The High-Society Wife. HELEN BIANCHIN
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musky male scent, the magic of his touch…the heat, the passion, and the wild erotic sorcery he was able to weave with her emotions.
She barely registered her fingers slipping free the buttons on his shirt, nor did she make a teasing play to draw out the moment, or seek to provoke.
Need guided the speed with which she dispensed with his shirt, freed him of the fine tailored trousers…and sought the source of her pleasure.
His indrawn breath as she enclosed him brought a soft sensual smile to her lips, and her fingers slid slowly down to cup him, only to return to create a slow, tantalising pattern that had him grasping her bottom and lifting her high against him.
Gianna cried out as his mouth closed over her breast and suckled, teasing the tender peak with the edge of his teeth before exploring its soft curve.
It was almost more than she could bear as his fingers sought and found the aroused clitoris, caressing it until she went wild, swept high by mesmeric primitive sensation.
Just as she began to ease down, he sent her up again, closing his mouth over her own in an invasive kiss that mirrored the sexual act itself.
It wasn’t enough, and she wrenched her mouth free and told him so, demanding more…so much more.
Franco shifted, reached for the bedcovers and tossed them aside before drawing her down onto the bed.
What followed was a feast of the senses, a long leisurely tasting that drove them both to fever pitch, and it was she who lost control as her body sang to a tune only their shared sexual chemistry could evoke.
Passion…mesmeric, electric, tempestuous. A hungry slaking of the senses driven by shameless need and primeval desire.
The feel of him entering her, the long slow thrust as he slid in deep, sent every nerve and muscle into convulsing life, and she arched up to meet him when he began to move, exulting in the wonder of two people in perfect sexual accord.
Gianna became lost, so caught up in him she was unaware of the guttural cries emerging from her throat, or the soft feline purr of satisfaction so much later as Franco gathered her in against him on the verge of sleep.
Sated, she tucked a hand against his chest and burrowed in, a soft smile curving her generous mouth as he gently traced a soothing trail down her back.
Within minutes her breathing slowed into a regular pattern and she didn’t feel the light touch of his lips against her temple. Nor was she aware he lay awake for some time.
CHAPTER THREE
GIANNA drifted awake to the realisation she was alone in the large bed.
Which was probably just as well, she decided as she arched her body in a preliminary stretch…and felt the faint pull of muscles, the awareness of sensitivity deep inside.
Even thinking about what she’d shared with Franco through the night brought renewed heat flooding her body, and she uttered a self-deprecatory groan, checked the time, saw it was early and aimed a frustrated punch at her pillow.
It was Saturday, for heaven’s sake, with no rush to rise and begin the day.
Yet any further sleep wasn’t going to happen, and she threw back the bedcovers and made for the shower.
Breakfast comprised yoghurt and fresh fruit, which she took out on the terrace.
Early-morning sun fingered the air with warmth, tempered by a wispy breeze, and lent promise to an early summer’s day.
Rosa joined her with fresh coffee, and together they conferred over the coming week’s schedule. Dinner at home, with the exception of Wednesday, and Gianna gave Rosa carte blanche with the evening meals.
A superb cook, whose culinary talents were unfailingly lauded by Gianna and Franco’s guests, Rosa ran the house like clockwork, engaging outside help whenever the need arose.
It was almost nine when Gianna ran lightly upstairs to change, choosing dress jeans and a knit singlet-top. Make-up was minimal, and she swept her hair into a loose knot, secured it with a tortoiseshell clasp, then she slid her feet into stiletto-heeled boots, collected her shoulder-bag and descended the staircase.
Franco glanced up from his laptop as she entered his study, and she watched as he hit a key, then sank back in his chair.
Black jeans and black tee-shirt lent a casual air, making it impossible to ignore the way the cotton highlighted impressive muscle and sinew.
‘On your way out?’
The deep drawl curled round her nerve-ends and tugged a little.
‘Retail therapy,’ she responded lightly.
Leading a social existence commanded serious attention to one’s wardrobe. Men could wear a dinner suit several times over. If a woman wore the same gown twice to a gala event, it was assumed she couldn’t afford the price of a new one. Appearance was everything, providing a benchmark for her husband’s status in the business arena.
Dress designers of high repute were very much in demand, earning veritable fortunes providing original couture, with consultations and fittings afforded only by appointment.
‘Have fun.’ Franco’s eyes gleamed with latent humour, and she offered a wry smile.
‘Pray Estella is in a good mood.’ The Spanish-born seamstress possessed magic fingers when it came to fabric and thread. She was also vocal, volatile, lethal on occasion when adjusting pins…and known to dismiss clientele on the slightest whim.
‘Want to eat in tonight, or dine out?’
It was no contest. ‘Home. Will you tell Rosa?’
‘I’ll cook.’
The fact he could, and well, had long since ceased to surprise her. ‘OK.’
He joined her as she reached the door, and silently she tilted her head askance.
‘You forgot something.’ His hands cupped her face as he laid his lips against her own, then went in deep, and she held on as he bestowed an evocative tasting that blew her mind.
How long did it last? Mere seconds?
She was incapable of saying a word when he released her, and it took effort to control the slight tremble threatening her mouth as he pressed a light thumb against her lower lip.
Damn. She didn’t want to appear vulnerable. Yet he had only to touch her and she became limbless.
‘Go enjoy your day.’ He waited a beat. ‘There’s just one thing. You might want to repair your lipstick.’
Repair didn’t quite cover it. She’d have to start over.
‘Bite me.’
His soft chuckle stayed with her as she reversed her BMW from the garage and slid in a CD, turning up the volume as she eased through the gates and gained the street.
Estella worked out of an old-style home whose rooms had been converted into a fashionista’s salon. Parking rarely presented a problem, and Gianna greeted the receptionist as she entered the front lounge.
Within minutes a middle-aged flamboyantly dressed matron appeared at the door, hair covered in a deep crimson headpiece that defied description, with make-up pronounced to the point of absurdity.
‘You are late.’
‘I’m on time,’ Gianna declared politely, and incurred a haughty look.
‘You would dare argue with me?’
‘Perhaps we can compromise by agreeing our watches are not in sync?’
A raven eyebrow arched in disdain. ‘My timepiece is correct. Follow me.’ Estella swept down the hallway into the fitting room.
‘Remove your outer clothes,’ the seamstress demanded. ‘No talking. I do not have the inclination for chit-chat.’