Happy Mother's Day! - By Sharon Kendrick Page 0,52
rather I handled it—I’ve dealt with the people before.’ She shrugged. ‘And I can speak a bit of French.’
‘And were you planning to tell me about it?’
She heard the sharp note of accusation in his voice. ‘Oh, Gianluca—of course I was! I thought that was why we employed Carmela. Anyway, nothing’s been decided yet.’
‘It sounds to me as if the decision has already been made.’
‘You don’t … mind? If I go back?’
‘It is not my place to mind, cara,’ he mocked. ‘You never claimed to want to stay at home baking biscuits all day.’ His black eyes roved slowly over her, enjoying seeing her struggle with the zip.
She swallowed—the ebony stare making her feel acutely self-conscious. ‘The damn thing’s too tight!’ she complained.
‘Your hips are rounder since motherhood,’ he murmured. ‘Buy a different size.’
Suddenly her inability to do the skirt up seemed to symbolise more than just a few extra pounds gained after childbirth. Where had all the control gone from her life? That feeling of order she used to experience—of knowing where she was in the world? ‘Are you trying to make me feel worse?’ she questioned.
He walked up behind her and slid his hands round to where they lay on the slight curve of her belly.
‘Al contrario’ he murmured, sliding his fingers down to press hard and possessively over the mound of her crotch. ‘I am trying to make you feel better.’
‘Gianluca,’ she breathed, because this was exquisitely erotic, with his fingers splayed possessively against her. And more erotic still was the fact that he was now sliding the skirt up over her thighs with a little difficulty until he—and she—could see the neat pale blue triangle of her panties reflected back in the mirror.
‘What is it?’ he whispered, bending his head so that she could feel his warm breath against her neck as he watched their reflection. He rubbed his fingertips over the triangle experimentally, feeling her squirm and watching her squirm, too.
‘I … nothing.’ She swallowed as his fingers moved with their own particular rhythm. It seemed too … too intimate … not just to feel him, but to watch him doing it. But then Gianluca seemed to delight in experimentation—to introduce her to wild and wonderful new things and to watch the passion explode within her. ‘Do you want to go to … bed?’ she stumbled.
‘No!’ he negated harshly. ‘I want to see you come. And I want to see you watching yourself come.’ In heaven’s name, it was the only time she showed any real feeling—the only time she really let go!
‘Gianluca!’ Her legs buckled and she might have fallen had not the hand that was not moving so surely against her panties whipped up to catch her firmly by the waist. And she realised then that he was not going to stop. Not only that, but neither was she. In fact, she was … was … ‘Oh!’ Her head tipped back, her eyes closed and she began to moan softly as she writhed against him.
He waited until he had felt her spasming cease and then he pushed her to the ground, straddling her as he ripped apart her panties with a single rent and her eyes flew open in question.
‘They were brand-new!’ she protested.
‘Then I will buy you another pair,’ he ground out. ‘Only next time I’m going to choose them for you. Something a little more … ah …’ He shook his head distractedly. ‘Aisling! What is it that you do to me? Impazzire o fare i matti!’ She was driving him crazy. Crazy.
Her eyes were ice and fire now—just as she was—her coolness repelling him as much as exciting him. He was able to possess her, but only in the purely physical sense. He watched the thick lashes flutter down as he drove deep inside her and then before he knew it he was welcoming the warm sweetness of his release—knowing that it would free him from her sensual spell. And, damn it—he wanted to be free from it!
They lay there on the floor, still entwined, their clothing in disarray, and Gianluca began to drift off, his hand absently smoothing down her hair as his breathing grew steadier and deeper, and Aisling’s heart felt as if it were going to shatter into a million pieces.
He did that tender stroking stuff after making love because that was what he had been conditioned to do, by nature—just as his hard body now required sleep in order to regain its strength.