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This was just a man and a woman and an ancient, primal calling to one another that he had no intention of ignoring.
CHAPTER FOUR
MADDIE WAS HARDLY THE most experienced woman in the world, but she’d had a boyfriend before, and she’d definitely been kissed, so there was absolutely no scientific explanation for the way her whole body seemed to react to the simplest brushing of her lips by Rocco Santoro.
From the moment he kissed her, Maddie had the strangest sense she was being pulled out of her skin, lifted up into the heavens, and re-formed as someone entirely new and different.
He kissed like a God.
His lips were soft at first, enquiring, as if he understood that she would need this to be slow and drawn out. But each movement brought a question, sought an invitation, and Maddie’s lips moved to answer, kissing him back, perhaps not quite so gently. Perhaps insisting that he stop holding back.
And so, he did.
The hand that had been gently caressing the side of her face moved around to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her right there, tilting her face towards his, angling her so that when her lips parted now, in a natural response to this contact, he was perfectly positioned to capitalize on her placement.
His tongue flicked hers with lazy indolence, an arrogance that was so quintessentially Rocco she would have smiled if she’d been capable of doing anything with her lips but this. But indolence quickly gave way to desperate need, a need that was echoed deep inside Maddie, a need that flooded her body.
His mouth overtook hers, moving, tasting, devouring, whilst his body pressed closer, his warmth palpable through her clothes. The kitchen faded into nothing; the familiar smells, sounds, the sense of the sunlight on her back—it was all nothing in the face of this, where every single cell in her body, every fibre of her being, existed to feel and to know him.
Him.
Rocco Santoro.
The man who was trying to ruin her life—or in less dramatic terms, to at least rip the carpet out from under her.
She pushed a hand to his chest, needing to end this. She was kissing the enemy! It had to stop.
But the hand at his chest didn’t push him away. It curled into his clothes, drawing him closer, so his masculine fragrance filled her nostrils and her knees felt weak.
In contrast, his hands were strong. He lifted her easily, onto the edge of the counter, moving to stand between her legs, kissing her until Maddie’s breath was burning and her body was quivering, kissing her until she couldn’t remember why she hated him, why she was furious with him; kissing her until she could barely remember her own name.
But suddenly, like a bolt of lightning had struck him, he lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, and there was such smugness in his face, such arrogant self-pleasure, that it all came rushing back to her.
Then, she pushed. She pushed at his chest with all the force of her anger—an anger that was directed, mostly, at herself. “Don’t touch me,” she ground out, even as her traitorous, treacherous body was saying the exact opposite.
His grin showed skepticism. “No?”
“You’re not—I’m not?—,”
He waited, brow arched, and then moved forward. Contrary to her request, he put one hand lightly on her knee, glancing at her as if waiting for a response. She shivered inwardly, her features contained in a mask of prim disapproval.
“Even when touching each other is so much fun?”
Yes. It had been fun. But Maddie had learned her lesson about men and trusting them; she’d learned her lesson about her own almost fatally bad instincts and judgement.
“Life is about more than fun, and it’s about more than money.”
His hand lifted to her chin, tilting her face once more. “I never confuse fun and money.”
“No, it’s all about money for you.” Her eyes lifted to his as a thought occurred to her. “Is that what this is about? Did you think you could seduce me into agreeing to sell this to you?” She waved a hand around the room.
He didn’t deny it—and she didn’t realise how badly she’d needed him to until he stayed silent.
But surely even Rocco Santoro couldn’t be that calculated?
“Well, tough. I’m not one of the women who are queuing up to fall into bed with you.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, slowly, thoughtfully, as if ruminating on some great mystery.
