that stiffened her nipples to unbearable points.

Yes. This was what she needed.

This.

Something to forget the day.

She grabbed for the snap on his jeans as he squeezed a breast with his hand. She undid his zip, pushed his underwear aside and grasped his warm velvet girth.

His mouth slammed against hers on a full, throaty groan as he fumbled with the lacing of her shirt, half undoing, half tearing at the fabric until it succumbed to his will. He dragged his mouth from hers, down, down, down to her breasts, ripping aside the cups of her transparent bra and gorging on the ripeness of her nipples.

Mia’s back arched, one hand automatically holding his head to her, the other squeezing his rampant erection, rubbing herself against it, whimpering as it caused the most wicked friction.

‘Back pocket,’ Luca whispered as he lifted his head to pay equal homage to her other breast.

Mia fumbled. His lips were creating havoc and she felt like she’d been to the dentist and been given a full body shot.

Limp with lust. Prostrate with pleasure.

Her fingers found the hard edges of foil and whipped it out triumphantly as his hand pushed aside her undies and stroked against her so intimately she thought she was going to die.

Too much more of that and she’d be done.

It was bloody-mindedness alone that accomplished sheathing him as he sought and found where she was hottest. Where she was the most ready.

‘Ah,’ she cried as the friction hit just the right spot. ‘Now,’ she cried, tilting her pelvis in supplication. ‘Now.’

Luca didn’t need a translation. He ran his palms up her back, anchored both hands over her shoulders, leaned forward to suck hard on a ripe, plump, moist nipple and rammed into her in one quick decisive thrust of his hips.

Their combined groan no doubt caused a blip at some seismic centre somewhere.

And then they were moving and pounding together in unison, rocking and rocking, higher and higher, gasping and sighing and reaching for breath until it all coalesced in one magical moment and the stars shattered around them.

CHAPTER SIX

A WEEK later Mia was examining a severe case of cellulitis around a ten-day-old calf laceration when Luca entered the cubicle. He smiled at her and her breath hitched.

‘Can I help you, Dr di Angelo?’

‘You don’t happen to have an otoscope by any chance? They all seem to have gone walking.’

Mia didn’t register his words. Just the way his eyes crinkled at the edges as he looked at her with a gaze that paid way too much attention to the dip of her cleavage. And the way his lips moved, all soft and full, exactly the same as when they stroked down her neck.

Luca quirked an eyebrow as Mia’s normally clear blue gaze became a little heated. ‘Mia?’

She blinked and her cheeks warmed as she realised she had no idea what he’d asked for. ‘Sorry?’

Luca grinned. It wasn’t often he saw her blush and he liked it. It seemed completely at odds with her feisty, my-way-or-the-highway demeanour, softening her. Cranking up the strong sense of attraction another notch. ‘Otoscope?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ she shook her head to clear it as she removed the equipment from the pocket she’d jammed it in earlier. ‘Here.’

Their fingers brushed as he took it and Luca smiled again as he felt the pulse of awareness in his fingertips and knew she’d felt it too. ‘Thank you.’

It took Mia a few seconds to realise he’d disappeared as her body recovered from just the faintest contact with his.

‘He’s a bit of a hottie, dear.’

Mia looked down absently at Mable Richardson, her eighty-six-year-old patient. She had snowy white hair and a wicked gleam in her eyes.

‘He could park his slippers under my bed