Bedded For Revenge. Sharon Kendrick

of leaves. ‘Oh?’

      ‘I want to kiss you.’

      She sat up, oblivious to the creamy spill of her cleavage, or the effect it was having on him. On her face was an expression of a tight and bursting excitement—like a child who had just been given a big pile of presents to open.

      ‘Then kiss me. Please.’

      He knew in that instant that she was innocent—though he had guessed at it before—and in a way it added to the intolerable weight of his desire, and his position here in the house.

      ‘You know what will happen if I do?’ he groaned.

      ‘Yes,’ she teased, in an effort to hide her longing, and her nervousness that she would somehow disappoint him—that somehow she wouldn’t know what to do. ‘Your lips will touch my lips and then—Oh! Oh, Cesare!’

      ‘Si!’ he murmured, as he caught her against him. ‘All those things and more. Many more.’ He pushed her to the ground and brushed his lips against hers, making a little sound of pleasure in the back of his throat as he coaxed hers into opening.

      The kiss went on and on. He had never thought it was possible for a kiss to last so long—he felt he was drowning in it, submerging himself in its sweet potency. The blood pooled and hardened at his groin and he groaned again—only this time the sound was tinged with a sense of urgency.

      ‘Cesare!’ she breathed again, as his thumb circled against the tight, damp material which strained over her breast. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

      He sat up abruptly. This was wrong. Wrong. He sprang to his feet and held out his hand to her. ‘Let us move away from here!’ he ordered. ‘And where in the name of cielo is your mother?’

      ‘She’s up at the house—why?’

      ‘She is happy for you to ride with me alone every day?’ he demanded.

      ‘I think so.’

      Did she not know of Cesare di Arcangelo’s reputation? he wondered. Did she not realise that women offered themselves to him every day of the week? And would she not be outraged if her daughter were to become just one more in a long line of conquests?

      He looked at her, his eyes softening as he saw the bewilderment in hers. For Sorcha was not like the others. She was sweet and innocent.

      ‘Cesare?’ Sorcha questioned tentatively.

      ‘It is all right, cara mia. Do not frown—for you make lines on that beautiful face.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Let’s go and swim, and cool off.’

      ‘But Rupert’s down by the pool!’

      ‘Exactly,’ Cesare said grimly.

      But once Cesare kissed Sorcha it was like discovering an addiction which had lain dormant in his body since puberty. It was the first time in his life that he had ever used restraint, but he quickly discovered that sexual frustration was a small price to pay for the slow and erotic discovery of her body. And that delayed sexual gratification was the biggest aphrodisiac in the world.

      Sometimes he took pains to make sure that they weren’t alone together. And he quizzed her on her views so that sometimes Sorcha felt as if he was examining her and ticking off the answers as he went along.

      He knew she had a place at university, and he knew that the experience would change her. And—maledizi-one!—was it not human nature for him not to want that?

      The long, glorious summer stretched out like an elastic band, and they lived most of it outside. There were parties and dinners and a celebration for Sorcha’s exam results, which were even better than predicted, but soon the faint tang of autumn could be felt in the early morning air, and Cesare knew that he could not avoid the real world for ever.

      ‘I have to think about going back,’ he said heavily.

      She clung to him. ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I must. I have stayed longer than I intended.’

      ‘Because of me?’ She slanted him a smile, but inside her heart was aching.

      ‘That is one of the reasons,’ he agreed evenly, pushing away the memory of the blonde who had told him she was pregnant. It had caused outrage when Cesare had demanded a paternity test, but his certainty that he was not the father had been proven.

      He thought how easy it was with Sorcha—and how restful it had been to have a summer free of being hounded by predatory women on the make. He was twenty-six, and he knew that sooner or later he was going to have to settle down—but for the first time in his life he could actually see that it might have some advantages.

      He was confused.

      He wanted her, and yet to take her virginity would be too huge a responsibility, would abuse his position as guest.

      He wanted her, but still he hesitated—because he wanted to savour the near-torture of abstinence, recognising that the wait had been so long and so exquisitely painful that nothing would ever feel this acute again.

      He wanted her, and yet in his heart he knew that he could have her only at a huge price.

      ‘Oh, Sorcha,’ he groaned, and knew that he could not go on like this. ‘Siete cosi donna bella.’

      He pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her, softly at first, and then seekingly—so that her lips opened like a shell, with her tongue the wet, precious pearl within.

      With a savage groan he cupped her breast, feeling its lush, pert weight resting in the palm of his hand. He flicked his thumb against the hardening nipple and knew that with much more of this he would suckle her in full daylight. And what else?

      ‘We can’t stay here,’ he said grimly.

      ‘Let’s go inside,’ she begged.

      He had held out for so long, until he was stretched to breaking point, and silently he took her hand and led her into the house, to the darkened study, whose windows were shuttered against the blinding sunlight.

      They kissed frantically—hard and desperately—and suddenly Cesare’s hands were all over her in a way he’d never allowed them to be before. He pushed her down onto a leather couch. His hand was rucking up her dress, feeling her thighs part, and as he inched his thumb upwards she writhed in silent invitation.

      He had just scraped aside her damp panties and pushed a finger into her sweet, sticky warmth when they heard the sound of a door slamming at the far end of the house. Sorcha sat bolt upright and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. He pulled his hand away from her.

      ‘Merda!’ he swore softly. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘It must be my mother!’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Who else could it be?’

      Hurriedly he smoothed his hands down over her ruffled hair and silently left the room, disappearing for the rest of the afternoon until just before pre-dinner drinks were served when he went to find her alone, sitting on the terrace, her face unhappy.

      He knew that the timing was wrong—but he also knew that this must be said now. He felt as you sometimes did when you walked through the sticky mud of a ploughed field after a rainstorm. It was the price he knew must be paid for his body’s desire, and yet he was too het up to question whether it was too high.

      ‘Sorcha, will you be my wife?’

      She stared at him. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

      ‘Will you marry me?’

      Rocked and reeling with pure astonishment that such a question should have come out of the blue, Sorcha heard only the reluctance in his voice, and saw the strained expression on his face.

      ‘Why?’ She fed him the question like a stage stooge setting up the punchline, but he failed to deliver it.

      ‘Need