Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw
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she said softly, her lips parted. They were beautiful lips—works of art. Pink and generous, and quick to smile. ‘Have you ever spoken to him about Enrique?’
Twice. But conversations with Carlo never ended well. Their hatred was mutual. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He frowned.
‘It must,’ she countered, leaning forward a little, and beneath the small coffee table her legs brushed his and his body throbbed with all the awareness that was taking over his mind and soul in that moment. ‘For you to have flown all the way here to ask me about him. Or was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?’
Madre de Dios. Antonio had built his company back from dust, he had single-handedly returned Herrera Incorporated to its position as a global powerhouse, and now this one woman was somehow threatening to bring him to his knees?
He stood abruptly and felt her gaze slide up his body. Hungrily. Needily. With the same kind of sensual curiosity that was powering the blood in his own veins.
He’d come to this quaint cottage in the middle of the countryside with one purpose in mind, but now that goal was at war with his body’s more immediate needs.
Desire rushed through him as he imagined, for a moment, what it would be like to possess her. Where he was tall and dark, she was fair, all peaches and cream and soft and gentle. Their contrasts fascinated him. What would it be like to lay claim to her body, to drive her wild with desire?
She was a diSalvo! How could he even be thinking like this?
He heard the rustle of clothes as she stood, and then her hand was on his shoulder, turning him to face her. ‘Antonio? Is something the matter?’
Everything was the matter! He was so close to bringing her family down, to destroying them as they’d sought to destroy his father, and this one woman was threatening his resolve.
‘What is it?’ she asked solicitously, her eyes running over his face.
Beautiful eyes in a face that was truly captivating, with long blonde hair he wanted to run his fingers through. He swallowed and then, finally, surrendered to this madness. She was so close, so enticing, and his body was screaming at him to act on his impulses—screw the consequences.
There would be time for revenge later. Afterwards.
With a fatalistic grimace, he lifted a hand and caught her cheek, holding her face steady beneath his. She gasped, her lips parting, a gentle sound of surrender.
And he took her surrender, and he surrendered alongside her.
Slowly, his voice husky, in his native Spanish tongue he murmured, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
HIS WORDS WERE heavy in the air, mesmerising, and she could only stare at him, and his beautiful body. She could only stare at him, lost to this and him and whatever was happening.
‘I...’ She frowned, unable to form anything more intelligible. And then her hand was lifting slowly, almost as though it were dragging upwards, pulled by the sheer magnetic force of his body.
She pressed her fingers to his chest, swallowing at the instant bolt of recognition that juddered through her system. Her eyes jerked to his, uncertainty laced with desire, and her fingertips moved across his chest then up to his shoulder.
He made a throaty, groaning sound and then his head dropped forward, or perhaps she pushed up onto the tips of her toes. Whatever it was, on autopilot their lips were meshing, bodies fused together, his broad and hard, his strength emanating from him. His lips moved over hers and she made a gasp of surrender, opening her mouth so that he could deepen the kiss. His hand lifted to the back of her head, his fingers curving around her, holding her where she was so that he could explore her until she was incandescent with pleasure.
‘Antonio...’ She kissed his name into his mouth, deep into his soul, and felt him answer. Her world was being blasted apart by a simple kiss.
No, there was nothing simple about this—it was crazy and mad and she knew nothing about him, only his name and that their grandfathers had once been friends. And yet she was his for a song in that moment.
She didn’t care what had brought him to her door; she cared only that he was there, and that he wanted her as she did him. Desire—something she had never known nor understood, was rampant in her system now.
As if the heavens were ratifying her surrender to something as elemental as passion, a loud clap of thunder rumbled around the small cottage and a moment later a blade of lightning sliced the sky apart and the house was plunged into darkness. Not complete darkness—Amelia had strung fairy lights generously throughout and, powered by batteries, they offered a golden glow, faint but enough to see by.
He didn’t react to the power outage. But his hands roamed her body, running over her sides, finding the hem of her shirt and pushing it, so achingly slowly, up her body so that her skin was covered in goosebumps, her nipples tight against the simple cotton of her bra. He broke the kiss, pulling away from her just long enough to rip her shirt over her head and she pushed her arms skywards at the same time, as fevered as he. In that brief moment of separation their eyes met and something passed between them—an understanding, a commitment to this, come what may—and then he was kissing her again, this time dragging his mouth from her lips to her throat, flicking her with his tongue so that she whimpered with the strength of sensations he was stirring.
He pushed at his own shirt as his mouth claimed hers, dispensing with the fabric confines so his chest was bare.
Her fingers ran over his body without meaning or intent, certainly without forethought, and then her hands found his trousers and, of their own accord, her fingers were loosening his belt buckle then moving to the button and zip, pushing at them while his kiss held her body utterly captive. He stood out of his trousers as she pushed at them, and then her hands were curving around his naked buttocks, feeling his warmth in a way that was elemental and ancient.
He made a growling noise of awareness and dropped his hands to her back, pulling her hard against him so she could feel the strength of his arousal for herself. Surprise made her eyes flare wide and she swallowed, but then he was kissing her again, and now he lifted her as though she weighed nothing and she wrapped her legs around his waist and he rolled his hips so that his erection found her feminine heart, the pressure through the fabric of her jeans enough to make her cry out at what was to come.
He whispered words in Spanish and then he eased her to the ground, just for a moment, so he could retrieve his wallet from his trousers. He pulled out a condom. No, condoms, she corrected with pink cheeks, and she opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, to tell him that she was a virgin, because she was sure he wouldn’t enjoy discovering that fact for himself. But then his hands came to her jeans and he was unfastening them, pushing them down her legs, and he crouched in front of her and brought his mouth to her inner thigh and she was lost again. She tangled her fingers in his hair, throwing her head back as he kissed her legs.
And then he dragged her simple cotton briefs down her body and she was complicit, stepping out of them. In the back of her mind, in the small part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought, she was surprised by how unselfconscious she was. She was almost naked in front of him and she didn’t care.
He brought his mouth to the apex of her thighs and flicked his tongue against her womanhood and now Amelia cried out louder, harder, as pleasure licked through her like wild flames. She said his name over and over again, and her fingers ran faster through his hair before dropping to his shoulders and holding on tight. Pleasure was a rollercoaster and she was buckled in, riding it harder and faster, unable to stop the rush of momentum—not wanting to either.
His mouth drove her over the edge and she cried out as an explosion of delight, unlike anything she’d ever imagined, much less known, blew away the last vestiges of any idea that she might not be a