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“No, but he will. Because you’re starting to see all the angles, aren’t you?”
“Damn it, you’re a condescending piece of work,” she snapped, crossing her arms. But they were standing so close that the simple action brushed her forearms against his chest, and he felt a spark that turned into a cascade of fireworks. He glared down at her: angry, irritated, and flooded with white-hot need.
“Am I wrong?”
She glared up at him, her lips parted in anger and defiance, her eyes dropping to his mouth, her chest moving rapidly with each breath in and out.
“Am I wrong?” He repeated, more slowly, one hand lifting to her cheek, holding her steady, then drawing her closer.
She compressed her lips, then opened her mouth again to speak, but never had the chance. Rocco kissed her instead, tasting the furious retort she’d lined up, tasting her venom and frustration, whipping her tongue with his own and vice versa, his large, broad body pushing hers backwards until she connected with the wall and was imprisoned by him, totally in his thrall, held captive by their desire, his strength, and the way he was possessing her—as if he were possessed by a force so much greater.
The air between them sparked with the force of a thousand suns as the wildness of the kiss morphed into something else. Hunger and anger, it turned out, were two entirely compatible sensations. Kissing her like this stirred something inside of him to a fever pitch, and he was not alone. It was Maddie whose hands were moving with fervent desperation, pushing first at his shirt, ripping it from his pants and unbuttoning it, a small, fevered cry of relief flying from her lips when it separated and revealed his bare chest. She dropped her mouth and kissed him there, flicking him with her tongue, running her hands over him, moving lower to his belt and unfastening it quickly, dropping it to the floor before pushing his trousers down. He stepped out of them, losing his shoes in the process, turning his attention to her clothes, needing to see her with a similar degree of desperation as if his whole life depended on it.
She helped, ripping at her own clothes just as she had his, so his hands were free to roam her body, to feel and remember, to shift over her hips, her sides, her breasts, her nipples, her shoulders and neck, her back, the indent at the base of her spine, her buttocks, which he gripped and then used to lift her, wrapping her around his midsection and carrying her to the large, leather sofa, laying her there, taking a second to admire the contrast of her creamy skin against the black of the furnishing. He strode to his desk and removed a condom—he was always prepared though, in truth, he’d never done this here before. In Rocco’s experience, business and pleasure were never wise to mingle.
So, why now? Why was he ignoring wisdom and sense and walking quickly back to Maddie, unfurling the protection over his length as he went so as to avoid any time wasting? Because the moment he brought his body over hers on the sofa, he was sinking into her, burying his full length in her wet, moist core, groaning at the tightness that almost threatened to overwhelm him.
But Maddie was meeting him, arching her back, wrapping her legs around his waist to draw him deeper, to hold him there, to make him a part of her, just as he was desperate to be. He groaned, a guttural, animalistic cry drawn from the depths of his soul, and when he moved, it was not gentle or inquisitive, it was not even with any thought or consciousness. He was totally and utterly at the will of passion—his and hers, the way it had combined in them to make his soul flame. He thrust deep, cried out, saw an answering response in her face, felt her nails dig into his back, moved again, deeper, harder, until she was writhing beneath him, her voice high pitched, her cries fevered, her explosion obvious, even if he wasn’t feeling her release in the spasm of her muscles around his length.
It was a tipping point, an impossible battle to fight. He couldn’t hold on. He couldn’t make it last. He was tumbling over the edge of an abyss, all pleasure and hedonistic surrender to passion driving him, so he kissed her hard as he exploded, his mouth dominating hers in the same way his body was, his frame so much larger, and yet it was Maddie who had driven this, Maddie who’d dictated the pace, the desperation, the need. Maddie who had owned this moment.
He pulled up to stare at her as the last wave of his orgasm slowed and then ceased, as his body surged with the warm aftereffects of pleasure and release, as he grappled with the overwhelming sense of knowing he still needed more of her.
That this wasn’t enough.
That they weren’t done, even when he hated that knowledge. Because he’d never needed anyone before. He’d never been in a relationship with a woman who’d threatened his ability to just get up and walk out. Being true to that had been a guiding principle in Rocco’s life.
It wasn’t as though he thought he’d want Maddie like this forever, except, even understanding that she had any kind of hold on him whatsoever was troubling.
But he was Rocco Santoro, a man who ultimately had to trust his abilities and strengths, a man who knew enough of himself to know that when push came to shove, he’d do whatever was needed to stay true to himself.
To being alone.
To fighting for his family, their success all that mattered to him.
For now, though, there was Maddie, and Maddie was someone he wanted more and more of. He had no option to control this, to acknowledge the limits of what they were and always would be—and then he could simply sit back and enjoy the ride.
“Come to Italy with me.”
In a splendidly post-coital fog of pleasure and relaxation, her eyes jerked open and landed on Rocco with a screeching thud. She tried to see if he was joking, to search for a laugh in his eyes, but there was nothing. Just a look of consideration. Curiosity, even.
She shifted a little, but he didn’t move off her, and secretly, Maddie was glad. She liked the way he felt inside her, she liked his weight on her body, his warmth, his strength. She even liked the feel of his breath against her temple, warm and somehow tethering to reality.
“With you?” Her voice was unnaturally high in pitch, and a little quivery.
He nodded slowly. “Why not?”
“Because—I hate you—,” she said, then laughed, shaking her head, because it was an over-simplification of what she felt for him. She lifted a hand and pressed it to his chest, not to push him away but to keep him close. To feel the thumping of his heart and to remind herself that despite everything, he was still a flesh and blood human, someone who deserved—no matter what he’d done—at least a modicum of kindness. “And it’s complicated.”
“It’s complicated,” he agreed with a slight flicker of a frown, something that spoke to her, because it was so honest and raw, and because it made her realise that all of this was as unexpected for him as it was for her.
“So complicated,” she reiterated, even when there was no need to emphasize this.
“Let’s remove the house from your considerations.”
“But we can’t. It’s one big tangle. The house, and this, and now the wedding…”
“The house sale is inevitable. I recognize that you are not yet ready to admit that, but I think we both know…”
