Chapter 4
4
I T WAS PROBABLY THE longest ten minutes of Salvatore’s life. Which should have given him all the red flags he needed, the vital warning to do the smart thing and run a thousand yards from this intoxicating witch of a woman.
Because not being able to stop thinking about Emilia Valentino was not a phenomenon he was enjoying. Nor was having her possible social life dictate his plans, and his life. Case in point, coming to this event even though he generally cut a large check for this sort of charity rather than attending the fundraiser. But just the prospect of seeing her again, of being able to get under her skin—or her skirt, as the case may be—had seen him asking his assistant to secure a ticket.
And there she’d been. Beautiful, in that classy, untouchable way of hers. Always immaculate, as though she’d been coiffed and dressed to meet the Queen. It was one of the reasons he loved mussing her hair, smudging her lipstick, creasing her clothes. To see her outer visage more closely match the wildness he knew she had within her was both a pleasure and a privilege. It was something he intended to do as soon as he could.
He'd promised himself that the moment he’d seen her walk in. The black cocktail dress was, if anything, demure. Just a simple dress, it hugged her slim figure like a second skin, but it fell to her knees and had a neckline that showed not even a hint of cleavage—he knew this for a fact, because he’d been looking. It was the heels that had really sunk him, though. They were impossibly high and thin, and yet she’d walked around on them all night, as though they were an extension of herself. And that hair, with its glossy, golden brown ends, was in a high ponytail, that he’d spent an infuriatingly large portion of the night imagining himself grabbing and holding it, maybe even while she was on her knees for him.
He bit back a groan as the lift drew him upwards, and finally, when the doors pinged, he took the briefest moment to scan the sign, indicating which way he should go, before walking quickly to the left. He swiped the keycard and when the door buzzed, he pushed it inwards, dark eyes once again scanning the room. The hotel had been almost fully booked, so it was not a suite, but rather, an ordinary room, with a large bed in the centre of it. The lights were off, except for a lamp in the corner, and her silhouette was outlined against the large glass window that had a view of Manhattan.
She didn’t turn around when he walked in, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was because she was afraid. Not of him, but of what happened when they were together. Of the fact that neither of them wanted this, and yet they both seemed to understand it was as inevitable as it was satisfying.
What the hell had happened to them in Moricosia? While they’d been thrown together a fair bit, while Ares and Sofia were off hiking, he’d gone into each and every one of those encounters considering her very much the enemy. Salvatore might show an easy going, relaxed nature, outwardly, but his passions, feelings and loyalty all ran deep. And that loyalty was to the Santoros —who the Valentino family were intent on destroying. Twice in the last two years they’d won enormous victories against the Santoros. First, with the acquisition of Acto Corp, which the Santoros had spent years attempting to buy. Secondly, with the development in Moricosia, spear-headed by the very same woman he was looking at now as though she were the last woman on earth.
Which really pissed him off, because he knew she wasn’t. Salvatore could walk into any bar and pick up a woman. That he had the iPhone equivalent to a little black book the thickness of an encyclopedia. So why didn’t he feel like calling any of those women? Why didn’t he just go out and meet someone else? Why had he spent the night practically drooling into his drink at the sight of Emilia in the crowded room?
All that anger and frustration, though mostly levelled at himself, suddenly exploded into something else. Need, passion, and yes, irritation with Emilia, because why on earth should she be able to do this to him? He didn’t waste any time, but rather pulled her into his arms, holding her against him as though they’d win some kind of prize if they could stand there without a single hint of space between their bodies. His leg between hers, his mouth meshed to hers, arms around her back, whole body holding hers, pulling her with him, drawing her to the bed. Her damned dress was too fitted to allow her to part her legs more than a little, and he so desperately needed to get it off her.
“Fuck this dress,” he muttered, as his hands struggled to lift it up her thighs.
“Tsk, tsk. What did the dress ever do to you?”
He pulled back and glared at her. The fact he felt like his temper was hanging on by a thread, and she was almost laughing at him? He ground his teeth and said, commandingly, “Turn around.”
His tone had her smile slipping and her eyes flaring, but she did as he said, pulling her pony tail over one shoulder, to give him full access to the hidden zipper at the back. Maybe in another lifetime, he might have taken it slowly, relishing the tease of easing it down her spine, letting his fingers glide and flirt, tempt and arouse, before turning her and tormenting her with slow, hungry kisses, until she was melting in his arms.
But his own needs were too great for that. He pulled the zip down as quickly as he could, over the small, sweet curve of her ass. And even as he reached that curve, his other hand was up at her shoulders, sliding the dress down, off her beautiful body.
She wore no bra, just like the other night. While he hadn’t seen her breasts then, he’d sucked her nipples through the silk fabric, and he’d known there was only the finest barrier between himself and her flesh. Now, though, he ached to touch with nothing between them, and that was exactly what he did, reaching around and cupping her breasts, holding them as his mouth came down on the bare flesh of her shoulder and kissed her there. He squeezed her nipples until she was crying out, his touch demanding and insistent. Emilia pushed backwards, as though she too was seeking to remove any space from between them, as though she wanted—no, needed as he needed—more. So much more.
Putting aside the question of what the hell was happening to him, he resigned himself to the fact it was, and simply existed in the moment. He dropped his hands to her hips, so he could spin her around to face him and then his eyes devoured her. Already, he’d left red stubble marks on her throat and he loved the sight of that—the possession it indicated, the fact that she was, in that moment, his. As wild for him as he was for her.
“This doesn’t seem fair,” she said, her voice breathy and light, as she gestured with shaking fingers towards his suit, still very much still in place.
“You’re welcome to do something about that,” he invited.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Did you really think that, Emilia?” he asked, curious as to her answer. Her eyes lifted to his and her cheeks flushed pink, but whatever she was thinking, she didn’t say. “I’ve been called many things but with you, I don’t think subtle could be one of them.”
Her flush darkened and something ballooned inside his chest. Curiosity. Fascination.
A desperate, all-consuming hunger to know more about this woman. To understand her better. Outwardly, she was so composed and contained, the last word in untouchable sophistication. But when it was just the two of them, he could press her buttons, making her unspool in a way he could get hooked on.
Which was enough of a bright, glaring warning sign for Salvatore, because if he was ever going to get hooked on anyone, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Emilia Valentino.
But where he’d undressed her with lightning speed, desperate to see her naked, Emilia’s fingers worked slowly as they went through his buttons, one by one, and separated his shirt, so his breath hissed beneath his teeth with an impatience he couldn’t control. Then, before he knew it, his own hands were at his zipper, unfastening it and pushing his pants down. Her eyes flew to his, but there was an amusement in their depths. A mockery, even, like she knew she had the power to bring him to his knees and was relishing that.
In any other circumstances, with any other woman, he would have had no issue ceding whatever power to her, but this was Emilia Valentino.
A muscle jerked in his jaw as he stepped fully out of his pants, using the same motion to swap positions with her, so Emilia was nearest the bed, then gently pushing her backwards, until she was sitting on the edge. That slicked back pony tail of hers just itching to be held, touched. His hand curved around the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the lengths, wrapping it around his fingers until it was all held in his fist. She stared up at him, eyes huge, lips parted, and then her fingers were drawing his boxers down, not slowly now, but impatient, like he’d felt earlier.
Naked in front of her, with Emilia’s eyes still on his, she leaned forward and took him in her mouth, so he cursed loudly into the room. True, he’d fantasised about this on the way up, but it had been exactly that: a fantasy. He hadn’t expected—or hoped—it to happen.
“ Cristo, Emilia,” he muttered, loosening his grip on her hair, to make sure each movement was her own. For all he liked holding her there, this was her show; her ability to control herself paramount. It was his last conscious thought, though—after that, he surrendered to an almost dream-like state, as with her mouth, her tongue, she brought him close to the tip of sanity and humanity, almost spiraling him over the edge. He was so close. So close he could feel that heat building in his balls, feel it tingling all over his body, and he wasn’t about to finish this so fast. Then he used his grip on her pony tail to hold her head back, away from him. She looked up at him straight away, something on her features that made his gut tighten.
“I want to feel you,” he said, as he brought his body down so he could kiss her, and push her further up the bed, skin to skin, naked to naked, every bit of him exalting in the euphoric, delirious joy of this moment. He spread her legs with his knee, raised up onto his palms and looked down at her. Wide, green eyes stared back at him. Cheeks flushed. Lips dark red. He smudged his thumb over the lower, saw the way her pupils dilated and that heat in his balls was back.
“Who the hell are you?” he muttered, because surely she was in fact some kind of ancient goddess?
“Your worst enemy,” she reminded him, but laughed, and pulled on his shoulders so they were kissing once more, and it was the most natural thing to slide into her, all the way, hitching himself deep, so her muscles squeezed his length and before he could stop the thought from forming, he felt as though he’d come home.
“Oh my God,” Emilia, still out of breath from the hotter than flame sex they’d just shared, tilted her head to face him and then, sat bolt upright. “You didn’t use a condom.”
She saw the moment realization hit Salvatore, too. The moment his features went from relaxed, cat-that-got-the-cream, manly-man, to ‘holy shit, what have I done?’.
He cursed, the sound filling the small hotel room, but she reached out and put a hand on his chest. Half seeking reassurance, half giving it.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, staring at him, while her insides slicked with something like panic and surprise. “I’m on the pill. I have been for years. And I’m clean, obviously. I mean, I’ve never done that before,” she gestured in the general vicinity of his cock.
Salvatore’s expression assumed something more like what she was used to as he nodded once. “Then we’re fine. I’m clean, too.”
“You’re sure?”
He pulled a face. “Yes, cara.”
“It’s just—you’re waaaay more active in this department than I am.”
“Yes, and I always use a condom. Besides which, I have to do a physical each year, for life insurance purposes. Mine was two weeks ago and included a full blood screen.”
She expelled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Okay.”
“So,” he murmured, reaching out and catching her wrist, tugging on it so she fell back onto the mattress, her head landing with a soft thud against the pillows. “You’re not that active, huh?”
She closed her eyes on a wave of irritation at what she’d just admitted, before admonishing herself for that reaction. After all, why should she be ashamed of her lack of experience? Being selective wasn’t a bad thing. Just because that wasn’t a lifestyle choice they shared.
“I wasn’t a virgin,” she said, a hint defiantly though.
“That’s true.”
And then, with a small shrug, “But I don’t make a habit of falling into bed with every guy I’m attracted to.”
“Even when it’s so fun?” he asked, eyes roaming her face with undisguised interest.
“There are other ways to have fun.”
He pulled a face. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“So the rumours about you are true?”
“What rumours would those be?”
She watched as he stepped out of bed then, moving towards the mini bar and removing a bottle of champagne. Mid-range, she suspected it was well below his usual standard. But as she watched, he unfurled the foil and popped the top, grabbing two glasses from the counter and pouring their drinks. He climbed onto the bed, holding them, straddling her, kneeling over her as he passed one to Emilia. She took it, without having a sip.
“The fact you’re constantly with a different woman.”
“And where are you reading these rumours about me?”
She rolled her eyes. “You come up in my newsfeed.”
“Ah, interesting.”
“Not really,” she assured him. “Up until Moricosia, it just made me doubly glad I’d never met you before.”
“Not your type?” he asked with an arrogantly smug grin.
“Definitely not.”
“All appearances to the contrary?”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” She drank half of her champagne in one go then placed it on the bedside table.
“Then how do you explain this?” he asked, gesturing from her, towards his chest.
She opened her mouth to say something then realized she didn’t really have an adequate answer. How could she explain what was happening between them? He was the last man on earth she would ever like, and yet the more she saw him, the more she wanted to see of him. Which made her think she should leave. No, know she should leave.
But then, he drank some of his champagne before bringing his mouth to hers, kissing it into her, so she drank and tasted and wanted all the more. Of him, of everything. Her legs wrapped around him, holding him close.
“I can’t,” she said against his lips. “But it really is a mistake.”
“You’ve said that already, yet here we are.”
Her eyes widened at the reality of that. At the implications. “It can’t keep happening.”
He pulled away from her, looking down intently. “I agree.”
She ignored the tightening of disappointment. “You do?”
His smile was etched with a hint of mockery. “Did you think I’d fight you? Insist we have to keep seeing each other?”
Heat flooded her face. “Of course not. Neither of us wants that.”
“No. But we do want this,” he said, shifting his hips a little, so she became aware of his erection, his renewed need for her.
“Which is stupid of us. If anyone found out?—,”
“Perhaps that’s part of the appeal,” he said, taking another drink of the champagne. This time, he dropped his mouth to one of her breasts, and took a nipple in his mouth, rolling his tongue over it, so ice cold champagne trickled over her skin at the same time his warm mouth and tongue flicked her into a state of near-oblivion.
“I—don’t—understand—,” she moaned, barely able to speak.
“You’re the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect woman,” he said, spearing her with something that didn’t feel quite right. Something that actually hurt. Because his words had a hint of disdain, a lick of judgement, that couldn’t help but make Emilia feel seen—and discounted. Like she didn’t matter. She glanced sideways, her hatred for him and the whole stupid Santoro family renewed. “This is probably the first bad thing you’ve ever done in your life. Most people go through a rebellious phase in their teens; you saved it up for me.”
More champagne, and now, the other breast. She tilted her head back, surrendering to the feeling, the bliss, the building need. Surrendering to the certainty that at this point, she would do whatever he wanted, go wherever he said, be anything, anyone, for him. It terrified her but, yes, it was also utterly exhilarating.
“That—explains—me—,” she managed to breathe out, when she could make her mouth cooperate. “But—what—about?—,”
“I’m sorry, are you trying to say something there, bella ?”
She glared at him, even then, as he moved his mouth lower, the hint of a grin visible just before he connected with her stomach and flicked her with his tongue.
“This is—normal—for you?—,”
“No, it’s not,” he responded swiftly. “You are the first person I’ve ever slept with that I’ve been raised to hate everything about.”
She flinched, even when the same could be said of her.
“But I do like the need for secrecy. I do like the risks here.”
“You do?”
He tilted his face then, resting his chin against her belly. “Yes. It’s…exciting.”
“Exciting.” She bit into her lower lip, trying—and failing—to ignore the implication that this had less to do with her and more to do with the fact that they had to be careful to keep this off anyone’s radar.
“So it’s not me you want, but the drama?”
“Actually, I don’t like drama,” he drawled, taking another sip of champagne, which he swallowed. “Excitement is not the same thing.”
“And the sex on its own isn’t exciting enough?”
He grinned then, moving his mouth lower, until his head was between her legs. “I wouldn’t say that, either.” He took another drink of champagne and this time, it was her most intimate skin that felt the thrilling contradiction of ice cold liquid and warm, desperate mouth.