Awaken to Pleasure by Nalini Singh Page B

her bloodstream.
    His eyes took in her flushed cheeks. “You look at me like you want me.”
    “I do,” she acknowledged. “Will you kiss me again?” Her fingers stroked the vulnerable skin of his nape.
    The look he gave her was pure male heat. “My body is for your pleasure, mia moglie.”
    Fire rippled through her as he tipped her head down with a gentle grip on her chin and tasted her—slow and thorough, as if he had all the time in the world. He played with the seam of her lips and bit down on the lower one, suckling it into his mouth but never entering hers.
    She wrapped her arms around his neck and parted her lips, greedy for the pleasure she knew he could lavish. Chuckling at her eagerness, he accepted the invitation with male enthusiasm that made her head spin. She moaned at the sensation of his tongue inside her mouth, flirting with hers. Desperate to deepen the kiss to a higher level of intimacy, she dared the slightest touch in return.
    He broke off the kiss with a gasp. “Piccola, you will kill your poor husband.” Dark eyes glittered.
    Then before she could protest, he took her lips in a kiss that was undeniably intimate, unquestionably possessive and incredibly tender. He tasted and licked and nibbled like a man who knew his woman’s every desire, the quick jabbing of his tongue inside her mouth letting her know that while he’d wait for her passion, he wasn’t averse to persuading her. She wasn’t averse to being persuaded.
    Waves of heat and almost painful desire rode her body, inciting her to cling to his male bulk, silently asking for more. In response, he gave her such a rawly sensual kiss that had she been standing, her knees would have buckled.
    This time, when the kiss broke, she lay her head down on his chest, breathing hard, trying to find her feet again. Maybe, her mind whispered, if this felt so good, the rest would be even better? Fighting to find something less inflammatory to break the tension, she recalled his earlier preoccupation. “I haven’t forgotten you know.” She sat up.
    “What?” His tone was very male, pitched to send her sensitized nerve endings skittering.
    Struggling against her reaction, she realized that she was stroking the bunched muscles under the edge of his sleeve. Because she adored touching him, she didn’t stop. “That you didn’t answer my question about what it was that took you so far away from me.”
    “Taylor.” He said her name as he always did when annoyed with her, a bit exasperated, a little stubborn.
    “Where?” she repeated, determined to find out what was haunting him. This marriage would only work if he trusted her as she was being forced to trust him.
    He looked at her for a long moment. “Your speaking of Nick reminded me of my own childhood.”
    “What was it like, being the child of a director and an actress?” His parents were both winners of awards at Cannes and the Oscars. His half sister, Valetta, looked to be following in their illustrious footsteps, while his two half brothers, Mario and Carlton, were having a somewhat rockier road to fame on the silver screen.
    “Lonely.” The honesty was raw. “I was the only child from their brief union, nine years older than Mario. My parents were very young when I was born. My half siblings are strangers to me. My mother kept Carlton after her marriage to his father, her third husband, broke up, and my father decided to build Mario and Valetta’s mother a home next to his. I grew up with nannies and then boarding schools—aside from my name, all they ever gave me was the best care money could buy. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
    There was, she realized, no self-pity or anger in his tone at the injustice of being emotionally abandoned by his parents. Jackson Santorini’s past had shaped a strong man, a man who would not easily break.
    “I began boarding school at age five,” he continued. “I saw my mother twice that year.”
    “And your father?” Taylor asked, hurting at the