Claiming His One-Night Baby. Michelle Smart

both in its grip.

      He cupped her small perfect breasts then took them into his mouth, her moan of pleasure soaking right into his bloodstream. He ran his hands over her smooth belly and followed it with his tongue before going lower to inhale her musky heat.

      He devoured her, not an inch of her creamy skin with the texture of silk left untouched or without his kiss.

      Never had he experienced anything like this, this combustible, primal need to taste her, mark her, to imprint himself into her.

      To worship her.

      Natasha was adrift in a world she’d never been to before, Matteo her anchor, and she clung to him as if he were all that was left to hold onto, dragging her fingers through his hair, touching every bit of smooth skin she could reach with her needy hands. Every touch seared her, every kiss scorched.

      His kiss from seven years ago had flicked something on inside her, a heat that had briefly smouldered before the direction of her life had extinguished it. Now he’d switched it back on and it engulfed her, flames licking every part of her, heat burning deep inside her, an ache so acute she didn’t know where the pleasure ended and the pain began. She could cry with the wonder of it all. All those years of living without this...

      And it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed everything.

      As if sensing her thoughts, Matteo snaked his tongue back up her stomach and over her breasts, climbing higher to find her mouth and kiss her with such passion that it sucked the air from her lungs.

      His hand found her thigh and pushed it out while she moved the other and wrapped her legs around him.

      His erection brushed her folds and she gasped for breath at the weight and hardness of it then gasped again when he pushed his way inside her.

      There was no pain, there was too much heat and fire racing through her for that, just a slight discomfort as her body adjusted to this dizzying newness.

      And then there was a moment of stillness from Matteo, a pause in the frenzy.

      Suddenly terrified he’d sensed or felt something wrong, she grabbed the back of his head and kissed him deeply, hungrily.

      And then she forgot to worry, forgot about everything but this moment, this time, and welcomed his lovemaking, the feel of him inside her, the pleasure taking over, taking her higher and higher until the pulsations burst through her and rippled into every part of her being.

      As she absorbed these beautiful sensations with wonder, Matteo’s movements quickened, his lips found hers and with a long moan into her mouth, he shuddered before collapsing on her.

      For a long time they simply lay there, still saying nothing, the only sound their ragged breaths and the beats of their hearts echoing together through their tightly fused bodies.

      Then, as the sensations subsided and the heat that had engulfed them cooled, something else took its place.

      Horror.

      She heard Matteo swallow into her neck, then his weight shifted and he rolled off her, swung his legs over the bed, and swore, first in his native Italian and then in English.

      Coldness chilled her skin.

      It was just as well she was lying down for if she’d been on her feet she was certain her legs would have given way beneath her.

      What had they just done?

      How had it happened?

      She couldn’t explain it. She doubted he could either.

      Feeling very much that she could be sick, she stared up at the ceiling and tried to get air into her tight lungs. If she could get her vocal cords to unfreeze she might very well swear too.

      After a few deep breaths to steady himself, Matteo got to his feet and went in search of his discarded clothing.

      He needed to get out of this house. Right now.

      He found his shirt under her dress. One of his socks was rolled in a nest with her bra.

      Nausea swirled violently inside him.

      What had they just done?

      Why the hell had he got out of his damned car? Why hadn’t he driven off?

      He pulled on his black trousers, not bothering to do the button up, then shrugged his shirt on, not caring it was inside out.

      His other sock had rolled half under the small dressing table that had only a thin glass of dried flowers on it. That this was clearly a guest room was the only mercy he could take from this.

      Stuffing his socks into his jacket pocket, he slid his feet into his brogues and strode to the door. Just as he was about to make his escape a thought hit him like a hammer to the brain.

      His hands clenched into fists as recriminations at his complete and utter stupidity raged through him, every curse he knew hollering in his head.

      Slowly he turned around to look at her.

      She hadn’t moved an inch since he’d rolled off her, her hands gripping the bedsheets, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. But then, as if feeling the weight of his gaze upon her, she turned her face towards him and wide, terrified eyes met his.

      That one look confirmed everything.

      It didn’t need to be said.

      Natasha knew as surely as he did that the madness that had taken them had been total.

      They had failed to use protection.

      And he knew as surely as she did that Natasha wasn’t on the Pill. Pieta himself had told him they were trying for a baby.

      A thousand emotions punching through him, he left without a single word exchanged between them, strode quickly across the street and into his car.

      Only when he was alone in it did the roar of rage that had built in his chest come out and he slammed his fists onto the steering wheel, thumping it with all the force he could muster, then gripped his head in his hands and dug his fingers tightly into his skull.

      Another twenty minutes passed before he felt even vaguely calm enough to drive away.

      He didn’t look at the house again.

      Two weeks later

      It was taking everything Natasha had not to bite her fingernails. It was taking even more not to open one of the bottles of Prosecco that had been in the fridge since Pieta’s funeral. She hadn’t drunk any alcohol since the wake. If she started drinking she feared she would never stop.

      Francesca was due any minute to go through the plans for the hospital they were going to build in Pieta’s memory. To no one’s surprise it had taken her sister-in-law only one week to buy the site and get the necessary permissions to develop on it. Her sister-in-law was possibly the most determined person Natasha knew and she wished she had an ounce of her drive and a fraction of her tenacity.

      For herself, she seemed to have lost whatever drive she’d ever had. She felt so tired, like she could sleep for a lifetime.

      Where this lethargy had come from she didn’t know, had to assume it was one of those stages of grief she’d been told to expect. Everyone was an expert on grief, it seemed. Everyone was watching her, waiting for her to crumble under the weight of it.

      And despite everything, she was grieving, but not for the reasons everyone thought. Her grief was not for the future she had lost, but the seven years she and Matteo had both wasted.

      Mixed in with it all was that awful sick feeling in her belly whenever she remembered how the night of the funeral had ended.

      God, she didn’t want to think about that but no matter how hard she tried to block the memories, they was always there with her.

      The bell rang out.

      She blew a long puff of air from her lungs and tried to compose herself while the housekeeper let Francesca in.

      Footsteps