palms itched to touch her again.
‘Now what?’ she demanded, crossing her arms over her breasts.
‘Now to bed,’ Sandro said, and he pulled her to the bed, lay down, and drew her into his arms. She went unresistingly, yet he felt the tension in every muscle of her body. She was lying there like a wooden board.
He stroked her hair, her shoulder, her hip, keeping his touch gentle yet sure, staying away from the places he longed to touch. The fullness of her breasts, the juncture of her thighs.
If he was trying to relax her, it wasn’t working. Liana quivered under his touch, but it was a quiver of tension rather than desire. Again, Sandro wondered just what had made his wife this way.
And he knew he wanted to find out. It would, he suspected, be a long, patient process.
He continued to slide his fingers along her skin even as his groin ached with unfulfilled desire. He wanted her, wanted her in a way he hadn’t let himself before. He’d fought against this marriage, against this woman, because he’d assumed she was the same as the other conniving women he’d known. His mother. Teresa.
But he suspected now—hell, knew—that his wife wasn’t like that. There was too much fear and vulnerability in that violet gaze, too much sorrow in her resistance. She fought against feeling because she was afraid, and he wanted to know why. He wanted to know what fears she hid, and he wanted to help her overcome them. He wanted, he realised with a certainty born not of anger or rebellion but of warmth and fledgling affection, to melt his icy wife.
CHAPTER SIX
L IANA STIRRED SLOWLY to wakefulness as morning sunshine poured into the room like liquid gold. It had taken her hours to get to sleep last night, hours of lying tense and angry and afraid, because this was so not what she’d expected from her marriage. What she’d wanted.
Yet it seemed it was what she’d wanted, after all, for with every gentle stroke of Sandro’s fingers she felt something in her soften. Yearn. And even though her body still thrummed with tension, the desire to curl into the heat and strength of him, to feel safe in an entirely new way, grew steadily like a flame at her core.
And yet she resisted. She fought, because fear was a powerful thing. And her mind raced, recalling their conversations, Sandro’s awful questions.
Were you abused? Raped?
He wasn’t even close, and yet she was hiding something. Too many things. Guilt and grief and what felt like the loss of her own soul, all in the matter of a moment when she’d failed to act. When she’d shown just what kind of person she really was. He’d seen that, even if he didn’t understand the source, and she could never tell him.
Could she? Could she change that much? She didn’t know if she could, or how she would begin. With each stroke of Sandro’s fingers she felt the answer. Slowly. Slowly.
And eventually she felt her body relax of its own accord, and her breath came out in a slow sigh of surrender. She didn’t curl into him or move at all, but she did sleep.
And she woke with Sandro’s hand curved round her waist, his fingers splayed across her belly. Nothing sexual about the touch, but it still felt unbearably intimate. She still felt a plunging desire for him to move his hand, higher or lower, it didn’t matter which, just touch her.
And then Sandro stirred, and everything in her tensed once more. He rose on one elbow, brushed the hair from her eyes, his fingers lingering on her cheek.
‘Good morning.’
She nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘Sleep well?’ Sandro asked, and she heard that hint of humour in his voice that had surprised her last night. She’d seen this man cold and angry and resentful, but she hadn’t seen him smile too much. Had only heard him laugh once.
And when he softened like this, it made her soften too, and she didn’t know what would happen then.
‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, inched away from him.
‘Now what?’ she demanded, crossing her arms over her breasts.
‘Now to bed,’ Sandro said, and he pulled her to the bed, lay down, and drew her into his arms. She went unresistingly, yet he felt the tension in every muscle of her body. She was lying there like a wooden board.
He stroked her hair, her shoulder, her hip, keeping his touch gentle yet sure, staying away from the places he longed to touch. The fullness of her breasts, the juncture of her thighs.
If he was trying to relax her, it wasn’t working. Liana quivered under his touch, but it was a quiver of tension rather than desire. Again, Sandro wondered just what had made his wife this way.
And he knew he wanted to find out. It would, he suspected, be a long, patient process.
He continued to slide his fingers along her skin even as his groin ached with unfulfilled desire. He wanted her, wanted her in a way he hadn’t let himself before. He’d fought against this marriage, against this woman, because he’d assumed she was the same as the other conniving women he’d known. His mother. Teresa.
But he suspected now—hell, knew—that his wife wasn’t like that. There was too much fear and vulnerability in that violet gaze, too much sorrow in her resistance. She fought against feeling because she was afraid, and he wanted to know why. He wanted to know what fears she hid, and he wanted to help her overcome them. He wanted, he realised with a certainty born not of anger or rebellion but of warmth and fledgling affection, to melt his icy wife.
CHAPTER SIX
L IANA STIRRED SLOWLY to wakefulness as morning sunshine poured into the room like liquid gold. It had taken her hours to get to sleep last night, hours of lying tense and angry and afraid, because this was so not what she’d expected from her marriage. What she’d wanted.
Yet it seemed it was what she’d wanted, after all, for with every gentle stroke of Sandro’s fingers she felt something in her soften. Yearn. And even though her body still thrummed with tension, the desire to curl into the heat and strength of him, to feel safe in an entirely new way, grew steadily like a flame at her core.
And yet she resisted. She fought, because fear was a powerful thing. And her mind raced, recalling their conversations, Sandro’s awful questions.
Were you abused? Raped?
He wasn’t even close, and yet she was hiding something. Too many things. Guilt and grief and what felt like the loss of her own soul, all in the matter of a moment when she’d failed to act. When she’d shown just what kind of person she really was. He’d seen that, even if he didn’t understand the source, and she could never tell him.
Could she? Could she change that much? She didn’t know if she could, or how she would begin. With each stroke of Sandro’s fingers she felt the answer. Slowly. Slowly.
And eventually she felt her body relax of its own accord, and her breath came out in a slow sigh of surrender. She didn’t curl into him or move at all, but she did sleep.
And she woke with Sandro’s hand curved round her waist, his fingers splayed across her belly. Nothing sexual about the touch, but it still felt unbearably intimate. She still felt a plunging desire for him to move his hand, higher or lower, it didn’t matter which, just touch her.
And then Sandro stirred, and everything in her tensed once more. He rose on one elbow, brushed the hair from her eyes, his fingers lingering on her cheek.
‘Good morning.’
She nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘Sleep well?’ Sandro asked, and she heard that hint of humour in his voice that had surprised her last night. She’d seen this man cold and angry and resentful, but she hadn’t seen him smile too much. Had only heard him laugh once.
And when he softened like this, it made her soften too, and she didn’t know what would happen then.
‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, inched away from him.
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