She felt like she’d never recover from the surge of energy that had wracked her. More than delight, this was euphoria.
‘I’ve never...’ Her throat closed. How could she explain the depth of what she’d felt—the combination of sensual pleasure and emotional crisis that had created a perfect storm?
‘Shh, minha querida. It’s all right. I have you safe.’
And he did. Even in her bemused state she knew he protected her. Damaso’s warmth and strength encompassed her, cocooning her. She burrowed closer, hands clinging.
She sank into soft cushions and Damaso eased away.
‘No!’ She clutched at him, hands sliding on his solid shoulders. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I don’t want to crush you.’
Marisa tried and failed to find the energy to lift her eyelids. ‘I need you.’
Had she really said that?
For a moment there was no response. Then her limp body was picked up again and she found herself draped across Damaso. He was long and hard and spectacularly aroused.
‘Sorry.’ Her leg brushed his erection through his trousers and he tensed.
‘It’s okay. Just relax.’
That was new in her experience of men, she realised foggily. He really was putting her first.
She snuggled closer and he tensed, his hands clamping tight as if to stop her moving. Her head was pressed to his chest and she inhaled the delicious scent of his skin. She pressed a kiss there and felt a quiver ripple through him.
Marisa’s exhaustion ebbed. She opened her eyes to a close-up view of Damaso’s shoulder and taut biceps as he cradled her. She touched the tip of her tongue to his skin, tasting that curious combination of potent male and sea spice.
‘Don’t!’
‘Why not?’ She slipped her hand down to cover the heavy bulge in his trousers. His guttural response was part protest, part approval as he jerked hard beneath her.
‘Because you’re not ready.’
Marisa looked down to see his hand hovering over hers, as if he wanted to pull her away but couldn’t quite manage it. She rubbed her hand up his length and saw his fingers clench. Beneath her ear, Damaso’s heartbeat quickened.
She smiled. Now the power was hers. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Deliberately she leaned over and licked his nipple, drawing it into her mouth.
Seconds later she was flat on her back on the sofa, pressed into the cushions by Damaso’s big frame. Between them his hand scrabbled at his belt and zip. His other hand caught one of hers above her head.
His mouth closed with hers and this kiss was hunger and heat. It was utterly carnal, Damaso’s tongue thrusting and demanding as he pushed her down into the soft upholstery. Wild elation rose as Marisa met each demand and added her own.
She needed Damaso to make her whole. Despite her shattering climax, there was an emptiness at her core only he could fill.
She was gasping when he surged back, rising to strip the last of his clothes and kick his shoes away.
Deep within, every muscle tightened as she surveyed Damaso, bronzed and powerful. Then he moved, shoving her legs wide, settling between them; his arms braced beside her, his breath warm on her lips, his eyes glittering as they ate her up.
He lay still so long she wondered if he’d changed his mind. Or was he waiting to see if she had?
Marisa reached down and took him in her hand, hot silk over rigid strength, and he shuddered.
In one fluid movement he dragged her hand away and thrust slowly to the place she needed him. Her breath expelled in a sigh.
He moved again, sure and unhurried, as if savouring every sensation.
Next time he withdrew, Marisa tilted her hips, but instead of pressing deeper or harder Damaso took his time, centimetre by slow centimetre.
He was killing her. From complete satiation just minutes ago, remarkably now Marisa trembled with the need for more. She opened her mouth to urge him on then shut it as she registered his knotted brow, hazed in perspiration, the tendons tight to snapping point in his neck and arms, his gritted teeth.
This was killing him too!
‘I won’t break,’ she gasped as he eased away and stroked gently back, teasing her unbearably with the need for more.
His eyes snapped open and she wondered if he saw her clearly. His gaze looked blind.
She planted her hands on his buttocks, feeling the twitch and bunch of muscle as she tried to draw him close, yet he resisted.
His eyes focused and her heart thudded at the look he gave her. Slowly he shook his head. ‘The baby.’
He was afraid for the baby?
Marisa blinked. Emotions surged, engulfing her in a pool of warmth. At first she’d told herself she wasn’t ready to have a child. More, she was scared about the responsibility of motherhood. But now she knew a certainty as deep as primitive instinct—that she wanted this child and would do anything to protect it.
And so would Damaso. This was connection at a visceral level, more profound than anything she’d ever expected.
He genuinely cared. He’d opened his heart to their unborn baby.
Could he open his heart to her too?
Something fluttered in her chest, her heart throbbing too fast. A wave of emotion swept her, tumbling her into depths where the only anchor point was Damaso.
Hers. A voice in the deep murmured he was hers.
‘The baby will be fine,’ she whispered, wondering at the enormity of what she felt.
‘How do you know?’
From instinct as old as time.
Marisa guessed he wouldn’t be convinced by that. She focused on something more tangible. ‘The doctor told me.’
Damaso breathed deep, his body sinking into hers. ‘Still...’ He shook his head, moving so slowly it was exquisite torture.
He was so obstinate, yet how could she protest when he thought to protect something so precious?
Marisa slipped her hands to his shoulders and hauled herself higher, nuzzling his jaw, kissing his ear, feeling the friction of his chest against her tender breasts. His breathing drew ragged
‘I want you now,’ she whispered, and bit down hard at the curve between his tanned neck and shoulder.
Damaso juddered, surging hard and high.
‘Yes, like that.’
‘Marisa.’ It was a warning that became a groan as she wrapped her legs tight around him. For an instant he held strong, then his control broke and he surged into her, driving them hard and fast in a compulsive rhythm.
Marisa hugged him tight, filled with a feeling of openness, of protectiveness, as the big, powerful man who’d taken over her world let go and gave himself up to the force of passion.
Sex with Damaso had been spectacular.
Making love with him was indescribably better.
Marisa cradled him, overwhelmed by the belief they had shared something profound. Then, as their rhythm spun out of control, he bent to suckle her breast and both shattered in a climax that tumbled them into a new world.
CHAPTER NINE
THE STORM HAD PASSED, and the steady drum of rain should have lulled Damaso to sleep, yet it eluded him.
Staying with Marisa was too distracting. The rumpled disarray of the guest bedroom, the first one he’d staggered to with her in his arms, proved that.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her after that cataclysmic coming together in the sitting room. He’d assured himself he could hold back from the need to imprint himself on her, taste and hold her. But his willpower had snapped when she’d turned to him again.
He hoped she and the doctor were right. Logic told him sex wouldn’t harm the baby, yet he’d felt a profound fear of doing the wrong thing until Marisa had touched him.