She was fated to be his.
Maximo never wanted to let her go.
Find her a new husband? Dio santo. He must have been out of his mind to even suggest it. Introduce her to his friend in Rio? Maledizione. Joaquim would take one look at those long legs, full breasts and gorgeous smile and be only too happy to consider her as his potential b
ride.
And then Maximo would have to kill him.
With a low growl, he stood up from the blanket. He picked her up, her legs still wrapped around his waist. She clung to him in surprise, her eyelids fluttering in bewilderment.
“What—” she whispered. “Where—”
“I’m taking you home,” he said gruffly.
But the way her body felt against him as he carried her, even her slender weight was an unbearable burden. The path along the cliffs, which had been so pleasurable on their walk to the picnic, was now a long journey of unbearable agony. All he wanted to do was satiate his desire for her satin-smooth skin, her tart mouth, the full curve of her backside, the heaven of her breasts. To push her down amid the flowers, rip off her clothes, and push himself into her until they both exploded. To feel her body convulse around him.
But there was something more he wanted. Something he didn’t understand. It made every nerve in his body taut with the drive to possess her.
She belonged to him. It was fate. He would allow no other man to touch her—ever.
He barely made it back to the cottage. He went to the master bedroom, tossed her on the bed. He peeled off her snug jeans and panties. He could bear it no more. This taut desire for her was making him pazzo, demented. Spreading her legs apart, he buried his head between her thighs and tasted her.
She gasped, arching her back as she grabbed his shoulders.
“Please—” she panted. “Please.”
Was she begging him to relent or to continue? He wondered if she herself even knew.
“Don’t come, cara,” he whispered. “Stay still. Resist me. Do not explode with pleasure, and I will let you go.”
But it was a lie. He would never let her go now…
He touched her thighs, lightly caressing the hair between her legs. He stroked her with his finger, relishing her slick, satiny wetness. He wanted nothing more than to pull off his jeans and thrust himself inside her, but he forced himself to wait, to delay his own pleasure. Because this was about far more than his own ecstasy.
He wanted to possess her completely, body and soul.
He wanted to hear her admit that she was his.
She cried out as he caressed her with his tongue. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead from the exquisite pain of holding himself back as she twisted her hips beneath him.
He held her down. Stretching her wide, he lapped her with the full width of his tongue. With agonizing slowness, he pushed one finger inside her, then two. She was so taut, he thought. So ready. He groaned aloud, not sure how much longer he could withstand this torture.
Moving up, he kissed her dark hair, her belly, finally her breasts. He suckled her, squeezing the other breast with his fingers as his palm rubbed against her mound in an erotic circle.
He felt her tense and tremble beneath him…
Leaning forward, he whispered against her ear, “Don’t come, Lucy. Don’t.”
He slowly pushed two fingertips inside her, inch by inch, swirling the nub of her pleasure with his thumb. He heard her suck in her breath. And hold it. Then she started to gasp. He felt her tighten around his fingers. Her whole body shook as her gasp crescendoed into a loud, terrible cry of ecstasy.
For one perfect moment, joy went through him as he closed his eyes in triumph. She was his. He’d never had to try so hard for any woman as he had for his wife.
His wife. At that thought, Maximo, the playboy prince who’d had more women than he could count, nearly lost his self-control like an untried teenager.
Ripping off his jeans, he fell upon her, kissing her neck. Sliding a condom down his painfully hard shaft, he positioned himself between her legs. He could feel her hot wetness, her sweetness, and thought he would die if he didn’t—
“Maximo.”