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He groaned into my hair and his hand cupped my breast, the caress intentional this time. His thumb dragged across my turgid nipple, testing its reaction, and I gasped, writhing against his erection—my movements instinctive, my mind drifting to somewhere raw and real and so basic I couldn’t breathe. Or stop myself from deliberately pressing my bum against the thick ridge in his trousers.

Holding me against him, his palm slid over my belly—which was no longer churning with nausea but throbbing with heat.

His fingers edged beneath my panties. A moan rumbled out of my raw throat as he eased open the slick folds of my sex and skimmed his thumb over the pulsating nub, desperate for his touch.

I sobbed again, vibrating with need now as I bucked against the sure solid caress.

‘Sei molto bagnata per me, Eva,’ he murmured against my hair, his fingers circling, tempting, tormenting, but not touching the tender spot again.

Darts of pure pleasure fired up from my core, spreading, intensifying as he failed to give me relief. ‘Please… Please, more,’ I cried, pushing into his hand now.

‘In Italiano,’ he demanded. ‘L’Inglese non è buono.’

‘I can’t say it in Italian… I—I don’t know how…’ I begged.

I couldn’t remember any Italian. I was barely able to remember my own name. He found my earlobe, nipped the sensitive skin with his teeth. His other hand kneaded my breast, plucking and rolling the nipple, increasing the heat. I was trapped, unable to escape the devastating sensations reaching into my abdomen as he continued to stroke, getting close but not close enough to the swollen spot which felt huge between my thighs.

‘Let me come…’ I pleaded, becoming wild, frantic, desperate.

I grasped his muscular forearm, trying to direct those callused fingers to give me the relief I needed, but he only laughed, the sound strained but firm.

‘Italiano, Eva,’ he demanded again.

Tears leaked from my eyes, tears of desperation. ‘Per favore, Dante,’ I managed.

‘Brava, Eva,’ he said, the gruff words rough against my neck as he found the perfect spot at last. He flicked it, rubbed it, once, twice…

Pleasure crested in a tumultuous wave. I screamed as the orgasm hit with staggering force.

He continued to caress that perfect spot, through the violent throes of my climax… Until I was shaking, shivering, spent, my body limp and sated, the afterglow shimmering through my bloodstream.

My sex felt hollow, empty, but as he drew his fingers out of my panties, my whole body reverberated with a new kind of need.

He was still erect, still huge, cradled against my bottom. Would he take me now, become my first lover?

Heat and longing flushed through me, in direct counterpoint to what I vaguely knew I ought to be feeling… Disgust. For wanting him so much. A dangerous, ruthless, unrepentant killer who had not only kidnapped me but was holding me to ransom…

I attempted to drag myself out of his arms, even though my knees were weak, my sex still aching for more. But he only tightened his hold.

He said something in Italian, I had no idea what.

Then he let me go, abruptly. My knees sagged. He caught my arm to stop me falling before thrusting the fresh T-shirt over my head.

I stood, trembling, struggling to handle the intensity of the orgasm he’d given me—and the mortifying way I’d begged him for it—while I shoved my hands into the armholes.

The knock on the door had a blush scorching my skin.

I met his gaze, scared of what I would see there. I shuddered, the harsh knowledge in those blue eyes as mesmerising as it was humiliating when he shouted, ‘Entrare.’

Did he despise me as much as I despised myself right now, for responding to his touch so shamelessly?

A young man in a uniform of black trousers and a polo shirt appeared with a tray laden with coffee, juices and an array of pastries and other delicacies.

My stomach rumbled loudly as the steward deposited the tray on the stateroom’s table. He was careful not to make eye contact with me as he bowed to Dante, then left the cabin.

Gripping my arm, Dante directed me to sit in one of the chairs—his touch impersonal again, and as ruthless as it had been before. He poured himself a cup of coffee, black, then grabbed a pastry and ate it in a few bites. All the time watching me.

He nodded at the food. ‘Mangia,’ he announced, the command not hard to decipher this time.