Rake Most Likely To Thrill. Bronwyn Scott
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dark beyond the lights.
Archer’s stomach growled, and he grinned. There was no choice to ignore it. Elisabeta smiled and passed him a plate. She gestured to each dish and offered an explanation, pleased when he nodded. While all of his friends had been studying French, he’d been studying Italian. His mother had seen to it that he had Italian tutors. It was paying off now, even if it was just to bring a smile to this woman’s face.
‘Risotto alle fragole, polenta con fragole, ravioli...’ She rattled off the dishes, taking a serving for herself as they went. At the end of the table stood an enormous vat-like bowl of strawberries and tubs of cream alongside various tortes. ‘La torta!’ Elisabeta beamed back at him over her shoulder, silver eyes gleaming in delight.
Archer took a healthy helping of everything. The smells alone would have been persuasion enough to try the new foods, but Elisabeta’s smile stole any reservation he might have had. The way she looked at a man, the way her eyes lingered over him in appreciation, he would have eaten slugs for her. There was wine to pour from casks after that and slices of hearty dark country bread to add to his burgeoning plate.
She led him to a quiet spot off the piazza where the lantern lights didn’t quite reach and the music didn’t quite preclude conversation. There was privacy in the darkness. ‘It’s the strawberry festival, in case you haven’t guessed,’ she said between bites. ‘We celebrate it every year. Most of the dishes of the evening are made with strawberries.’
‘It’s delicious.’ Archer took another mouthful of the risotto. It truly was. The food was rich and warm. He’d never tasted anything as good as this, not even the fine food of Paris could compare. He took a swallow of wine, letting his tongue savour the full-bodied flavour, a perfect complement to the meal.
When his plate was nearly empty, she took it from him and set it aside. Her voice was a sultry whisper in the night. ‘Now for la dolce.’ She dipped a strawberry in the small pot of cream and held it to his lips. ‘Lick,’ she commanded as he took the berry between his teeth, laving the sweet cream with his tongue until her eyes locked with his and her lips formed the very erotic word: ‘Bite.’
Two could play this game, as he knew she very well intended. Archer plucked up a berry and swirled it in the cream before he offered it to her, his own voice offering a seductive invitation of its own. ‘Suck.’
She took the berry in her mouth, her tongue flicking across his fingers where he held the fruit, her eyes never leaving his, the message in them plain, you’re next. Archer’s throat went dry. He was going to love Siena, he just knew it.
He would be an exquisite lover, and who would know what they had done? Who would care? He would just be passing through. He could give her something of pleasure to carry into her marriage. Elisabeta leaned towards him on their narrow bench, her eyes caressing his mouth with their gaze, offering him a moment’s preparation before her lips slid over his. She tasted him, tempted him—or was she tempting herself?
His mouth answered hers, hungry for more, his body straining in acknowledgement that they were not private enough for ‘more’. Elisabeta drew back. It would be up to her to initiate, this was her territory. ‘Perhaps a walk? There’s a lovely fountain not far.’ It was a ruse, an excuse to seek that privacy, to be alone, and her heart thundered in knowledge of it. There would be more to come with this man.
‘Which direction? I’ll go first.’ His concern for preserving at least a facade of decency spoke to her. Here was a man of experience.
‘To the right.’ She motioned to the street veering off from the piazza. ‘It’s not far.’ She watched him slip into the night and counted the minutes in her head before following.
He’d gone deeper into the curving street than she’d anticipated. There was a moment when she thought she might have misread him, where she thought he had taken the opportunity to disappear. Then the whisper came in the darkness. ‘Elisabeta!’ An arm reached out to seize her about the waist, dragging her into a curve of a little alcove. She gave a startled yelp as he spun her about and drew her against him, his mouth stealing a laughing kiss. He felt as a man should, all heat and hardness where their bodies melted together.
‘What took you so long?’ He was grinning in the darkness. She could hear that grin in his words as his hands rested at her waist, so comfortably, so naturally as if they were long-time lovers well used to one another’s bodies.
‘I didn’t expect you to go so far.’ Elisabeta twined her arms around his neck, her hands fingering the ends of his hair where it brushed below his collar.
‘I was looking for the perfect spot.’ His mouth was at her neck and his words came between kisses along the column of her throat, his mouth latching over the pulse beat at its base, sending a trill of excitement down her spine.
‘For what?’ She managed to breathe, although she could guess, and the guessing made her giddy with excitement. She was thankful to note there was a wall at her back should she need it. At this rate, her legs wouldn’t hold her much longer. This man was a consummate artist in the craft of amore with his subtle touches, the lingering of his gaze, the temptation woven in his kisses.
‘For this.’ His mouth returned to hers, his body pressing hers to the rough brick of the wall. She was fully protected here by the breadth of his shoulders and the height of his body. They blocked her from view should anyone stagger down the street or come looking for privacy of their own.
She should have known such a master of the art would not resort to a base, rushed, dark-alley coupling, or be carried away by the heat of the moment and his own need. She should have been ready. The kisses to her neck, to her throat, should have primed her, warned her that here in the privacy of the dark and the quiet of the night, the music and noise of the festivities far behind them, these moments would be different than the frenzied excitement in the piazza. But still, the kiss took her unawares.
This kiss was a long, languorous exploration of her, his tongue probing and tasting, his mouth opening to encourage her to do the same, and she did. She tasted the remnants of rich wine on his tongue, smelled the last vestiges of his morning toilette beneath the sweat of the day, the scents of a man. Wherever he’d come from, he’d come on horseback. The smells of leather and horse were evident too, on his skin, and most pleasantly so. She preferred a man smell like a man than a flower garden. A man’s scent should above all be an honest representation of him.
As should his body. There was honesty aplenty in that dark alcove. His want was in evidence, his erection hard at her stomach where their bodies met. He was not alone in that evidence, only more obvious. There was wetness at her core, an ache that rose in her, demanding to be assuaged. He nipped at her lip, tugging at it gently, and she moaned, her body pressing into his, her hips grinding in suggestion against his.
Archer groaned his response into her mouth, his kiss becoming possessive, the slow tempo between them quickening, turning primal. His hands bunched the folds of her skirts, pushing them up. ‘Let me lift you.’ The command was hoarse with need.
His hands slid under her, cupping her buttocks and hefting her to him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he balanced her between himself and the wall. Her skirts fell back, her private flesh bare against him. She felt the hardness of him through the barrier of his trousers, the contact erotic, and she moved on him in instinctive response.
She was rewarded with a fierce nip at her ear and the feel of the strong muscles that held her, trembling. ‘You will have me spilling like a green boy.’ The rasped warning was both caution and accolade and it spurred her on. The heat and frenzy was returning, stoked to life once more. Her hips sought him again, but he had other ideas, better ideas.
He shifted his weight, his hand finding the core of her, his palm pressing against her mons until she cried out in pleasurable frustration. She was far beyond it being enough. But he knew. ‘I can make it better,’ he