Marrying the Italian: The Marcolini Blackmail Marriage / The Valtieri Marriage Deal / The Italian Doctor's Bride. Caroline Anderson
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eyes misted over. ‘Hold me, Antonio,’ she whispered as her arms snaked around his middle. ‘Hold me and make me forget.’
Antonio held her close, lowering his chin to the top of her silky head, breathing in the freshly showered flowery fragrance of her as his body stirred against her. He wanted her again, but he was conscious that this time her need for him was motivated by a desire for solace, not sensual fulfilment. He closed his eyes and listened to her breathing, feeling the slight rise and fall of her chest against his, every part of him aching to press her down on the bed and possess her all over again.
He’d had to rein in such impulses before. In the weeks following the loss of their baby he had thought the best way to help her heal would be to mesh his body with hers again—to bring it back to life, to start again, to reignite the passion that had flared so readily from the moment they had met. But she had been so cold, so chillingly angry, as if he had deliberately orchestrated the demise of their daughter. Her reaction had been like an IV line plugged into the bulging vein of his guilt, hydrating it, feeding it, until it had flowed through every pore of his body, poisoning him until he finally gave up.
Antonio stroked the back of her hair, the bounce of her curls against his fingers making the task of holding her at bay all the more difficult. She was crying softly, so softly he would not have known it except for feeling the dampness of her tears against his bare chest. He was used to tears. How many patients had fallen apart in his consulting rooms over the years? Time and time again he had handed them tissues and spoken the words and phrases he’d hoped would make the burden they faced a little easier to bear. And most times it had worked. But it hadn’t worked with Claire. Not one word he had spoken had changed anything.
He knew his feelings were undergoing a subtle change, but he wasn’t ready to examine them too closely. He had been trained to see things from a clinical perspective. He had seen for himself how often emotions got in the way, complicating the decision-making process. What he needed was a clear head to negotiate his way through the next few months.
Divorce was a dirty word just now. It had always been a dirty word in his family. His parents were of the old school, their religious beliefs insisting on marriage being ‘until death do us part’. His father’s will might easily have been remade in the years since Claire had left, but Salvatore had done nothing. Antonio had told himself it was a simple oversight—like a lot of people his father hadn’t expected to die so soon—but he wondered if there had been more to it than that.
Antonio hadn’t been particularly close to either of his parents since late adolescence. His desire to be a surgeon had not been met with the greatest enthusiasm, and he had subsequently felt as if he had let them down in some way, by not living the life they had mapped out for him. He had been assured of their love growing up, and certainly they had done everything possible to support him during his long years of study, but the chasm that divided them seemed to get bigger as each year passed.
His father had only once spoken to him about Claire’s desertion. Antonio had still been too raw from it all; he had resented the intrusion into his personal life, and after a heated exchange which had caused months of bitter stonewalling between them eventually his father had apologised and the subject had never been raised again. His mother too had remained tight-lipped. Over the last five years he could not recall a single time when she had mentioned Claire’s name in his presence.
Looking back now, he realised he had not handled things well. He had allowed his anger and injured pride over Claire leaving him to blur his judgement. He had been so incensed by her accusation of him having an affair that he hadn’t stopped to think why she had felt so deeply insecure, and what he had done or not done to add to those feelings. He had believed her to be looking for a way out of their relationship, and he had done nothing to stop her when she took the first exit.
Antonio put her from him with gentle hands. ‘Go to bed, Claire,’ he said. ‘I will sleep on the sofa tonight.’
She looked up at him, her eyes still glistening and moist. ‘I don’t want to be alone right now,’ she said, so softly he could barely hear it.
His hands tightened on her shoulders. ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. ‘Please, Antonio, don’t leave me alone tonight. I just couldn’t bear it.’
Antonio sighed and slid his hands down the length of her arms, his fingers encircling her wrists. ‘You make it so hard to say no, Claire,’ he said, looking down at the faint marks he had left on her tender skin. ‘Everything about you makes it hard to say no.’
She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him with luminous eyes. ‘I want to forget about the past,’ she said. ‘You are the only person who can make me forget. Make me forget, Antonio.’
He brought his mouth down to hers in a kiss that was soft and achingly tender. The pressure of his lips on hers was light at first, gently exploring the contours of her mouth. He took his time, stroking her lips until they flowered open on a little sigh. His tongue danced just out of reach of hers, tantalising her, drawing her to him, challenging her to meet him in an explosive connection.
Claire could not resist the assault on her senses; her tongue darted into his mouth, found his and tangled with it boldly, while her lower body caught fire against the hard pressure of his holding her against him. She felt the swollen ridge of his erection through the thin barrier of the boxer shorts he had slipped on earlier. Her hand went down, cupping him through the satin, relishing the deep groan he gave as her fingers outlined his length. She felt his breathing quicken, and slowly but surely lowered the shorts until she was touching him skin on skin, her fingers circling him. Delighted with the way he was pulsing with longing against her, she began to slide her fingers up and down, slowly at first, knowing it would have him begging in seconds—and it did.
He growled against her passion-swollen mouth. ‘Please, cara. do not torture me.’
She smiled against his lips—a sensual woman’s smile, not a shy young girl’s. ‘You want me to go faster?’ she asked huskily.
He nipped at her bottom lip once, twice, three times. ‘I think you know what I want, tesoro mio. You seem to always know what I want.’
Claire left the bathrobe slip from her shoulders, her eyes watching his flare as he drank in the sight of her naked. His gaze felt like a brand on her flesh; each intimate place it rested felt hot and tingling. Her breasts swung freely as she pushed him back onto the bed, coming over him like a cat on all fours, pausing here and there to lick him, her belly quivering with desire as, each time her mouth came into contact with his flesh, he gave a little jerk of response. His hands bunched against the sheets as she came closer and closer to the hot, hard heat of him. She took her time, each movement drawn out to maximise his pleasure. A little kiss here, a little bite there, a sweep of her tongue on the sharp edge of his hip before she nipped at him with her teeth, each touch of her mouth making his back arch off the bed and a gasping groan came from his lips.
Claire had dreamt of this moment over the years. Alone in her bed, miserably unhappy and unfulfilled, she had dreamed of being with Antonio again, having him throbbing with need for her and only her, just as he was doing now. He was close to losing control. She could sense it in every taut muscle she touched with her hands or lips or tongue. But she still hadn’t got to the pièce de résistance in her sensual repertoire.
She met his eyes; his were smoky, burning with expectation, totally focussed on her. ‘If you want me to beg, then keep doing what you are doing,’ he said between ragged breaths. ‘But be warned, there will be consequences.’
She gave him a devil-may-care look as she moved down his body with a slithering action. ‘I can hardly wait,’ she breathed, and bent to the task at hand.
Claire sent her tongue over him first, in a light, catlike lick that barely touched the satin of his strained flesh. But it was enough to arch his spine. She did it again, stronger this time, from the base to the moist tip, her tongue circling him before she took him in her mouth.
He shuddered at the first smooth suck, his hands going to her head,