Mistress To a Latin Lover: The Sicilian's Defiant Mistress / The Italian's Pregnant Mistress / The Italian's Mistress

Sex.

Dominance.

Surrender.

Surrender, she silently repeated as one of his hands slipped the strap of her gown down over her shoulder and he impatiently pushed the delicate fabric down to expose her skin.

She gasped at the heat of his hand against her skin, gasped again as he seemed to count and measure her ribs, a reclaiming of her body, a reminder of all that he’d given her, all that they’d experienced together.

And as his bare palm slid across her chest, his palm capturing her breast, squeezing her taut nipple, his control slipped, and he, too, cracked, and something primitive and wild took over.

He split the gown open down the back with one fierce tug of his hand, the zipper giving way, the fabric ripping wide-open. He stroked the length of her bare back until he came to the ivory satin garter belt hooked around her waist.

She felt his quick breath as his examination slowed, his fingers tracing the satin around her waist and the narrow satin stays that held her silk stockings high on her thighs.

He’d always loved her lingerie, loved the exquisite laces and silks, the satin panties, the delicate bras and bustiers.

He stroked the length of her, from the back of her neck all the way down to the small of her spine, stroking each skin, inflaming the nerves, stirring all the senses.

When she trembled against him he cupped her bottom, his palm so warm on her bare cheek, the tiny satin thong panty covering next to nothing.

How she loved the feel of his hands on her, loved the way he touched her, his fingers burning, kneading, branding her.

Branding her his.

Aggressively he moved her, lifting her off her feet to place her back down on the edge of the Florentine chair. She felt awkward perched nearly naked on the chair’s edge with her torn gown bunched loosely around her but it was the way he wanted her, the way he intended her to sit for him.

He parted her thighs wider, his large hands on each of her knees, and he looked down at her and smiled faintly. “I’ve always loved to look at you,” he said, holding her still and drinking his fill.

Then he knelt at her feet and moved between her thighs.

She jerked as his mouth touched her between her legs on the satin thong, the flimsy fabric already damp and clinging tightly to her heated body.

She wanted him. But she’d always want him. He knew it, too.

His mouth moved across the damp satin, teasing her, shaping it even closer to her body. She gasped, squirmed, legs trembling as the tip of his pointed tongue pressed hard at the apex of her thighs, finding the small rigid nub where all her nerve endings came together in intense, erotic pleasure.

Her hips shifted on their own accord, her hips grinding in a helpless dance, wanting more than just the tip of his tongue against the satin, wanting his tongue on her skin, wanting the feel of his damp tongue against her slick flesh.

“Maximos,” she groaned as his palms slid across the inside of her thighs, slow, torturous caresses that stirred her senses but brought no relief.

But he ignored her hoarse plea, his thumbs instead skimming close to the edge of her thong, finding the hollows where her thighs joined her body, playing the nerves dancing beneath her skin. She felt like a puppet on a string, jerking, jumping with every touch of his hand and mouth. He was tormenting her with the pleasure but at the same time giving no relief.

And then with a practiced hand, he reached for the thong and with a quick movement, ripped the fabric wide-open, tearing it off her body, leaving her completely open to him.

Cass choked on a breath, skin flaming, cheeks burning as his dark head lifted and his narrowed, stormy gaze slowly traveled the length of her, taking in the fullness of her breasts, the rise and fall of her rib cage, the pale bones at her hips, and the thighs parted wide, exposing all of her to him. With his gaze on her face, he reached for her, strumming her dampness with his fingertips, watching her jerk and clench her muscles, watching her tense expression, measuring her response.

“Maximos,” she repeated, grinding out his name, her voice so deep and husky that it sounded as if it came from someone other than her.

And this time he responded, leaning toward her, putting his mouth on her, his lips against the hot silk of her inner skin where she burned and melted and needed so much of him.

With his mouth against her heated skin, she quivered and reached for him, burying a hand deep into his crisp hair, hanging on to him as his tongue touched her, traced her, made her even hotter, wetter, made her want him even more.

Cupping her hips, he slid his palms beneath her bottom and tilted her up to him even as he tugged on the garter belt stays, allowing the satin stays to create friction against her skin.

So many sensations…so much to sweep her up, dazzle her…

His cool tongue on her hot slick skin, his fingertip testing her dampness, another of his fingers toying with the silk hose encasing her thigh. She dragged in air, her rib cage rising, falling, her body tightening at the endless pleasure.

And his mouth never left her, his mouth moving on her, tracing her, sucking her, making her feel far too much, making the sensation far too strong.

She arched against him as the pressure inside her grew, tension building, the climax becoming something tangible, something real.

Cass dug her hands into Maximos’s hair, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes, felt love, felt anger, felt the unquenchable fire of desire.

His mouth pressed closer, his fingers buried in her. He wasn’t going to let her go, not without making her his, breaking her resistance.

She was, after all, his.

His possession.

His object.

His mistress.

His woman.

And she was there, at the peak, that pinnacle where sensation is so true, tension so tight that the only way to go is through. Through and over and into. Into the coil of feeling, of being, and she shattered even as his mouth held her, caressed her.

She would, she thought, giving herself over to him, always be his.

Maximos lifted her from the chair and carried her to the bed. The velvet bed coverlet rubbed at her skin as she lay back. Maximos followed, stretching out over her, his weight settling on her. Even though she’d just experienced the pinnacle of pleasure, she still wanted him, and the desire to be joined with him was intense.

“Are you protected?” he asked, making room for his body between her thighs.

“I’m still on the pill.” Not that it had protected her last time. Not that Maximos would ever know. There were some things she’d carry with her to the grave.

Confident that they could safely precede, Maximos touched her, made sure she was ready for him, and of course she was. But even though she wanted him, it still hurt when Maximos entered her. He was big, hard, and taking him inside her had always stretched her, required a quick breath to help her adjust to his size. But tonight the sting of pain was already giving way to pleasure. The feeling was unreal, the sensation of him in her, filling her, taking her, so addictive and so familiar.

Something happened when his skin was on hers, his body in hers. She felt fierce, hungry, craven. With him in her, making love to her, she knew she’d do just about anything for him. Nothing was unthinkable. Nothing taboo.

And maybe that’s how she’d fallen for him. Not for his kindness or his tenderness, but his skill in bed. Because making love with Maximos felt like love. When he touched her, covered her, she couldn’t imagine anyone else touching her again. Couldn’t fathom desire—need—pleasure with anyone else. Just once with Maximos had changed her forever.

Cass the Invincible would never have believed such a thing was possible.

Now with Maximos’s body covering her, and his warmth penetrating her skin, she felt consumed by the hunger that had once raged inside her. They’d been together for over two years and the sex had never grown stale, the desire never waned.

Again, she’d silently begged, again. Again.

Again.

And he had, until the day she wanted more from him than his body. When she’d asked for his heart.

And that, she’d discovered, was the wrong thing to ask for.

The pain of remembering couldn’t dampen the erotic pleasure he gave her now. Her body loved his, wanted him, and as Maximos surged into her in deep, powerful thrusts, she gave herself over to him yet again as they climaxed together.

Later, it was wordless silence, the night dark, the room still, the air thick with tension, with all that was unsaid. Because there was so much unsaid that couldn’t, wouldn’t, be spoken now. That would never be spoken now.

Lying there in the dark with Maximos next to her, Cass felt as if a massive weight lay on her chest and her throat was slowly squeezing closed. She couldn’t breathe, not well, not easily.

She knew how this would end. Knew what was coming next. She dreaded what was coming next.

He’d get up, and leave.

She hated the leaving part, had always hated the leaving part but it seemed positively excruciating now.

What she should do was leave, right now. She shouldn’t wait for him to get up, shouldn’t wait for him to make the move. Instead she should be strong.

Cass swallowed, touched the edge of the duvet, preparing to throw it back. All she had to do was get up. Stand up. Yet her body wouldn’t move, and she lay, inert, lay in silence and pain.

Making love again had ripped her wide-open all over again. Taken whatever thin covering lay over her wounds, peeling it off, leaving her even more bare and exposed than before.

Sex for him was a release.

Sex for her was love itself.

Cass felt Maximos stir beside her. He was going to leave. Panic rushed through her, the panic of leaving fantasy and returning to reality, the panic of knowing how bad she’d feel once he’d left, the panic of facing the pain—alone—of being alone after being with the person she loved most.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, putting her hand out, placing her hand in the middle of Maximos’s chest. His heart beat so warm and steady beneath her palm. Something inside her knotted and she thought life had never been so beautiful and awful. “Stay. Stay with me.”

She felt Maximos’s indecision, felt the ripple in his muscles as he considered whether to get up or lay down again and she found herself repeating her plea. “Stay with me until morning. Please?”

He hesitated a moment longer and then he pressed against her palm, moving her hand out of the way. “Can’t stay all night. There’s too much for me to do still tonight.”

The pain was almost too much. She took a quick breath, and another. Why had she come here? Why had she done this? She wasn’t strong enough. Since losing the baby she wasn’t strong at all…

“Maximos.” She touched her mouth to his chest, kissing his warm still damp skin. “Another hour then. That’s all I’ll ask for. I promise.”

“I’ll have to go sooner or later.”

She knew that. She knew how it worked. She felt like she was always robbing Peter to pay Paul. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed before drawing her close, settling her slim body next to his. “For the next hour I’m yours.”

Maximos felt Cass take a swift breath, heard the faint catch in her voice. “Mine for an hour,” she whispered.

She was fighting tears.

Maximos felt a stab of remorse, regret for the things that couldn’t be changed, regret that Cass had ever been hurt by their relationship because she had been hurt, very hurt, and it was the last thing he’d wanted.

From the beginning he’d tried to shield her from his life, from the reality that was, from the facts that couldn’t be changed no matter how many times you looked at them.

From the beginning he’d wanted to protect her. She deserved protection, deserved to be cherished. He knew about her past, knew her mother had been left, abandoned, and knew the one man her mother had fallen for years later had been unavailable. Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.

Cass should never have been his mistress. She should have been someone’s wife. Treasured. Respected. Valued.

Stifling the anger and self-loathing within him, Maximos drew her even closer, held her more securely and kissed the top of her head. Not an hour, he silently corrected. Yours forever.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DON’T look at the clock, Cass told herself, don’t watch time pass. Because an hour was nothing. An hour was brutally short. Just sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. An hour would be gone in no time.

And despite being held so securely, Cass felt pain at being in Maximos’s arms, not joy. Because she was waiting again. Waiting to say goodbye, to let him go.

She hated waiting, too. Hated letting him go.

She could do a hundred things—all difficult, all requiring prowess, talent, skill. But the one thing she couldn’t do was let Maximos go.

She’d tried, too. God knows she’d tried. She’d wanted more, needed more, but somehow less with Maximos seemed better than more with anyone else.

Now lying in Maximos’s arms, curled against his side, Cass felt the past rise up, the life she’d lived and she was suddenly, vividly reminded of their last weekend together, the weekend in Paris which didn’t turn out to be a full weekend at all. She’d arrived Saturday afternoon, was scheduled to fly out Sunday noon, and a car was waiting for her at the airport.

She took the car to her hotel—the Four Seasons, of course—and checked into her suite and waited.

And waited.

And finally he called late Saturday night—to say he couldn’t make it, but he’d see her Sunday morning, he’d definitely see her before she returned home. She’d been upset, hurt, disappointed and yet she clung to the fact that he’d promised Sunday morning, held on to the fact he’d given her his word.

And he had come Sunday morning and they’d had a late breakfast before he’d taken her to the airport but it wasn’t the weekend she’d hoped for.

Just like their relationship had never been what she’d hoped for. Because she’d needed more than empty hotel suites, even if they were lavish suites. She’d needed less disappointment and more peace. Less hurt and more happiness.

Maybe he did keep his word, because like that Sunday in Paris, he’d eventually show up but more and more often he’d show so late there was no time to talk properly, make love properly, be loved properly.

And now she’d let it happen again, and everything was screaming inside her, everything was on fire. She’d allowed herself to be reduced to nothing. Because she loved him.

It felt as if she’d carelessly cut her own throat and the knife hadn’t even been that sharp, but she’d done it fast, surrendered herself to him before she thought her actions through. Before she understood the consequences.

Cass bit down on her tender knuckles. She’d been tricked, fooled by the body and the senses. Somehow, each time she made love with Maximos, she thought there was more. She was sure there was more…that there could be more, if she only asked.

If she dared to risk.

Because making love with Maximos made sense. She loved the way he looked at her. She loved the heat and the interest and energy. And when he touched her, the walls came down completely and it was about them, the two of them together. Sexy, seductive, and inexplicably beautiful. No one had ever touched her the way Maximos did, no one had ever made her feel so perfect. So…sacred.

In his arms like this, the only thing she feared was time. When he was with her, she feared time passing. When he was away, she feared time slowing. Time was the only obstacle.

Or so she’d once thought.

Maximos rubbed her shoulder, dropped a kiss on her head. “I have to go now.”

“Max—”

“It’s been an hour.”

And they’d made a deal. She’d begged him to stay, and he had, and now she couldn’t make him feel bad for leaving.

“All right,” she said, her voice low and unsteady.

“You’ll be okay?”

No. “Yes.”

She felt him throw the covers back and he slid from the bed and then drew the covers back up over her.

“You’re sure?” he asked, reaching for his clothes.

She listened to the clink of his belt buckle, the whisper sound of fabric sliding against skin. “Yes.” But she couldn’t watch him dress. She couldn’t do it again so she closed her eyes, turned her head away. But the hurt was huge, sharp, a dragon with endless teeth. Why was he always leaving her?

Or was she just the kind of woman men left?

Cass hiccupped as the door quietly opened and closed.

He’d gone.

Maximos had made it perfectly clear tonight that he wanted no commitments, nothing to tie him down. She was, and always had been, about convenience.

And she wasn’t convenient anymore.

Battling tears, she pulled the duvet up over her head, covering herself entirely. Don’t think, she told herself. But the hot, humiliating tears wouldn’t stop falling.

How could she have loved him so much and he felt so little?

How could he take her, make love to her, for two years giving her pleasure, receiving such pleasure, only to let it all go away?

How could he just walk away? She’d given him everything—access to all her body and every millimeter of her heart—why hadn’t that been enough?

The questions burned her, returning now just to haunt her just as they had every night and day for the past six months. How could someone willingly give up something like what they had? Their relationship was different. Their desire was hotter, brighter, their satisfaction greater. They had everything.

How could that not be enough?

She sobbed into the crook of her arm, sobbing so hard there were moments she couldn’t catch her breath and finally she knew she had to stop. Pull yourself together. This isn’t the end of the world. You’ll get over him. It’s just a matter of time.

Pushing wet strands of hair from her cheek, Cass took a deep breath, and then another. Time heals all wounds.

Maybe. Maybe not.

She drew a shaky breath, and then another. This, too, shall pass. Nothing lasts forever.

And yet the clichés just made her angrier.

She didn’t want to get over Maximos. She didn’t know how to get over Maximos. Not when she still wanted him like this, not when she still needed him like this. Not when she was still so deeply, hopelessly in love.

Maximos Guiliano, love of her life. Maximos Guiliano, father of the child she’d lost.

Cass woke the next morning to brilliant sunshine and the sunshine confused her, tricked her. For a moment she didn’t know where she was or why she felt as though she’d been run over by a truck and left for dead.

And then it hit her. It all came back. What happened last night. Where she was today. Maximos’s house. Maximos’s guest room. The morning after…

The ache inside her was nearly intolerable. And the sunshine didn’t help, she thought, rubbing tiredly at her eyes, her eyes sore from crying herself to sleep.

But it was a new day, and Cass forced herself up. Leaving the bed, she began gathering her clothes still scattered on the floor—the silk hose, the satin garter belt, the torn panties and gown. And there in the tangle of clothes Cass discovered Maximos’s cotton undershirt, the one he’d worn last night beneath his dress shirt.

She picked up the cotton T-shirt and pressed it to her chest, still able to smell Maximos’s spicy fragrance on the fabric.

Maximos. The heartbreak hit her again, the heartbreak still so stunning, always unreal. And pressing the shirt to her mouth, a kiss of sorts, she breathed in the scent of him, breathed in the emotion before tossing the shirt back to the ground.

In the ensuite, Cass stepped beneath the shower, let the water stream down washing away all memory of last night’s lovemaking.

She dressed swiftly, not letting herself think, not letting herself feel.

She was on the stairs, carrying her suitcase down when a hard voice sounded in the stairwell. “Going somewhere, Cass?”

The sound of Maximos’s voice behind her made her jump, and she jerked around on the step. “You scared me,” she said, putting one hand on her chest to quiet the mad drumming.

He was dressed in khakis and a crisp olive-green shirt and with his dark hair combed and his jaw shaven smooth he looked coolly elegant and perfectly in control.

Unlike the man who’d taken her to bed last night.

Unlike the lover who’d made her so completely his…

Pain sliced through her and she held her breath, trying to stay calm, maintain control like Maximos.

“So where are you going?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

If she didn’t think and just allowed herself to be, she could feel the heat and strength of Maximos’s body against hers still. She could feel the way he took her. Loved her. If she didn’t speak and didn’t move she could smell his clean spicy scent, a combination of his amazing skin and expensive but subtle cologne. She could taste his mouth on hers, the warmth and the coolness of his tongue playing hers, his lips teasing hers, the scrape of his teeth, the bristles of his beard.

The sex worked so well. Why did nothing else?

Cass swallowed the lump filling her throat and shifted her suitcase from one hand to the other. “I’m going home.”

He just looked at her, a long level look that made her insides curl. He was angry. Angry with her. “I guess you finally got the closure you needed.”

“I did come for closure.”

“Is that a polite way of saying you wanted to get laid one last time?”

She flushed. “That’s not fair—”

“Then what was last night?”

“Don’t act like last night was so meaningful for you. You couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“I’ve a house full of guests. Responsibilities—”

“It’s not just last night, Maximos. You never stay after you’ve finished making love. For over two years I asked you to stay, to spend the night with me, but each time you had to go. You always have excuses. But it’s lonely being left. It feels awful watching you dress and go.”

“So now it’s your turn to walk out.”

Defiantly she looked up, met his gaze squarely, reading the intensity in his dark eyes. He was still so hard. So fierce. He’d take her to bed again and again, but that was it. The extent of what he’d offer her. Outside the bedroom, he’d never give her more. He would take her body, pleasure her body, but he’d never love her. “Maximos, there’s nothing for me here.”

“There was plenty between us last night.”

“That’s called sex.”

“It works.”

It was exactly what she feared he’d say, what she didn’t want him to say. She wanted him to want her, fight for her, crave her the way she craved him. And for the longest moment she couldn’t speak because it hurt, this gap in needs, a difference that was now clearly insurmountable.

“I deserve more than sex,” she said finally, a terrible lump filled her throat. “I deserve more from you.”

“More?” He was toying with her, his tone downright mocking. “As in gifts? Trinkets? Tokens of my affection?”

Her jaw tensed, flexed. It seemed impossible that they’d been lovers for so long, that they’d actually believed their relationship worked.

How had so little been enough for her for that long? Cass couldn’t imagine ever settling for less now, not when she knew that she’d had her priorities all wrong, that she’d never known herself, who she’d been, and what she’d needed. Sex might feel good, but she wanted love. Sex answered certain physical needs but it didn’t satisfy the emptiness inside, the longing to be accepted, cherished, validated. “I’ve had enough trinkets and tokens. I’d like a real relationship, one based on trust and respect—”