deep into her quivering, excited body. He was hot, hard and unapologetically male, each skilful thrust so intensely arousing that she cried out and dug her fingers into his warm, naked shoulders.
She felt him throb inside her, felt him drive them both higher and higher with long, sure strokes until pleasure exploded and her muscles clenched around him, the pulsing contractions of her body propelling him to the same peak of sexual excitement.
Sated, Fia dropped her head to his damp, sleek shoulder, stunned by a pleasure she’d never known before. He pushed her wet hair away from her face, stroked her cheek with a gentle hand and muttered something in Italian that she didn’t catch.
Just in that moment she felt closer to him than she ever had.
Maybe, she thought numbly, maybe it would be all right. That degree of sexual intimacy wasn’t possible without some degree of feeling, was it? Maybe, if the sex was this good, the rest of it would eventually be good too.
The gentle touch of his fingers on her face made her insides melt in an entirely different way. She softened. That frozen part of herself that prevented her from allowing herself to be close to anyone thawed slightly. Feeling incredibly vulnerable, she lifted her head to look at him. She didn’t know what to say, but presumably he did because if there was one thing Santo Ferrara was never short of it was smooth words. He used them in business to command and persuade and yes, he used them with women. He would know exactly the right thing to say to capture the moment.
Supporting her with one arm, he leaned across and killed the jet on the shower.
The hiss of water was silenced.
Fia held her breath and waited. She felt as if she was poised on the brink of something life-changing. As if whatever he said now would shift the direction of their relationship.
‘Bed,’ he said huskily, his lashes darkened and damp with water. ‘This time we’re going to make it to the bed, tesoro.’
This time we’re going to make it to the bed.
Her fragile hope and expectations shattered, Fia paled. ‘That’s all you can say?’
Dark eyebrows rose in lazy appraisal. ‘I was thinking of your comfort,’ he drawled. ‘So far we’ve had wall sex, floor sex and shower sex. I was thinking bed sex might be a progression but if you want to try something else I’m up for it. You are utterly incredible.’
‘You—’ Fia was so upset that she couldn’t finish her sentence.
Plunged from hope into the depths of despair in the space of minutes, furious with herself for being so gullible as to think even for a second that he might have feelings for her, she lost her cool.
‘I hate you, do you know that? Right now, this moment, Santo Ferrara, I really, really hate you.’ But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. It was the very fact that they weren’t true that made her so upset. She was completely confused about her feelings. She barely knew him and yet she’d allowed him to—
Fia closed her eyes, embarrassed, excited, humiliated, vulnerable—all of it. The thought of how close she’d come to revealing her feelings and making a monumental fool of herself was a dizzying experience.
His eyes were suddenly wary. ‘Very intense sex can make women very emotional.’
‘It’s not the sex that’s making me emotional, it’s you! You’re a heartless, cold hearted, arrogant … s … s …’
‘—sex god?’
‘Slime ball!’ Her heart was pounding and her whole body was shaking. She sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm herself down and she might have succeeded had he not given a dismissive shrug of those wide shoulders.
‘I was joking,’ he said flatly, ‘but suddenly you’re very serious. The sexual chemistry between us is off the scale and you’re obviously unsettled by that. Don’t be. Instead, be grateful that at least one part of our relationship is a spectacular success. It gives us something to build on. Sex is important to me and we’re clearly not going to have any problems in the bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or the floor—’ His lazy humour was the final straw.
‘You think not? I’ve got news for you—we’re going to have big problems. Sex is just sex! You can’t build on it. Especially not the type of Olympic sex you go in for. With you it’s all about performance! That’s not emotional, it’s just physical.’
‘“Just physical” has had you panting and begging for the past three hours.’ Reaching past her, he grabbed a towel. ‘If it was an Olympic performance you were looking for then between us I’d say we produced a gold for the team.’
‘Get away from me.’ She planted her hands on his bronzed chest and pushed, but he stood with his legs braced, all rocksolid muscle and glorious male nakedness. ‘I don’t want wall sex, floor sex or bed sex. I don’t want any sex! In fact I never want you to touch me again!’ She pushed past him and grabbed her own towel from the heated cabinet, noticing that the rose petals had been turned to mush by the water from the shower.
Finally, she thought wildly, something that was truly symbolic of their relationship.
Wrecked, ruined and a total mess.
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