CHAPTER NINE
ASMUCHAS Sebastiano wanted to throw Layla over his shoulder, whisk her upstairs and lock the bedroom door, a tendril of the propriety he’d come within a breath of losing completely reasserted itself.
He was not a hormonal schoolboy. He was the head of Russo Banca Internazionale. His bank and his place in it were the whole reason he’d married her...with a dollop of revenge thrown in. When it came down to it, this marriage was a performance and though he knew damned well that Layla was as caught in the web of desire as he was, he could not say with any certainty whether she would act on it in the privacy of the bedroom or switch it off.
As he was learning, what Layla’s mouth said didn’t always correspond with what her eyes said. As he was also learning, it was her eyes that always told the truth. If he’d recognised the steel in the forget-me-nots the night she’d tricked five million pounds out of him, he’d have recognised that something was very wrong. Instead, he’d been too caught up in the desire that had also pulsed in them and the soft musicality of her voice and the glimpses of cleavage, too damned arrogant and confident in his own greatness to think of the hurt he’d caused her at his failure to call. At disappearing from her life.
Despite knowing it might all come to nothing, by the time he’d taken to the stage to thank the singer and all their guests, then fought through the crowd wanting to wish them, again, a long and happy marriage, another hour had passed and the heat of his desire had barely lowered by a degree.
He’d have to sleep in his bathroom. Lock the door, fill the bath with cold water and submerge himself in it.
And so, even though Layla’s hand was firmly clasped in his as they climbed the stairs together, Sebastiano concentrated only on filling his lungs with air.
Their hands slipped apart at the door.
His heart beating harder and faster than it ever had before, he took a deep, deep breath, followed her inside and rested his back against the wall.
After the noise of the ballroom, the silence in the bedroom was absolute. He had a vague awareness of rose petals making a path to the bed and the rose-petal hearts created on the turned-down sheets, but it was just a background blur to the main picture before him.
Layla. Staring at him with colour heightening her cheeks, so ravishingly beautiful it made his heart hurt to look at her, standing close enough for the scent of her heated skin beneath the remnants of her sultry perfume to snake into his airwaves. Close enough for him to see the pulse beating at the base of her neck. Close enough for him to hear the unevenness of her breaths.
Dio, he’d never known his own breaths to be so heavy. Everything in him felt weighty, as if desire had been injected into his veins.
Layla’s body had forgotten how to breathe.
The dreamlike quality the day had taken since her revelation in the church and the glowing hours that had passed since had vanished under the weight of the choice she had to make and under the headier weight of the desire burning in every cell of her body and the blaze of Sebastiano’s hunger in the depths of his eyes.
Their night together had been passionate, hedonistic perfection. Sebastiano had drawn something out of her she’d never even suspected existed, something that had destroyed all her inhibitions from the first sweep of their tongues.
When they’d parted the next morning, she’d felt the wrench of his absence a hundred times more acutely than she’d ever done for Chris. A thousand times more.
Three years she’d been with Chris and she hadn’t shed a single tear when it ended. He’d been safe, she now realised. He’d been content to wait all those months for her to share his bed, something she’d only gone ahead with in the end because she’d felt she owed it to him for all his patience.
Sebastiano was the antithesis of safe. She’d known that from the moment she first set eyes on him. She’d only slept with him that night because she’d set out thinking it would only be for that one night. She’d thought she was safe.
She’d had no idea when she stepped into his arms that their one night together would leave in her a mark that ran deeper than the child they’d conceived. No idea that his subsequent ghosting of her would leave her desolate.
But history didn’t have to repeat itself. That was something she’d told herself over and over when she’d learned she was pregnant. Her mother’s path did not have to be hers. She’d taken control to stop that very thing from happening, and she’d healed and fortified her heart.
The stark truth, though, was that Sebastiano brought her to life in a way she’d never felt before. He hadn’t just drawn a hidden sexuality out of her but a passionate fire that blazed in all its forms whenever she was with him. With Sebastiano, all her senses came alive.
And now her eyes were wide open.
And so were his. While electricity crackled like white noise between them, his unfaltering gaze remained steady.
She understood the silent message he was sending.
He would not touch her.
He’d made a promise that here, in the sanctity of their bedroom, it was for Layla to make the first move and he would hold himself to it. If she turned away from him he would do nothing to stop her.
Staring into his pulsing green eyes, soaking the barely contained hunger emanating from them, it came to her in a flash of wonder that just as their marriage would only be a nightmare if she made it so, Sebastiano could only hurt her again if she let him...
Her feet left the ground before the rest of her knew what she was doing.
She moved so quickly and so suddenly that Sebastiano barely had the time to register what was happening before Layla’s arms wound tightly around his neck and her lips compressed to his with a soft yet wrenching moan.
The relief was almost as strong a sensation as the blood that pumped after that long heart-stopping moment when he’d detected a frisson of fear in the depths of the forget-me-nots.
Whatever doubts or fears had caught her in those moments were gone, her mouth as hot and hungry as his own, her fingers digging into his skull as urgently as his bit into her back. The need to taste and feel every inch of her swept through him like its own life force.
Deeper and harder their mouths moved together, tongues exploring ravenously, his senses feeding on the exotic, sensually sweet taste that had sat in him like a hidden memory waiting for the trigger to reawaken it. And Layla was the trigger. Layla, shedding the cloak of hurt his actions had forced her to wrap herself in for protection and embracing the desire that had flickered between them for so very long and which their night together had turned into a flame.
Why had he run from that flame in the aftermath? he wondered dimly as he buried his face in her neck and resisted the heady urge to bite down. No one made him feel like this. No one. Only Layla. No one else had ever made him ache to burrow himself into their skin. No one else had fingers that could slide down his neck and send sensation coursing to the tips of his toes.
Her breath hot and ragged in his hair, those same fingers now dragged over his chest to tug at his shirt and pull it free. His arousal deepened when she scraped her nails through the hair on his abdomen before fumbling at the button of his trousers.
In thrilling frustration at being unable to find the zip or button or whatever the hell it was holding her wedding dress together, he spun her around and pressed her against the wall to keep her steady, then clasped either side of the seam running from beneath her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, and pulled with all his strength.
Layla gasped to hear the loud rip of her beautiful dress and the shock of cold wall against fevered skin that had moments before been covered, the gasp turning into a moan when Sebastiano’s mouth and teeth grazed her shoulder as he pinched the spaghetti sleeves and yanked them down her arms. The top part of the dress fell and bunched at her waist.
The fever in her was more than skin deep. It had sunk into her veins and bones, burning even the tips of her fingers working frantically to undo the button of his trousers and release the bulging hardness trapped beneath the silky material. With the shackles of her fears finally thrown off, her desperation for Sebastiano’s possession had mushroomed, all the desire she’d been suppressing unleashed and seeking the possession of the only man in the world to make her feel whole and complete.
His trousers finally unbuttoned, she yanked at the zip and reached inside the tight confines of his briefs. His groan of pleasure and biting kiss when she wrapped her fingers around his throbbing excitement only fed the burn of her own arousal.
‘Dio, Layla,’ he muttered into her mouth before scraping his stubbly cheek against hers, tugging again at her dress, trying to rip it at the waist, and mumbling something unintelligibly Italian that was an aphrodisiac all of its own whatever the words meant.
Everything about Sebastiano was an aphrodisiac to Layla, from his voice and accent to the musky taste and scent of his skin to the silkiness of his hair. She wanted to touch and taste him everywhere, feel his touch and taste everywhere, had never hated clothes more.
It was a hate frustrating Sebastiano as much as her, his efforts to rip away the multiple layers of the skirt of her dress proving impossible. With a loud growl, he lifted her into his arms and practically threw her onto the bed.
In moments he was straddling her thighs and with the same strength he’d torn the back of her dress, he pulled at his waistcoat. Buttons went flying, pinging as they landed on the hardwood floor but she barely heard them, too intent on hooking her arm around his neck for more rousing, heady kisses. Before he’d come into her life she’d neverknown kissing could evoke such thrills, could be so addictive.
With her free hand she yanked at the buttons of his shirt, shivering with pleasure as he undid her strapless white lace bra, then cried out loud when he covered her breast with his mouth and lathered it with such pleasure that the burn between her legs became molten. Such was her need that when the buttons of his shirt remained stubbornly unbuttoned, she found a strength she’d never known she possessed and, following his lead, ripped it open.
The moment their chests pressed together, a tiny part of the fever burning through her abated, as if her skin had been so desperate to feel his flesh upon it that it gave a little sigh of relief. The sigh lasted only a moment. The relief she so desperately sought was a wedding dress away and, lips fusing back together with his, she kicked at the thick layers entangled around her legs and feet; could have wept when Sebastiano roughly gathered together as much of it as he could and pulled it up to her waist.
His large hand ran over her thigh and he groaned into her mouth when he found the top of her white lace hold-up, and when he slid a finger into the side of her knickers and found her wet and swollen for him, his hooded eyes widened and nostrils flared. ‘La mia carne brucia ti desidero da morire,’ he said raggedly before his mouth fused back to hers.
The pleasure of his fingers caressing her where she so desperately craved had her crying into his mouth and clamping her thighs together and when he slid another finger inside her she rocked into him before crying with frustration when he moved his hand and ripped her knickers apart.
Her cries of frustration became cries of anticipation when he pushed the material of her dress up some more and yanked his trousers and briefs down to free himself properly. At the first tantalising hint of his arousal jabbing against her inner thigh she spread her legs wider and lifted her bottom, every inch of her body begging for his possession. Her breaths coming in short pants, she tightened her hold around his neck as he fought his way through the mass of material stubbornly keeping them apart until, finally, magically, he drove deep inside her.
Such was the sensation that all the air flew out of her with a moan of the deepest pleasure.
Their mouths broke apart as he lifted his head back to gaze wonderingly into her eyes. She could feel the throbs of his arousal inside her, knew he could feel the throbs of her own as her needy body adjusted to the most glorious sensation of Sebastiano filling it so completely. But it was the swirling pulses in his green eyes, which had darkened to look almost black, that had her lift her face back to him and kiss him with all the passion in her singing heart.
With a ragged groan against her lips, he clasped hold of her bottom and in moments every fibre of her being was singing in sensation.
Sebastiano was beyond thoughts. Beyond savouring the moment. They were both beyond that. They both needed relief and with Layla’s long legs wrapped around him, her moans and breathless cries urging him on with the same urgency as the nails digging in his back, he drove in and out of her like a man possessed...he was a man possessed...possessing her and making her his with every hard thrust...
Dio, this was something else. Something unimaginable, something that went beyond being bare inside her. It was all he could do to hold on until her breaths shortened and she began to rock against him. Only when he felt the thickening around his arousal that had blown his mind all those months ago did he let himself go with a roar before he was pulled deep, deep into the secret place that belonged only to him and Layla.
Layla’s eyes were closed, her hands gripping the pillow tightly as the sensations being evoked by Sebastiano’s tongue deepened and her climax built into a crescendo.
Only when she’d finally stilled did he lift his head from between her legs and give his lascivious smile. ‘Better?’
Finally too replete to speak, she smiled and held her arms out to him in answer. In response, he crawled back up and placed his head on the pillow beside her. Kissing her gently, he slung an arm over her stomach.
She gazed into his eyes and nuzzled her face closer. ‘Sure you don’t want me to return the favour?’
He laughed lowly and kissed her again. ‘Soon. You, my insatiable little rabbit, have worn me out.’
She grinned sleepily. ‘Worth it?’
Another kiss. ‘Completely.’
The first filters of daylight were coming through the heavy drapes. They hadn’t slept a wink. The bedroom looked like a romantic bomb had gone off. Rose petals, buttons and the tiny crystals of her wedding dress were strewn all over the floor along with puddles of their torn, ruined clothes. She didn’t dare think how much money’s worth of bespoke clothing they’d destroyed in their desperation to be skin on skin.
She didn’t want to think, either, of how similar their wedding night had been to their first night together. Once hadn’t been enough then either. Twice hadn’t been enough. Three times hadn’t been enough.
Sebastiano had ended up having to cut the wedding dress off her. The zip had stuck fast and the layers of the skirt were just too thick and heavy to rip through. He’d taken one look at her naked—excepting her white lace hold-ups—and she’d taken one look at him looking at her and before she knew it he’d been buried deep inside her again. Only on their third bout, after they’d shared a shower together, had they taken it more slowly. After their fourth time, this time while sharing another shower, she’d hardly been able to walk. She’d been astounded when, shortly after, back in bed, laughing about some of the fascinators their guests had worn while he’d idly encircled her breast with his fingers, desire had flamed back to life.
Finally, after her fifth orgasm of the night, Layla’s desire had muted into a gentle simmer...for now.
For a long time, they just lay there, Layla on her back with her face to him, Sebastiano on his side, his eyes closed, only the gentle circles he was now making on her stomach signs he was still awake.
‘Can you feel it?’ she whispered. The fluttery feeling had started again, right beneath his hand.
Sebastiano’s eyes flew open, the sleepiness he’d been falling into shaking off him in an instant.
Layla’s open stare was glued to him.
She caught the hand frozen on her stomach and pressed it down. ‘It feels like a thick fluttering. It’s like no other feeling in the world. My body’s changed so little that sometimes I worry I’m imagining the whole thing but it’s real and it’s there. That’s our baby.’
Blood roared in his ears. The tugging sensation every time he looked at her belly was stronger than it had ever been, and now, with his hand splayed on it and his full concentration on the sensation beneath his skin, he could feel the strange fullness of it. The changes that came with a belly supporting the creation of a life.
‘Yes,’ he admitted quietly. ‘I can feel it.’
He could deny it to himself no more. Layla was pregnant.
She expelled a soft breath of relief.
‘But how can it be mine? We used protection the whole time.’ Every time. Which only reaffirmed that, subconsciously, he’d already accepted the truth of the pregnancy because he hadn’t given protection a thought earlier.
There was a helpless quality to her smile. ‘I know we did and I can’t explain it either but this baby is yours. There was only one man before you and that ended when I graduated.’
Just the thought of her being with anyone else punched nausea through him.
Stifling it, he rolled onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘I want to believe it’s mine but how can I? I accept that accidents happen but nothing went wrong with the condoms.’ Nothing at all. For sure, their night together had been the most intense and passionate of his life...until tonight, that was...but he’d been meticulous in his protection of them both.
At her silence, he turned his face back to her and saw the unshed tears swimming in her eyes. It was a sight that made his chest tighten immeasurably, and he found himself saying, ‘It doesn’t matter who the father is.’
As part of his investigation into Layla he’d had his team dig into her lovers. The only name to come up had been from her university years. He’d also got them to do a forensic account of her movements for the two months either side of their night together. Whoever the real father was, there was no proof of his existence but that didn’t mean he could accept that he’d created the child with her. Sebastiano was a Catholic who didn’t believe in miracles.
‘The whole point of the marriage was to avoid a scandal,’ he continued. ‘The child will have my name and the world will see it as mine.’
Covering her breasts with the bedsheets, she sat up and stared down at him. Unshed tears still glistened but he could see her thinking hard. ‘Why would you force this marriage on me if you didn’t believe you were the father? I know you’ve been in denial but you must know it deep down else why put those clauses about children born within the marriage in our prenup? Why not make the clauses state conception?’
A flare of anger ignited. ‘I told you, this marriage has to be believable to everyone and it’s already proving to be—the wedding has eclipsed the monetary loss, and when news of the pregnancy breaks it will only add to the momentum. As for the prenup, it was drafted by the legal firm who have taken care of my family’s personal business for nearly as long as Russo Banca has been operational. It is unthinkable for a man in my position to not have one and it would have been unthinkable to write conception into the clause. That is the kind of thing that makes people ask questions.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You accept that I’m pregnant. You’ve had me thoroughly investigated. You know there’s been no one else and yet you still refuse to believe you’re the father?’
‘I don’t believe in miracles, Layla,’ he said tightly. ‘I believe in tangible facts, but the child’s paternity makes no difference to me. I set us on the path to marriage knowing there was a slim possibility that you were pregnant with another man’s child—’
‘It’s yours,’ she stated vehemently.
‘A discreet paternity test after the birth will confirm that.’
A flash of pain lit her beautiful features at this.
‘You’re not worried about the imaginary father coming out of the woodwork?’ she asked.
Sebastiano took a deep breath to douse the last of his anger. He didn’t want what had been a spectacular day to end in an argument and bad feeling. As much as he enjoyed verbally sparring with Layla and seeing her passion roused in all its forms, this felt different from their previous sparrings. Or was his acceptance that she really was pregnant making him feel different about it?
‘If it happens, he will be dismissed as a fantasist,’ he said in a gentler tone, turning back to face her. ‘Whatever happens, the child will be raised as mine.’
She slumped back down and held herself rigidly, chin jutted, her mouth clamped in a thin line. ‘You had this all planned out, didn’t you?’
Not planned but dealt with in his mind and filed away to be used only if needed.
‘I never leave things to chance.’ He moved closer and wrapped an arm around her. ‘You should be pleased.’
Her eyes flashed, the anger he’d rid himself of transferred to her.
He kissed her smooth shoulder. ‘You win whatever happens, and so does your child.’ Pinching the bedsheets tucked so tightly under her arms, he pulled them down to expose her small but perfectly formed breasts, and cupped one, capturing a nipple between his fingers. ‘He or she will have a recognised father and security for life. That is what you wanted for them, isn’t it, when you chained me to that bed and demanded money?’
Her mutinous expression remained but her body, responding to his touch, spoke a completely different language.
Carefully sliding on top of her, he smoothed the hair from her face and watched the forget-me-nots pulse when his arousal jutted against her pubis. ‘I know I forced this marriage on you, cara, but I don’t want you to be unhappy and I don’t want us to be at war. Believe me when I tell you that I will do everything in my power to be a good father to the life inside you.’
Layla gazed into the green depths and, with a deep sigh that came from her heart, palmed his cheek. He nuzzled into it, which only made the sigh in her heart deepen.
It frightened her how badly his continued denial about being the father hurt. It meant he was denying her. Meant he believed she was capable of passing off another man’s child as his.
But he was trying to do the right thing and that counted for something. His honesty counted for something too. If she let his denial fester then the only person she hurt would be herself.
Lifting her thighs so his arousal pressed right where they both most wanted it to be, she brought her mouth up to his and whispered, ‘I don’t want to be at war either.’
His lips lifted at the corners. ‘Then let us make peace,’ he said huskily before fusing his mouth to hers and, with a long, drawn-out groan, drove deep inside her.