No wonder she’d avoided him.
But now she craved him. She, who’d learned to distrust desire!
Yet this was something new. With Damaso Pires she sensed a link, a feeling almost of recognition, that she’d never experienced. It reminded her a little of the very different bond she’d shared with Stefan.
Marisa shook her head. Was grief clouding her thoughts?
Physical exertion, even danger, didn’t ease her pain. Since Stefan’s death she’d been shrouded in grey nothingness, till Damaso had reached out to her. Could she do it? Give herself to a stranger? Excitement and fear shivered through her. Despite what the world believed, Marisa wasn’t the voracious sexpot the press portrayed.
Then she remembered how she’d felt trading words with him, their bodies communicating in subtle hints and responses as ancient as sex itself.
She’d felt happy. Excited. That aching feeling of isolation had fled. She’d felt alive.
A knock sounded on her door, reverberating through her hollow stomach. Second thoughts crowded in, old hurts. Marisa glanced in the mirror. Barefoot, damp hair slicked back from a face devoid of make-up, she looked as far from a princess as you could get.
Did he want the real woman, not the royal? She wavered on the brink of cowardice, of wanting to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She’d taken chances on men before and been disappointed. More, she’d been eviscerated by their callous selfishness.
The knock came again and she jumped.
She had to face this.
With Damaso, for the first time in years, she dared risk herself again. That tantalising link between them was so intense, so profound. She wanted to trust him. She wanted desperately not to be alone anymore.
Her heart pounded as she opened the door. He filled the space before her, leaning against one raised arm. His eyes looked black and hungry in the early-evening light. Her stomach swooped.
With a single stride he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him, eyes holding hers.
‘Querida.’ The word caressed her as his gaze ate her up. If he was disappointed she hadn’t dressed up, he didn’t show it. If anything his eyes glowed warm with approval. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘Have you?’ She stood straighter.
‘How could I?’ His smile was lop-sided, the most devastating thing she’d ever seen. Then one large palm cupped her cheek and he stepped close. His head lowered and the world faded away.
CHAPTER TWO
‘MALDI??O! WHAT YOU do to me.’ Damaso’s voice rumbled through her bones, his hands gripping tight at her hips as his mouth moved against her ear. Marisa shivered as her hyper-aware nerve endings protested at the sensory overload.
She’d never felt so vulnerable, so naked. As if their love-making had stripped her bare of every shield she’d erected between herself and a hostile world.
Yet, strangely that didn’t scare her. Not with Damaso.
Marisa clutched his bare back, sleek and damp, heaving slightly as he fought for breath. His chest pushed her down into the wide mattress and she revelled in the hard, hot weight of him, even the feel of his hairy legs imprisoning hers.
All night Damaso had stayed, taking his time to seduce her, not just with his body but with the fierce intensity he’d devoted to pleasing her. He was a generous lover, patient when unexpected nerves had made her momentarily stiff and wooden in his arms. She’d been mortified, sure he’d interpret her body’s reaction as rejection. Instead he’d looked into her eyes for an endless moment, then smiled before beginning a leisurely exploration of every erogenous zone on her body.
Marisa shivered and held him tight. Holding him in her arms felt...
‘I’m too heavy. Sorry.’
Before she could protest, he rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him. She clung fast, needing to maintain the skin-to-skin contact she’d become addicted to in the night.
Marisa smiled drowsily. She’d been right: Damaso was different. He made her feel like a new woman. And that wasn’t merely the exhaustion of a long night’s loving speaking.
‘Are you all right?’ She loved the way his voice rippled like dark, molten chocolate in her veins. She’d never known a man with a more sensuous voice.
‘Never better.’ She smiled against his damp skin then let her tongue slick along the solid cushion of his muscled chest. He tasted of salt and that indefinable spicy flavour that was simply Damaso.
He sucked in a breath and her smile widened. She could stay here, plastered to him, for ever.
‘Witch!’
His big hand was gentle on her shoulder, lifting her away. After lying against the furnace of his powerful body, the pre-dawn air seemed cold against her naked skin. She opened her mouth to protest but he was already swinging his legs out of bed. She lifted a hand to catch him back then let it drop. He’d be back once he’d disposed of the condom. Then they could drowse in each other’s arms.
Marisa hooked a pillow to her, trying to make up for the loss of Damaso. She buried her nose in its softness, inhaling his scent, letting her mind drift pleasurably.
They had another week left on the tour. A week to get to know each other in all the ways they’d missed. They’d skipped straight to the potent attraction between them, bypassing the usual stages of acquaintanceship and friendship.
Anticipation shimmied through her. The promise of pleasure to come. Who’d have thought she could feel so good when only yesterday...?
She shook her head, determined to enjoy the tentative optimism filling her after so long in a grey well of grief.
Marisa looked forward to learning all those little things about Damaso—how he liked his coffee, what made him laugh. What he did with his time when he wasn’t looking dark and sulkily attractive like some sexy renegade, or running what someone in the group had called South America’s largest self-made fortune.
A sound made her turn. There, framed in the doorway, stood Damaso, watching her.
The first fingers of dawn light limned his tall body, throwing his solid chest, taut abdomen and heavy thighs into relief. The smattering of dark hair on his chest narrowed and trickled in a tantalising line down his body. Marisa lay back, looking appreciatively from between slitted eyes. Even now, sated after their loving, he looked formidably well-endowed. As if he was ready to...
‘Go to sleep, Marisa. It’s been a long night.’ The dark enticement of his voice was edged with an undercurrent she couldn’t identify.
Shoving the spare pillow aside, she smoothed her arm over the still-warm space beside her.
‘When you come back to bed.’ She’d sleep better with him here, cradling her as before. It wasn’t sex she craved but his company. The rare sense of wellbeing he’d created.
Damaso stood, unmoving, so long anxiety stroked phantom fingers over her nape. Almost, she reached out to drag up the discarded sheet. She hadn’t felt embarrassed by her nudity earlier, when he’d looked at her with approval and even something like adoration in his gaze. But this felt different. His stare was impenetrable, that tiny pucker of a frown unexpected.
The silence lengthened and Marisa had to clench her hands rather than scoop up the sheet. She’d never flaunted herself naked but with Damaso it had felt right. Till now.
He prowled across the room with a grace she couldn’t help but appreciate. He stopped at the edge of the bed, drawing in a deep breath. Then he bent abruptly to scoop something off the floor—his discarded jeans. He dragged the faded denim up those long thighs.