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The single curt command seemed to release me from the stranglehold of fear and stress—giving my exhausted, overwrought body permission to drop headfirst into dreams.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Evie

I drifted awake again slowly, aware of a pulsing weight in my sex. In a desperate attempt to relieve the incessant throbbing I stretched, rubbing against the rough friction on my breast. But as my eyelids flickered open, I flinched against the hazy light shining through the bedroom window, heard the rough breaths against my hair, felt the warm chest against my back, which had been so comforting hours ago—and I became brutally aware of where I was, and with whom.

Dante. The man who had kidnapped me. My breathing accelerated as I recalled how I had fallen asleep in his arms.

‘Eva.’ His husky voice brushed against my ear.

I stiffened, shame rushing over me as the weight in my sex increased. He rolled me over until I lay on my back, dazed, staring up at his devastatingly handsome face. He rose onto one elbow to brush the hair from my cheek, the heat and purpose in his gaze unmistakable despite his harsh expression.

I shivered and reached for the sheet to cover myself, even though I was still wearing his T-shirt. But he grasped my wrist, preventing me, then lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm.

My heart lifted to butt my tonsils—the gesture was oddly romantic, despite the feral need in his eyes and the throbbing in all my erogenous zones which he must have ignited while I was sleeping. How long had he been thrusting that erection against my bottom, taking liberties with me? I should have been outraged, disgusted, scared.

But instead, all I could do was swallow convulsively, my hunger as fierce as his.

I should tell him no, that I didn’t want this. I was his captive, he’d kidnapped me. He had no right to touch me, to caress me. But I was in his bed, had spent hours sleeping in his arms, and the echo of intense pleasure he’d given me yesterday on the yacht created an unfulfilled yearning.

So instead of demanding he stop, I whispered, ‘Buongiorno, Dante…’

His eyes widened, as if he was surprised by my response. Had he expected me to reject him? But then he laughed, the rusty sound full of masculine arrogance. And the incessant throbbing got worse. Grasping the T-shirt, he dragged it over my head and flung it away. Watching my reaction intently, he skimmed his thumb down my cleavage, circled the nipple puckered into a tight peak, then pinched it.

I gasped, the arrow of heat exploding in my core.

He pressed his lips to my neck, the rasp of morning stubble adding to the sensations engulfing me as he played with the swollen peak until I was writhing beneath him. I flattened my palms against his chest, wanting to touch him too.

My fingertips trailed over his torso until I encountered the rough stitching on the healing wound. He sucked in a breath, the area still tender.

‘Sorry,’ I murmured as I followed the trail of hair through the ridged, tensile strength of his abdominal muscles.

He groaned as I cupped the heavy length stretching his boxers.

I gulped, my throat dry. Inching back, I stared down at him. Even encased in the black cotton, his erection looked enormous. So rigid and thick.

My breathing became ragged as I lifted my gaze to encounter his lust-blown pupils. He must have seen the combination of trepidation and astonishment in my eyes because he said something in Italian which I didn’t understand, but I sensed was part boast, part reassurance.

Then he trailed his thumb under one heavy breast. He laved his tongue across the burning tip. I writhed, sobbed, lifting into his mouth, needing more.

Cradling each breast in turn, he caressed the sensitive underside, while tormenting the nipples with his teeth, his tongue until I was bucking beneath him. He rolled on top of me, parting my legs with his knee, forcing my thighs wide before finally trapping one engorged peak against the roof of his mouth. The strong suction sent hot darts of sensation shooting into my aching sex.

I couldn’t catch my breath, my fingers sinking into his hair to hold him to me. I bowed back to force my breast into his mouth, to get more of that delicious suction while I rode the thigh wedged between my legs, rubbing my swollen clit against the slab of muscle, trying to ease the aching emptiness—and release the rising tension.

He swore softly, then reared up. Our gazes clashed, and what I saw in those dark stormy depths—need and desperation—matched my own confusing emotions.

How could I feel so sure, when I had been terrified of this man less than twelve hours ago? But I didn’t have a chance to process the question before he hooked his fingers into my soaking panties and drew them down my quivering legs. Edging down the bed, he grasped my thighs, pushing my knees high and wide to cup my bottom and lift my sex to his lips.

He blew across the swollen flesh, and I launched off the bed.

‘Calmati, Eva,’ he said, holding me down, but the sharp tone was thick with desire.

I quivered with desperation now, my emotions battered by the brutal yearning to feel his mouth on me…there.

As if he could read my mind, he licked across the seam, his tongue delving between the slick folds. I cried out, the sensual storm gathering, and threatening to drive me insane. Easing me open with his thumbs, he feasted on me until I was sobbing.

One thick finger, then two, eased inside me—stretching me unbearably, while his tongue circled my clitoris, my breathing so jagged now my lungs hurt.