Page 10 of Seduced By the Enemy

“Then let them wait. I’m going to get us a room. Okay?”

She stood on a tightrope—an immense fall in both directions. Walking away from him would just prolong the state of agony she’d been in since the last time they were together. Agreeing to stay was somehow worse. Or at least, a lot more complicated.

“I—,”

“Wait here,” he repeated again. And for good measure, he kissed her with all the pent up passion and need that was firing through them. “I will make it worth your while,cara.”

She shivered at that promise, and stayed where she was, back pressed to the wall, watching him disappear around the corner with the stride of a man who was intent on a mission. It only took a minute to text her friends, explaining she was going to stay a while longer and that they should go on without her. And a few minutes later, he had returned, this time, brandishing a plastic key card.

“Room seventy four. The elevators are in the foyer. You go first, I’ll follow.”

She still had time to back out of this. To tell him they were playing with fire and that sleeping together again was not asmart choice. But then, his lip lifted in a hint of a smirk and she felt as though he was daring her.

And if there was one thing Emilia knew for certain, it was that she’d never walk away from a Santoro dare.

“Fine,” she said, snatching the spare key card. “But I still hate you.”

His smirk turned into a full blown grin. “Until you don’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wishful thinking.”

“Perhaps.”

With the sense that they were locked in a verbal fight she wasn’t sure she could win, Emilia stalked away from him, questioning her decision the entire way to the bank of lifts and then up to the seventh floor of the elegant hotel—even when she knew she had no intention of backing out.

4

IT WAS PROBABLY THE longest ten minutes of Salvatore’s life. Which should have given him all the red flags he needed, the vital warning to do the smart thing and run a thousand yards from this intoxicating witch of a woman.

Because not being able to stop thinking about Emilia Valentino wasnota phenomenon he was enjoying. Nor was having her possible social life dictatehisplans, and his life. Case in point, coming to this event even though he generally cut a large check for this sort of charity rather than attending the fundraiser. But just the prospect of seeing her again, of being able to get under her skin—or her skirt, as the case may be—had seen him asking his assistant to secure a ticket.

And there she’d been. Beautiful, in that classy, untouchable way of hers. Always immaculate, as though she’d been coiffed and dressed to meet the Queen. It was one of the reasons he loved mussing her hair, smudging her lipstick, creasing her clothes. To see her outer visage more closely match the wildness he knew she had within her was both a pleasure and a privilege. It was something he intended to do as soon as he could.

He'd promised himself that the moment he’d seen her walk in. The black cocktail dress was, if anything, demure. Just a simple dress, it hugged her slim figure like a second skin, but it fell to her knees and had a neckline that showed not even a hint of cleavage—he knew this for a fact, because he’d been looking. It was the heels that had really sunk him, though. They were impossibly high and thin, and yet she’d walked around on them all night, as though they were an extension of herself. And that hair, with its glossy, golden brown ends, was in a high ponytail, that he’d spent an infuriatingly large portion of the night imagining himself grabbing and holding it, maybe even while she was on her knees for him.

He bit back a groan as the lift drew him upwards, and finally, when the doors pinged, he took the briefest moment to scan the sign, indicating which way he should go, before walking quickly to the left. He swiped the keycard and when the door buzzed, he pushed it inwards, dark eyes once again scanning the room. The hotel had been almost fully booked, so it was not a suite, but rather, an ordinary room, with a large bed in the centre of it. The lights were off, except for a lamp in the corner, and her silhouette was outlined against the large glass window that had a view of Manhattan.

She didn’t turn around when he walked in, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was because she was afraid. Not of him, but of what happened when they were together. Of the fact that neither of themwantedthis, and yet they both seemed to understand it was as inevitable as it was satisfying.

What the hell had happened to them in Moricosia? While they’d been thrown together a fair bit, while Ares and Sofia were off hiking, he’d gone into each and every one of those encounters considering her very much the enemy. Salvatore might show an easy going, relaxed nature, outwardly, but his passions, feelings and loyalty all ran deep. And that loyalty was to the Santoros—who the Valentino family were intent on destroying. Twice in the last two years they’d won enormous victories against the Santoros. First, with the acquisition of Acto Corp, which the Santoros had spent years attempting to buy. Secondly, with the development in Moricosia, spear-headed by the very same woman he was looking at now as though she were the last woman on earth.

Which really pissed him off, because he knew she wasn’t. Salvatore could walk into any bar and pick up a woman. That he had the iPhone equivalent to a little black book the thickness of an encyclopedia. So why didn’t he feel like calling any of those women? Why didn’t he just go out and meet someone else? Why had he spent the night practically drooling into his drink at the sight of Emilia in the crowded room?

All that anger and frustration, though mostly levelled at himself, suddenly exploded into something else. Need, passion, and yes, irritation with Emilia, because why on earth should she be able to do this to him? He didn’t waste any time, but rather pulled her into his arms, holding her against him as though they’d win some kind of prize if they could stand there without a single hint of space between their bodies. His leg between hers, his mouth meshed to hers, arms around her back, whole body holding hers, pulling her with him, drawing her to the bed. Her damned dress was too fitted to allow her to part her legs more than a little, and he so desperately needed to get it off her.

“Fuck this dress,” he muttered, as his hands struggled to lift it up her thighs.

“Tsk, tsk. What did the dress ever do to you?”

He pulled back and glared at her. The fact he felt like his temper was hanging on by a thread, and she was almost laughing at him? He ground his teeth and said, commandingly, “Turn around.”

His tone had her smile slipping and her eyes flaring, but she did as he said, pulling her pony tail over one shoulder, to give him full access to the hidden zipper at the back. Maybe in another lifetime, he might have taken it slowly, relishing the tease of easing it down her spine, letting his fingers glide and flirt, tempt and arouse, before turning her and tormenting her with slow, hungry kisses, until she was melting in his arms.

But his own needs were too great for that. He pulled the zip down as quickly as he could, over the small, sweet curve of her ass. And even as he reached that curve, his other hand was up at her shoulders, sliding the dress down, off her beautiful body.

She wore no bra, just like the other night. While he hadn’t seen her breasts then, he’d sucked her nipples through the silk fabric, and he’d known there was only the finest barrier between himself and her flesh. Now, though, he ached to touch with nothing between them, and that was exactly what he did, reaching around and cupping her breasts, holding them as his mouth came down on the bare flesh of her shoulder and kissed her there. He squeezed her nipples until she was crying out, his touch demanding and insistent. Emilia pushed backwards, as though she too was seeking to remove any space from between them, as though she wanted—no, needed as he needed—more. So much more.

Putting aside the question of what the hell was happening to him, he resigned himself to the fact it was, and simply existed in the moment. He dropped his hands to her hips, so he could spin her around to face him and then his eyes devoured her. Already, he’d left red stubble marks on her throat and he loved the sight of that—the possession it indicated, the fact that she was, in that moment, his. As wild for him as he was for her.

---