Page 6 of Seduced By the Enemy

“Yes?”

His hand began to ruche the silky fabric of her dress, pulling it into his fist, one inch at a time, until he’d caught it all and she felt the cold air of the stairwell against her exposed legs and backside. She wore a flimsy thong—really just a scrap of fine lace—to avoid visible lines beneath the dress, so it was easy for him to bring his other hand around and cup her naked butt.

She gasped again. “Salvatore!” His name was supposed to be a curse, a criticism, but she was very aware it came out as a plea. Just as it had the night they’d slept together, when he’d mimicked her desperate, hungry cries and she’d sworn she’d never forget how much she hated him. When she’d made them both swear that it would be the one and only night they shared.

“I’m not sleeping with you again,” she said, on a husk.

Another grin flickered on his lips—all sexy, confident. “Who said anything about sleep?” His mouth meshed with hers in a manner that was as demanding as it was fierce. It had been six long months since they’d been together—six months since she’d been with anyone, even just a kiss, a look or a touch—and her body seemed to be rejoicing in this sudden burst of intimacy, and the promise of what was to come.

A voice in the back of her mind—the sensible voice of Valentino reason—was shouting at her to knee him in the groin or pull away from him and shoot him down with a withering glare and a few choice words, but that voice was drowned out by the rampant, incessant hum of need pounding through her.

“I hate you, you know,” she said against his mouth, as her hands pulled his shirt from his pants, so her fingertips could trail over his naked flesh.

“You’re supposed to hate me,” he murmured, as he dragged his mouth from her lips along the side of her jaw, to the sensitive pulse point just beneath her ear and flicked her there. She arched her back in an uncontrollable physical response to the waves of desire he was so effortlessly evoking. “That’s what we do, remember?”

It was hard to remember anything when his hand was pushing her thong down her legs, until she’d stepped out of them and the underwear was on the cold concrete floor beneath them.

“Hate each other,” he promised, moving his hand to her sex. While he touched her there, he pulled his head away, so his eyes could spear her, watching her reaction.

And damn it, she wasn’t quick enough to conceal the pleasure he gave her. She wasn’t quick enough to hide the way his touch set her pulse racing, the flush in her cheeks, the way her lips parted on a giddy sigh of anticipation.

“Yes, hate each other,” she mumbled, not entirely cognizant of what she was saying.

“But that’s no reason we can’t still do this,” he said, as he drove a finger into her, and she bucked her hips hard.

“Actually,” the word came as a breathless plea. “I think it’s a damn good reason we shouldn’t do this, but I don’t care,” she moaned. “Fuck me, Salvatore, now.”

“Here?”

“Unless you can produce a bed out of thin air, then here will do fine.”

His response was to unfasten his trousers and pull himself from them, at the same time he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a condom, opening the packet and unfurling it over his length.

In the minuscule fragment of her brain that was still capable of thinking rationally, she couldn’t help but register the fact he had the condom, like he knew he’d be using it tonight. If not with her, then with someone else. Because that’s who Salvatore Santoro was. She’d known that even before they’d landed in Moricosia. Whereas she’d spent the last six months in the sexual wilderness, she had no doubt he’d been happily taking whomever he fancied to bed.

But before the realisation could lead to anything less pleasant, like a change of heart and mind, he was pulling her with him, further down the stairs, sitting then on the top step of the next landing, his hard cock protruding from his pants, his brows quirked expectantly.

Emilia wished she had it in her to walk away from him. Bastard deserved it. The thought of leaving him like this, high and dry and desperate for her, was infinitely appealing—except she had no doubt he’d just zip himself up and find someone else.

And then she’d be the one going home alone, a small point scored. She’d have won this battle, yet the war would be his. A hollow victory indeed.

So she caught her dress in her palms as she came to straddle him, the concrete cold beneath her palms as she braced herself above him.

“I really do hate you,” she promised once more, because it felt as though it somehow lessened the betrayal of her family, a little, if she only made love to him when she was reminding them both of the true state of affairs.

“That may be the case,cara,but you also love to fuck me, don’t you?”

She sucked in a sharp breath at the confidence in his voice, and the brief spurt of indecision that fired through her—the worry that maybe this wasn’t as mutual as she’d thought?

Except then, his hand was moving to the back of her head, his fingers toying with the neat, professionally styled bun, pulling her hair out over her shoulders. His eyes had an intensity that almost burned her alive when he said, “I like your hair like this.”

It caught at something inside her chest, something she didn’t want to feel or analyse, so she moved over him then and took his length deep inside her, hard and fast, smothering a curse at the feeling of fullness, the sheer size of him, his strength. And then, her hips were rocking to their own dance, moving in a desperate, hungry tattoo, until he was exactly where and what she needed. She arched her back as she came, her breasts pushed forward, and through the fabric of her dress, he took a nipple in his mouth, sucking it and pressing his teeth into her flesh until she was crying out, over and over, her whole body lighting up like a Christmas tree, as pleasure burst through every single part of her central nervous system.

She’d been wrong, in Moricosia. That orgasm had been great, but this…this was beyond description. Emilia was floating, and it was impossible to care that it was all because of Salvatore.

“You bastard,”she said, staring at her reflection in a small compact mirror from her clutch purse. She looked…like a woman who’d just been ravaged in the cold, barren wilderness of the fire escape stairwell. She looked like a woman who’d sold herself to the devil. Her hair wasn’t just in disarray, it was completely wild—made that way by the fast, furious tangle of his fingers, as he’d combed and pulled at the ends, in a dramatic mirroring of their making love. But her dress was a whole other level of bad. The soft silk was crumpled all over, a thousand tiny creases from the way it had been scrunched at her hips, and both breasts showed round circles of moisture, from where his mouth had hungrily sought her nipples, tormenting her in a way she hadn’t even registered would leave marks. Her lipstick was smudged, too—but she could fix that. The rest was a disaster.

“You look good,” he promised, but with that infuriating, irritating, overly-cocky smile, that made her wonder if just maybe he’d planned this. To embarrass her? She wouldn’t put it past him.

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