He wasn’t about to strike out now. It had occurred to him, as the evening wore on and he’d watched her dance, smile and flirt with a variety of men, that far from being too young and not possessing the traits he looked for in a lover—as he had thought when they’d met in Verona—the opposite was true. She was the perfect sexual partner for a weekend.
Lucy Steadman was no ordinary little small-town girl but an artist, accustomed to a bohemian lifestyle from her years at art college in London, and now living in Cornwall—the most popular county in England for artists and latter-day hippies. She was a free spirit and, judging by her response when he held and kissed her, and her body that oozed sex appeal, she had to be a woman well-versed in the pleasures of the flesh.
‘Here—let me take the key.’ He took the key she had taken from her purse and opened the door.
Lucy turned to close the door and found Lorenzo doing it for her. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked, glancing up at him.
Slowly he shook his head and reached out one long finger, stroking her cheek in an intimate gesture.
‘You know what I want—what we both want—and it isn’t coffee,’ he husked. ‘I’ve been aching to do this again for hours.’ And his arm wrapped around her waist, his mouth found hers, and she was lost in the wonder of his kiss.
Her mouth was warm and eager for his, and it never occurred to Lucy to resist. Her purse fell unnoticed to the floor as she reached for him, her hands clinging to his broad shoulders, her lips parting to the probing demand of his tongue, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the exciting sensations rioting around her body.
‘The bedroom,’ he groaned, and she indicated the stairs with her hand. He swept her up in his arms and with unerring accuracy found her bedroom.
He lowered her down onto the white coverlet of the queen-sized bed and straightened up, swiftly shrugging off his jacket and removing something from the pocket. He dropped it on the side table as his jacket fell to the floor, followed by the rest of his clothes.
Lucy’s eyes widened in awe as, lit by the light of the moon shining through the window, she saw his magnificent body naked.
She had seen naked men before, in life class at college, but the models had been mostly grey-haired elderly men, carefully posed. And she had made love once with a boy—Philip, who had shared an apartment with her and two other girls at college. It had been the same night that she’d seen a newsflash on the television about two climbers in an accident on Mont Blanc, giving Damien and Antonio’s names. One had been thought seriously injured but it hadn’t been stipulated which. She had been terrified for both of them. Philip had tried to find out more, without any success, and then taken her in his arms to soothe her fears. They had ended up making love. With hindsight it had been comfort sex, with both of them half clothed and he as inexperienced as her. She had been thoroughly ashamed afterwards, and wary of men ever since.
But nothing had prepared her for Lorenzo, standing boldly in the flesh … She could not take her eyes off him. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, with a shadow of black body hair that tapered down to a narrow waist, flat stomach, lean hips and long legs. He was also mightily aroused, and she swallowed hard suddenly, slightly afraid.
‘Are you waiting for me to undress you or admiring the view?’ he asked, with the confident grin of a man totally at ease in his naked masculinity. Not waiting for an answer, he knelt on the bed and pressed fervent little kisses on her face, her throat, while his hands, with a deftness she could only wonder at, removed her dress.
Beneath, she was wearing only white lace briefs, and a thousand nerve-endings sprang to life as he hooked his fingers in the lace and slowly pulled them down her legs.
‘You are beautiful—so beautiful, Lucy.’ He dropped a kiss on her stomach and she trembled in helpless response as his hands palmed her breasts, his thumbs gently grazing the burgeoning nipples, bringing them to rigid points of aching pleasure.
Lucy’s response was a low moan as quivering arrows of sensation shot from her breasts to her pelvis.
‘Perfect,’ he murmured, and his mouth closed over a pert nipple, his tongue licking and suckling.
Her back arched involuntarily, and little whimpering sounds of pleasure escaped her as with frightening expertise Lorenzo delivered the same erotic torment to the other breast, before he found her mouth again and kissed her long and deep as his hands caressed her skin, shaping her waist, her hips, her thighs …
She reached for him, her small hands clasping his shoulders, stroking around his neck, holding him closer, her fingers raking through the thick black hair of his head, desperate for more.
Suddenly he reared back. ‘I want you, Lucy. Dio, how I want you.’ He groaned and nudged her legs apart, to settle between her thighs, and she could feel the hard pressure of his erection against her pelvis as he pinned her to the bed, kissing her with a deep, demanding passion that aroused an answering passion in her—a need, a longing that banished any faint doubt from her mind.
The rough hair of his chest rubbed against her swollen breasts, and her body felt electrified by the heat, the power of him. He kissed her throat, her shoulders, his mouth hard, and one hand curved under her hips to lift her slightly.
His mouth found the rigid tips of her breasts again, suckling first one and then the other, while his other hand dipped between her thighs, his long fingers exploring the hot moist centre of her with devastating skill.
She writhed achingly beneath him, her nails digging into the satin-smooth skin of his shoulders. She was white-hot with wanting, her need for him shuddering through her, the emotion so intense it was almost pain.
He lifted her hips higher, her legs involuntarily parted wider—and he was there, where she ached for him. She groaned as she felt him ease into her. There was the slightest twinge of pain as her moist sheath stretched to accommodate him, then exquisite hot, pulsating power as Lorenzo thrust slowly deeper and then withdrew.
Her body screamed with tension and she locked her legs around him, frantic for him to continue. He thrust again, deeper and faster, possessing her completely, and she cried out as her body convulsed in a million explosive sensations so intense her breath actually stopped with the sheer ecstasy of it all. She was aware of one last mighty thrust as her internal muscles still convulsed around him, and gloried in the great shudders that racked Lorenzo’s huge frame. She was filled with a sense of oneness, a completion she had never imagined existed.
Lorenzo rolled off Lucy, his breathing ragged, his heart pounding and his head spinning. She was everything he had expected and much more. She was so responsive … He couldn’t remember losing control so completely ever before in his life. Of course he had been without a woman for a while, he rationalised, and, turning, he looped an arm around her shoulders and tucked her pliant body against his side.
‘Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?’ he asked. She was so small, so tight, that for a fleeting moment he had wondered if she was a virgin, but had quickly dismissed the thought. Lucy was obviously a woman of the world.
‘No—quite the reverse,’ she murmured softly, in a voice full of emotion at the wonder of him. She laid her hand on his broad chest. ‘I am better than okay—sublime.’ Rising up on one elbow, she leant over him and pressed a kiss on his chin—the highest she could reach. ‘You, Lorenzo, are nothing like the staid banker I thought.’ She looked up at him, her green eyes dazed with love, and gave him a languorous smile. ‘You’re
