Italy's Most Scandalous Virgin - Carol Marinelli Page 0,23

then his mouth kissed her hot cheeks and he pulled her into him so that she sat on his thighs. They kissed, wet, slow kisses, her hands holding his head, her breasts splayed against his chest as Dante kissed her deeply. He drank from her mouth and he sucked her tongue as he drew her deeper into his embrace, so that she was pressed against his length and she was mired in desire and frantic with need.

He laid her down on the rug; he was lost in her, relieved to let the grief and the strains of the day disperse as their bodies meshed.

When he first nudged in he was met with resistance, so he pushed in again and then he heard her whimper as he inched into her virgin space.

She bewitched him, she entranced him, and right now he was tender.

So tender that his kiss dimmed her pain, so tender that his hand, warm and firm on the small of her back, felt like a balm, even as he drove into her. ‘Stay still,’ she whimpered, for she somehow had to acclimatise to the feel of him inside her.

He paused and kissed her softly. His breath was ragged then as he fought the urge to move, but at her signal he started to stretch her again.

‘Dante,’ she sobbed as his palm in her back guided her to take him in deeper and deeper.

He was dizzy at the sensation but he was also aware of how new this must be for her. He withdrew a fraction and looked down at her pale, tense features, and saw there were tears spilling from her eyes.

He lowered his head and brushed her temple with his lips. He tasted the salt of her tears on his tongue, and then he covered her mouth with his and drove in again, swallowing her sob.

And then they were one.

He started to move, stoking the fire that was spreading within her. He lifted his head to watch the reaction as he ground in, each thrust jolting her, and saw she was wild for the sensations he evoked. She felt wound up, taut from her jaw to her toes, and there was no pause from Dante and no desire to escape. He was relentless and rattling all her senses, and she was arching into him and surely near repletion, and yet he told her that there was more to give...and then he called out her name.

‘Mia...’ He called it again. ‘Mia Mia...’ My Mia.

And it just finished her, every nerve shooting arrows to her centre, arching her in tension. His last rapid pummels, the final swell of him brought her release, pulsing over and over. And yet he groaned for more, demanded that she let go further, and even to the end she fought the very climax that engulfed her.

Not even a breath could she take in, so intense was the pleasure he gave as with a breathless shout he shot deep inside her.

Still, even as the flickers of sensation died, he moved slowly, while she panted, still unable to draw a deep cleansing breath.

She was silently shocked—not at what had been done, more at what his touch had revealed, for she was tender and sore yet also spun in a golden glow. She did not know how she had lived without knowing such pleasure.

How she must now live never knowing his touch again.

And that sinking feeling started now, for with a groan he rolled off her and lay with his arm covering his eyes, as he realised the failure of his own self-control on this solemn day.

For a while there he’d forgotten that he was grieving.

The winter that had settled in his soul had faded, but was back now with a vengeance, for it was combined with self-loathing and Dante was well aware he had not taken adequate care. But for now he had but one question. ‘What were you doing, married to him, Mia?’

She had been a virgin and what had driven Dante wild with desire before now just saddened him. That knowledge told him there had been no passionate affair between her and his father. It really had all been a lie and one he could not understand. ‘Was it just for the money?’ he asked.

Mia lay there, listening to the fading crackles from the dying fire. The vast lounge was cooling now and she would give anything to roll into Dante and be held in his arms, yet if she moved even an inch closer,