mouths tight together as if in danger of being ripped apart at any moment.
He tore his mouth away after long, dizzying seconds and said gutturally, ‘I won’t take you like an animal again.’
He bent down and lifted her into his arms, strode back into the bedroom. He put her down on the bed and stripped the towel from around his waist. Gracie’s eyes were glued to him as he came down over her, twitching her towel aside so he could feast his eyes on her body, laid out for him. He reminded her of some mythical pagan god. She’d sensed a raw wildness in him the night she’d met him, but the reality of it was intoxicating.
He trailed the back of his hand from the valley of herbreasts to the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed and bit her lip even as she wanted to have the strength to grab his hand and throw it aside, to tell him that she wouldn’t succumb to him again.
He pushed her thighs apart with one hand and pressed his palm against her. He looked deep into her eyes, ‘You’re mine, Gracie O’Brien, and I’m going to make you mine over and over again—until you don’t even know who you are any more.’
‘I’m going to make you mine over and over again—until you don’t even know who you are any more
.
’
Rocco was standing at the window of his bedroom with his back to the view of a faint pink dawn breaking over London’s skyline. His arms were crossed and he was looking warily at the woman sleeping in his bed, as if she might jump out at any moment and grab him. He felt as if he’d just been catapulted back into reality after a psychedelic mind-altering experience.
Those words were reverberating in his head. When he’d said them to her he’d meant that he wanted to make her forget her own name because she’d made him forget …
everything.
Who he was. What he was.
Why
he was.
It had only been in the shower, as she’d looked up at him with those dark serious eyes, that the first sliver of sanity had returned—and with it the awful, excoriating realisation that he’d exposed himself comprehensively.
Acute vulnerability of a kind he hadn’t felt in years—so long ago that he’d hardly recognised it—had burnt him up inside and he’d lashed out. But Gracie had stood up to him, like she had from day one, and he’d soon been fired up all over again, that feeling of vulnerability dissolving like a mist to be replaced with sheer lust.
Last night had proved to him that for all his hard-woncontrol and precious rationale he couldn’t keep from acting on base desire. Once he’d touched Gracie there had been no going back. He grimaced. There had been no going back from the moment he’d seen her standing in that elevator, looking so pale and anxious.
And from the moment she’d walked into the drawing room in that provocative uniform Rocco had bitterly regretted that Honora Winthrop was there. If he’d ever needed a stark comparison between two women they’d unwittingly provided it. As the evening had unfolded, and Gracie had served them exquisite dish after exquisite dish, Rocco had become more and more entranced. More and more surprised that she wasn’t using the opportunity to humiliate him. And more and more certain that he wanted her.
He’d battled an increasing need to
see
her. He’d suffered through the courses, tuning out Honora Winthrop’s cut-glass tones, and come to life each time Gracie came back into the room, eyes devouring her, painfully aware of his state of arousal—for
her
.
He’d become so impatient at one stage that he’d gone looking for her himself, only to see her stretching up to kiss his own security man sweetly on the cheek. He’d looked as if he’d just received a bonus. The jealousy had been swift and shocking. He’d wanted to fire George on the spot and shake Gracie until she rattled.
When Honora had made those snide comments about the food Rocco had had to restrain himself from reaching across the table and pushing her sanctimoniously perfect face
He tore his mouth away after long, dizzying seconds and said gutturally, ‘I won’t take you like an animal again.’
He bent down and lifted her into his arms, strode back into the bedroom. He put her down on the bed and stripped the towel from around his waist. Gracie’s eyes were glued to him as he came down over her, twitching her towel aside so he could feast his eyes on her body, laid out for him. He reminded her of some mythical pagan god. She’d sensed a raw wildness in him the night she’d met him, but the reality of it was intoxicating.
He trailed the back of his hand from the valley of herbreasts to the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed and bit her lip even as she wanted to have the strength to grab his hand and throw it aside, to tell him that she wouldn’t succumb to him again.
He pushed her thighs apart with one hand and pressed his palm against her. He looked deep into her eyes, ‘You’re mine, Gracie O’Brien, and I’m going to make you mine over and over again—until you don’t even know who you are any more.’
‘I’m going to make you mine over and over again—until you don’t even know who you are any more
.
’
Rocco was standing at the window of his bedroom with his back to the view of a faint pink dawn breaking over London’s skyline. His arms were crossed and he was looking warily at the woman sleeping in his bed, as if she might jump out at any moment and grab him. He felt as if he’d just been catapulted back into reality after a psychedelic mind-altering experience.
Those words were reverberating in his head. When he’d said them to her he’d meant that he wanted to make her forget her own name because she’d made him forget …
everything.
Who he was. What he was.
Why
he was.
It had only been in the shower, as she’d looked up at him with those dark serious eyes, that the first sliver of sanity had returned—and with it the awful, excoriating realisation that he’d exposed himself comprehensively.
Acute vulnerability of a kind he hadn’t felt in years—so long ago that he’d hardly recognised it—had burnt him up inside and he’d lashed out. But Gracie had stood up to him, like she had from day one, and he’d soon been fired up all over again, that feeling of vulnerability dissolving like a mist to be replaced with sheer lust.
Last night had proved to him that for all his hard-woncontrol and precious rationale he couldn’t keep from acting on base desire. Once he’d touched Gracie there had been no going back. He grimaced. There had been no going back from the moment he’d seen her standing in that elevator, looking so pale and anxious.
And from the moment she’d walked into the drawing room in that provocative uniform Rocco had bitterly regretted that Honora Winthrop was there. If he’d ever needed a stark comparison between two women they’d unwittingly provided it. As the evening had unfolded, and Gracie had served them exquisite dish after exquisite dish, Rocco had become more and more entranced. More and more surprised that she wasn’t using the opportunity to humiliate him. And more and more certain that he wanted her.
He’d battled an increasing need to
see
her. He’d suffered through the courses, tuning out Honora Winthrop’s cut-glass tones, and come to life each time Gracie came back into the room, eyes devouring her, painfully aware of his state of arousal—for
her
.
He’d become so impatient at one stage that he’d gone looking for her himself, only to see her stretching up to kiss his own security man sweetly on the cheek. He’d looked as if he’d just received a bonus. The jealousy had been swift and shocking. He’d wanted to fire George on the spot and shake Gracie until she rattled.
When Honora had made those snide comments about the food Rocco had had to restrain himself from reaching across the table and pushing her sanctimoniously perfect face
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