The Italian's Pregnant Cinderella

The mad part of it was, he couldn’t seem to care.

“One night,” he said again, rougher this time. Because he was talking to himself. “That’s all I have to offer.”

“All you have to offer me? Or all you have to offer, in general?”

He didn’t know how she knew to ask him that.

But the grief was always in him, the shame his constant shadow, and he told himself that was what made him reach over and run his thumb over her full, tempting lower lip. He wanted to sink his teeth into her. He wanted to breathe her in, then get his mouth where she was sweetest.

“Does it matter?”

He watched her chest rise, then fall. He could see her nipples, tight and hard beneath the silk blouse she wore. He caught the faintest hint of her arousal and his mouth watered.

“One night,” she agreed. Almost solemnly. But then she smiled. “But I hope you don’t have performance anxiety. It would be depressing if you failed somehow to live up to all this hype.”

He smiled then, edgy and wrong, and had the distinct pleasure of watching goose bumps break out all over her body.

“Let me worry about that. All you need to worry about is how many times you scream my name.” He leaned closer and sampled the goose bumps on her neck, then smiled there, against her skin. “Remember it, please. Cristiano. Though in desperate circumstances Oh, God is also acceptable.”

When all she did was pant a little, her eyes glazed over with heat when he angled himself back to look at her, he laughed.

And then he took by the hand this woman who he intended to purge tonight, one way or the other. He led her out of the alcove, back to the lobby elevators, and then spirited her away to the penthouse suite he’d taken on the very top floor.

Where he intended to keep her until dawn.

Using every last scrap of the dark.

Until they were both fully sated.

And perhaps, at last, truly saved from the mistakes he’d made ten years ago.

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