Spaniard's Baby Of Revenge. Clare Connelly

the ground, her feet on the floor, but only for a second. He scooped down and lifted her, cradling her to his chest as he carried her upstairs, along the hallway. The lighting here was dimmer than downstairs; she had only a few strings of lights on the landing. He looked in one room first—her study—and the next was her bedroom, and apparently there was sufficient light for him to make out at least the shape of the bed. He strode in, laying her down on the mattress gently, then standing. She could just make out the silhouette of his body in the darkness of the house.

      Her breath was rushed and she was grateful there was no lighting, glad he wouldn’t be able to see the tangle of emotions swirling in her eyes.

      ‘You should have told me,’ he said simply, but there was no recrimination in the words, only regret. And then he brought his body over hers and his lips caught hers, and he kissed her as his arousal found its way to her core once more. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he pushed inside her and she groaned as pleasure already began to build anew.

      ‘Your first time should not be with a man you hardly know,’ he said, but she barely heard. The words were hoarse and she was way beyond logical, rational thought. When he kissed her his tongue duelled with hers in time with his body’s possession of hers and this time, when she found release, he came with her, holding her tight, kissing her, passion saturating them both.

      He stayed where he was, inside her, straddling her, but sat straighter; it was impossible to discern anything in his features owing to the blackness of her room.

      But his hands found hers and his fingers weaved through hers, holding her, reassuring her.

      ‘I had no idea,’ he said.

      ‘I know that.’ Now that the bright burst of passion had receded, she had room to feel self-conscious. Not regret, not remorse, only a desire that she’d been better able to meet him on a level of experience closer to his. ‘I probably should have told you.’

      She was glad it was dark and that he couldn’t see her blush and that she couldn’t see his face—and the irritation she was sure would be there.

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. ‘If only so I could have made it perfect for you.’

      She lifted her hands to his chest, running her fingers over his muscles thoughtfully. ‘That was perfect,’ she promised. ‘I had no idea...’

      His laugh was soft and, inside her, he jerked with the movement and she let out a soft moan as embers of pleasure began to stir anew.

      ‘I mean it,’ she repeated huskily. ‘I never really got the whole sex thing.’

      At that he sobered and when he spoke his voice was husky. ‘I’m surprised to hear it.’

      He might have meant it as a general throwaway comment, but that was unlikely. He came to her that night knowing who she was, knowing her name, because their grandfathers had been friends. He knew more about her than she did him, and that certainly included knowledge of her mother and her behaviour. ‘I think lots of people expect me to be just like her,’ she said with a small shrug. ‘And I’m not.’

      ‘You didn’t want to be,’ he clarified gently, and he pulled away from her and rolled them at the same time, so she made a squawking sound of surprise. He held her close to his body, tucked in one arm, and she relaxed against him. His fingers stroked down her back and she sighed softly. New pleasures were vibrating inside her.

      ‘No,’ Amelia agreed, hating that it still felt like a betrayal to admit that.

      ‘You haven’t dated?’

      ‘Of course I have,’ she was compelled to declare, hating what a novice she was! His fingers paused in their stroking for a moment before resuming their leisurely trail along her back. ‘But never seriously, never for long.’ She shrugged against his side. ‘Whereas you, I imagine, have a long list of ex-girlfriends.’

      ‘Not really,’ he said, surprising her. ‘I don’t really date.’

      Of course. How gauche of her. ‘Lovers, then.’

      He laughed. ‘Enough,’ he agreed after a moment.

      She bit down on her lip. ‘But I bet it’s been a long time since you were with a virgin.’

      ‘I’ve never been with a virgin,’ he said simply. ‘Not even my first time.’

      She blinked at that confession. ‘Seriously?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      So she was his first? She couldn’t explain it, but she liked that. It was as though they’d both shared a new experience together, and it meant more to her than it should.

      ‘How do you feel?’ The gravelled question sent her pulse firing anew.

      ‘Relaxed and satisfied,’ she purred and he laughed, a throaty sound of wry amusement.

      ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Stay here.’ And he pulled away from her, standing and moving out of her room.

      ‘What are you doing?’ she called after him, but the words were soft, consumed by a yawn. And, instead of asking again, she collapsed back against the bed, closed her eyes and remembered. Remembered the madness in the kitchen that had brought his lips to hers, or was it the other way around? Remembered the way they’d exploded at that first touch and everything had seemed predestined in some way.

      A moment later she had her answer, anyway. The sound of the bath running, then the bathroom cabinets being open and shut. She lay there, a smile on her face, listening, and a little while later he returned.

      ‘Are you asleep?’

      She squinted one eye open and then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘No,’ she said, sitting up. ‘Are you taking a bath?’

      He laughed. ‘No. You are.’

      He reached for her hand and she wriggled off the bed, standing on legs that had suddenly turned to jelly. He understood and he lifted her once more, so she joked, ‘I could get used to this. Like some kind of Rajah.’

      He stepped over the threshold, into the bathroom, and her breath caught in her throat. He must have found every candle in the house and the bathroom was glowing and warm, like something out of a fairy tale.

      Don’t! she alerted her subconscious.

      Don’t even think like that.

      Fairy tales. Don’t. Exist.

      How many times had she seen her mother go down the rabbit hole of thinking a man was her Prince Charming and that their ‘happily ever after’ was at the end of the next party or vacation or new home or fresh start? Only to wake up alone, miserable, depressed and looking for consolation in the bottle or vial of whatever drug she was into at the time.

      Amelia was not Penny—and that meant knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that fairy tales didn’t exist.

      Still, fairy tale or not, the bathroom was beautiful in this lighting. The tub was half-filled and an extravagant layer of bubbles sat on top of the water’s surface. There was an aroma of lavender in the air—so he’d found her bath oils.

      He placed her over the edge of the tub, easing her feet into the water, and she smiled as the perfect warmth wrapped around her legs. She sank into it slowly, lying back against the edge and letting the water enfold her.

      ‘Heaven,’ she said softly and then blinked her eyes open to find him staring at her.

      ‘Enjoy it.’ His eyes sparked with something like promise and her heart turned over in her chest. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ He retrieved a towel and placed it within easy reach of the bath, then moved to the door. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he warned as he left and she smiled.

      Fat chance.

      She wasn’t going to fall asleep all night. Not when she had Antonio Herrera as her own personal pleasure centre. Having discovered what her body was capable of feeling, she wanted