The Secret Kept From The Italian. Кейт Хьюит
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Maisie raised herself up on one elbow and then, with fingers that trembled only a little, she started undoing the buttons of his crisp white shirt. Every time she inhaled she breathed in the clean, woodsy scent of his aftershave; every time she managed to slip a button through its hole she glimpsed a tantalising bit of his chest, bronzed skin over sculpted muscle.
Antonio’s breath came out in a hiss between his teeth, and with a jolt Maisie realised how affected he was. How she affected him. He must have seen her surprised expression, for he laughed softly and said, ‘I’ve told you how you make me feel, haven’t I? Now you can see the proof for yourself.’ The buttons undone, he reached for her hand and laid it flat against his bare chest, over the thudding of his heart, its hectic pace matching her own.
They remained that way for a long, suspended moment, connected by her hand on his heart, all of it feeling so wonderfully and excruciatingly intense. This was so intimate, and not simply because she no longer had a shirt on. She hadn’t expected it somehow, along with the physical pleasure, the overwhelming need. She felt an emotional connection with this man that had begun when she’d seen him looking so sad, and its natural continuation was here.
Maisie spread her fingers against his chest, revelling in the taut muscle, the satiny skin. Another breathless moment passed, and then she looked up at him, waiting, wanting—and everything changed.
It was as if a spark had suddenly caught the tinder, seeming to take them both by surprise. Antonio pulled her towards him, crushing her breasts against his chest as his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. And Maisie answered that demand, wrapping her arms around his neck, driving her fingers through his hair as she offered herself to him utterly.
She fell back against the sofa, Antonio’s body pressing into hers, one powerful thigh sliding between her legs, creating an even deeper urgency.
He tore his mouth from hers and moved it lower, a shuddering gasp escaping her as her eyes fluttered closed and his lips nudged aside the thin cotton of her bra.
Her body arced off the sofa as he continued his soft and deft exploration, unclasping her bra so swiftly Maisie barely realised it had gone, and she was naked from the waist up. Her mind was blurred with sensation, fiery arrows of pleasure shooting through her as Antonio continued to explore her body with his lips and hands.
Her baggy trousers followed her shirt and bra, and then her underwear as well, so without even fully realising it was happening she was naked, and so was Antonio. She gazed up at him, his skin burnished in the dim light from the desk lamp, his chest taut and muscled and perfect.
Maisie trembled against the sofa, aware, even in her pleasure-dazed state, what a step she was taking. Enormous. Irrevocable.
Antonio must have sensed something of her feelings, for he paused, his hands braced on either side of her head, his breathing harsh and ragged.
‘Maisie...you are sure?’ She nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. ‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘Tell me to go on, or tell me to stop.’
She drew a deep breath into her lungs, her body splayed and open to his. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and reached up to lace her fingers around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers. ‘I’m sure.’
Antonio needed no more encouragement. He kissed her hard on the mouth as his hips pressed against hers, and Maisie stiffened at the sudden and strange invasion of her body. He frowned slightly, and she wondered if he knew she’d never done this before. Did her inexperience show?
Antonio let out a groan as he slid fully inside her, and Maisie tried not to flinch, adjusting to the feeling of him. So this was sex. She thought she liked the foreplay a bit better.
Antonio lifted his head, his frown deepening as he looked at her. ‘Maisie...’
‘It’s all right.’ It suddenly felt important that he should not know she was—or had been—a virgin. That she’d chosen to give her virginity to a stranger she’d never see again. She arched up, drawing him more fully into her body, wrapping her legs around his hips.
Antonio began to move with slow, deliberate thrusts, and as she adjusted to the feel of him a flicker of pleasure began to grow. Maisie started to match his rhythm, and the flicker grew into flame, their bodies moving in union as the fire began to rage.
She lost all sense of time or place or comportment, both of them searching and straining for the height of the pleasure, until it burst like an explosion of flame, Maisie’s jagged cry renting the air before she fell back against the sofa, emotionally and physically spent.
Antonio rested his forehead against Maisie’s for a brief moment as he fought to hold on to his composure, half amazed that it was proving to be such a painful challenge.
Sex on an office sofa with a woman whose last name he didn’t know wasn’t a completely new experience. But this—with Maisie—felt different. It felt overwhelming.
He hadn’t expected the emotion. He didn’t do emotion, except on the anniversary of his brother’s death, and then he indulged in it only by himself, giving in to the grief he locked away all year in a single, torturous night. He never should have invited Maisie in on this night of all nights, never should have seduced her when he’d felt so raw and emotionally exposed.
He never should have cracked open the door to his tightly guarded heart, even just a sliver. But now he had and he couldn’t keep the flood of grief and sorrow from rushing through that sliver and drowning him.
He rolled onto his side, pulling Maisie with him, and buried his head in the warm, soft curve of her neck. He was still trying to hold on to his composure, even though he knew it was a lost cause; he’d given it up when he’d buried himself in her body, when she’d put her arms around him and drawn him in even deeper, and he’d felt whole and lost at the same time.
Now shudders racked his body and his arms tightened around her, holding on to her as if she was his anchor. And she did anchor him, wrapping her arms around him, her fingers stroking his hair, whispering words of endearment and comfort as if he were a child.
It was so weak, so shaming, and yet so necessary. He couldn’t hold it together any more. He just couldn’t. And he hated that even as he burrowed against her, seeking the comfort only she could provide.
‘You loved him very much,’ Maisie said softly, after a few moments when the only sound had been Antonio’s ragged breathing.
‘Yes.’ He practically gasped the word out, his eyes shut. ‘Yes, I did. And...’ Somehow he felt compelled to speak, to let her know the awful, unvarnished truth, or at least some of it. ‘It was my fault he died.’
Her hands stilled on his hair and he held his breath, waiting for her verdict. Her condemnation. ‘Did you kill him?’ she asked quietly, and he nearly jerked back in shock at the bold, bald question.
‘No! Not like that—’
‘Then it wasn’t your fault.’
His breath came out in a low, defeated rush. If only it were so easy. He’d accept her absolution and walk away a free man. But Antonio knew better than that, and if he told Maisie the full truth, so would she. ‘You can’t say that.’
‘And you can’t say you killed him.’ Her soft hand slid down to frame his face and she tilted his chin up so he was forced to look at her. Her eyes, sparkling with tears, were the colour of moss as she held his face in her hands and spoke words of tenderness. ‘That’s why you looked so sad tonight,’ she said softly, more a statement than a question. ‘Because you are bearing the guilt of his death, and no one can carry that kind of weight.’
‘You don’t know—’
‘Then tell me.’
He shook his head, unwilling even now. Especially now. She would hate him then, especially considering her own loss. As little as they had shared, he wanted—needed—to preserve it. Preserve the memory of this night, for it would sustain him for a long time to come.
‘Oh,