Chapter Seven #2
Massimiliano was thirty-five years old and, in his adult life, he had known many women.
Too many to remember, and none of any particular importance.
After his fiancée, all those years ago, he’d made an art form out of sensual, meaningless connections.
So much the better if the women he slept with, and then walked away from, were from noble families.
Those same families that had shunned his, because of the sins of his father.
Those same families that had turned the Moretti name into mud.
But all of those encounters, all of those women, had turned into black shards in his mind, slicing through him accusingly, as he looked down on this beautiful, innocent woman and ached to make her his.
No part of him thought he deserved that, and yet, they had a deal.
Even without it, Massimiliano knew he didn’t have the willpower to resist. She wanted him to be her first, and, so help him God, he would be.
Just as soon as they were married, and alone…
The wedding gown had been beautiful, but it had been a huge relief to remove the frothy fabric and step into a far sleeker, lighter-weight cream slip for their post-wedding lunch.
Massimiliano had booked a high-profile, ritzy restaurant in a trendy part of Rome.
The place was all industrial chic, from its exposed wiring and air-conditioning ducts to polished concrete floor, woodchip tables and bright lighting.
But the crowd was unmistakably not industrial.
These were Italy’s elite, in their incredible couture, and from the second she realised that, she knew why he’d chosen to come here.
To be seen.
Antonio and Massimiliano Moretti with the Rossi family. Two of Italy’s oldest names, joined together now in marriage. Her marriage.
If she’d been sceptical about the importance of this, seeing the way people responded, the whispers, the attention, would have convinced her that Massimiliano had known what he was doing.
Their engagement had been announced in the papers, with a nice little quote from Massimiliano about having found the love of his life and brought her home to her native Italy.
There was also some interesting information about her family, things she’d never known, so she’d felt something creaking open inside her, despite her best efforts.
Pride, in the Rossis. Curiosity about their history. Interest in her Italian heritage, and this beautiful, historic country she’d pretended, all her life, simply didn’t exist.
The fact Antonio and the Rossis had once been close friends was very easy to understand. The initial awkwardness had faded by the time the first course arrived, and they began talking in rapid-fire Italian, so Amelia couldn’t keep up.
Massimiliano, though, stayed close to her, his arm around her shoulders, his fingers doing that now familiar dance, of brushing over her bare flesh, until goosebumps lifted on her arms.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, when their dinner plates were cleared.
She glanced up at him to find his face only an inch or so from hers. She swallowed quickly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I mean about tonight,’ he pushed, gently, so her body exploded with anticipation and heat. Embarrassed, though, she dropped her gaze to his chest.
‘I wasn’t sure if you still…’
His finger pushed gently beneath her chin, tilting her face back to his. ‘Still what?’
‘If it was going to happen. Tonight, I mean.’
‘Do you doubt my word, Contessina?’
Her heart dropped out of her body. She bit into her lip, wishing that didn’t sting so much.
It wasn’t until that moment, she realised how much she wanted this to happen, not because of a deal, but because of something between them.
What a fantasist, she thought with impatience.
There was no way on earth he’d be looking at her in such a manner if she hadn’t wedged this requirement into their negotiations.
‘No, Massimiliano.’ How good she’d got at saying his name. The syllables rolled off her tongue now, almost as though she’d been born to speak it.
‘Good girl,’ he said, leaning closer and whispering in her ear. ‘Because when we are alone, I am going to strip you naked and make you mine, until you are screaming with pleasure. Is that what you want?’
Heat flooded her body, pooling between her legs.
She gasped at the suggestive, intense nature of his statement, of the desire in his voice, the raw sensuality of that promise.
She pulled back to look at him. His dark eyes were glittering when they met hers, and her stomach seemed to loop in on itself.
‘Is that what you want?’ There was that command again, that easy authority.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Beneath the table, his hand curved over her knee, brushing her through the satin of her dress. She trembled, lifting a hand to his shirt and clinging on for dear life.
‘Let’s not remain here much longer,’ he said, eyes shifting over her face then landing on her lips and lingering there. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, her body riding a shock wave of need.
She nodded her agreement.
Right on cue, a waiter appeared with a small, perfectly decorated millefoglie, with delicate layers of pastry and sweet, vanilla-scented cream.
‘Time to cut the cake,’ Massimiliano murmured, and she was aware of people in the restaurant removing their phones and taking photographs of them as she reached over, cheeks flushed pink, to slice through the confection.
The restaurant erupted in spontaneous applause, and then, perhaps for the sake of those watching, perhaps for the sake of tradition, or maybe just because of the heat that was flaring between them, Massimiliano pulled her against him and kissed her, just as he had in the limousine.
Hard and desperate. Mouths mashing together, tongue invading her senses until she couldn’t think straight and her whole body felt weak, propped up only by his proximity.
She wanted to moan into him. She wanted to climb into his lap.
To drag him from the restaurant then and there and start the night ahead.
But he pulled away, eyes staring down at her, chest moving with the force of his breath, as the other patrons continued to clap and cheer.
Massimiliano then was himself once more, turning and giving a brief wave, before he focused his attention on their table of five, one arm wrapped carelessly around Amelia’s shoulders for the rest of the night.