Bedroom Bargains of Revenge: Bought for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure / Bedded and Wedded for Revenge / The Italian Boss's Mistress of Revenge. Trish Morey

he said, gently shifting her onto the pillow as he eased out from under her, pausing to fan the long riotous curls of her hair out around her face, smiling at the effect as he did so, his eyes twinkling satisfaction. “Don’t move,” he instructed, then quickly flung himself off the bed and headed for the coffee table.

      She felt too languorous to move, anyway. Besides, her attention was instantly captivated by the back view of his completely unadorned physique. He looked even better without clothes, male perfection to her eyes, broad shoulders, lean hips, taut cheeky butt, strongly muscular arms and legs, though not bulging out of proportion. She imagined he worked out to keep fit but was not a gym junky, absorbed in building himself up. His smooth olive skin gleamed with good health, and she looked forward to stroking it, consciously feeling its texture when he returned to the bed.

      She watched him take the bottle from the cooler bag, pop the cork with a deft efficiency that suggested he was well practised at the art. The idea that he had celebrated having sex with other women, just like this, took the lovely fizz out of the moment, but Sally quickly told herself not to let anything spoil what was good between them right now.

      He filled the two glasses with the expertise of a champagne connoisseur—no overflow—propped the bottle in the ice-bucket, then turned with a glass in each hand, grinning at the sight of her waiting for him exactly where he’d placed her, lying in totally naked abandonment.

      A weird little wave of self-consciousness prompted the comment, “You haven’t even looked at the Monet, Jack.”

      It didn’t draw a glance now, either. His gaze did not waver from her, his eyes drinking her in from head to foot and back again as he strolled towards the bed. “You far outshine any painting, Sally. A vibrant living work of art.”

      The warm appreciation in his voice, the pleasure twinkling in his eyes, instantly dispelled her unease about how she looked to him. “Can I move now?” she asked.

      He laughed. “As long as it’s not away from me.”

      “I can’t drink champagne lying down.”

      As she hitched herself up into a sitting position, he set the filled glasses on the bedside table and piled pillows behind her. “Comfortable?” he said teasingly.

      “Yes, thanks, but you’ve left no pillows for you.”

      His gaze flicked down to her breasts. “Oh, I think I can find the perfect softness for me.”

      Aware of her nipples stiffening into hard bullets, Sally looked down, too, then couldn’t stop herself from checking out Jack’s sexual equipment, remembering how wonderfully powerful it had felt inside her. Like the rest of him, perfect masculinity, she thought, and the urge to touch was too tempting to resist. She leaned over and ran her fingertips lightly over the soft velvet skin, awed that it could become so hard and strong.