Bedding the Beast Page 11

  She nodded and shifted her hips, rubbing his cock with the wet heat of her pussy, tormenting him. Finally he felt her hand grip his cock, holding it still while she sank down on him.

  She cried out.

  He reached up and pushed the sweep of her hair behind one ear. "Does it hurt?"

  "No. Feels good."

  So good.

  Her hips shifted a little, taking him deeper. Then she lifted up, until his cock almost slid out, and sank back down in a long, slow glide.

  So good. Torture.

  She kept her gaze locked on his as she moved, writhing on him slowly ... slowly ... God, she'd drive him insane at this pace.

  Her hands pressed against his chest, pushing as she thrust. He gripped her ass, helping her move. He held back, clenching his teeth, but the sight of her riding him, fucking him, the sight of her looking down at him with such passion on her beautiful face, drove him to the edge.

  She ground herself against him with each downward thrust, and he gave up his hold on her luscious ass to slip one hand between them, to nudge against her clit with his thumb. Her eyes closed then, her teeth bit down on her lower lip, and he let go, let himself thrust up into her, and she convulsed around his cock just an instant before he exploded inside her.

  Her willowy body collapsed onto his, and he held her close, feeling her chest rise and fall as she struggled for breath.

  "You looked to me," she said.

  "Yes, I looked at you." And she'd looked at him. Unbelievable.

  "Before ... in dark ... I think you don't want to look at me."

  So while he'd been hiding in the dark, she'd been thinking he didn't want to see her. "I like looking at you. A lot."

  She planted her hands on his chest and lifted herself up to look into his face. Her expression was troubled. "Before this. Before bed. Why are ... why were you angry at me?"

  He didn't look away, hard as it was to expose himself. She deserved an explanation for putting up with so much from him. "When I came home today, and you weren't here ... I thought you'd left me." He'd hurt her last night, driven her to tears, and then he'd come home to an empty house, seen that her drawstring bag was gone ...

  Her brows knit in confusion. "But I came home after. So you knew ... I not left."

  He swallowed. "Yes, but then you told me that you went to Kathleen's, even though you knew the boys were sick. You risked catching a fever. And I ... I just went crazy. Crazy with worry."

  "Worry?"

  "Fear. I was afraid." His arms tightened around her hips. "Your sister died of a fever. The thought of you dying ..." His throat closed, and he forced a deep breath into his chest. Forced himself to speak. "If anything happened to you, Mariana, I wouldn't be able to go on."

  She cocked her head to the side, her expression disbelieving. "You would go on. You went on after Francesca died."

  How could she even compare the two? Losing Mariana would rip him to pieces. "The way I feel about you is nothing like the way I felt about Francesca."

  She put her fingers against his lips. "I know. You no need say it."

  She knew? How could she know, when he barely knew it himself?

  Before he could stop her, she lifted off of him and lay next to him on her side. He pulled the covers over them both and rolled to face her. Her hand came up to stroke his cheek.

  Her expression never showed revulsion when she looked at him. Never. "It doesn't bother you? My face?"

  She traced the line of his scar with one finger, tickling him. "It bothers me only that you were hurt."

  She meant his scar, not the rest of him.

  "How does it happen?" she asked.

  "How did it happen." Francesca had never cared to ask. She'd just avoided looking at him. "A knife fight when I was twelve or so. Nothing important."

  She ran her fingers over the scar again, then laid her hand on his chest. She said nothing.

  He looked deep into her eyes. God, she was beautiful. How could she stand to look at a beast like him? "It's not only the scar that's ugly. I know it."

  She shrugged and gave a little smile. "You may not be the most handsome man in the world, Giovanni," she said in Italian, "but you are my man."

  Her expression held such possessiveness, such affection, that embarrassing moisture formed in his eyes. He closed them, hiding from her.

  He felt her hand leave his chest. "John, don't be sad. I know you miss Francesca, but she would want you be happy."

  Surprise dried his eyes. "You think I miss Francesca?"

  "I ... yes." She looked sad, so sad. "You don't want me to be wife, in her place. You don't want to look at me in the bed, when is her you want. I understand."

  How could she ever think he preferred her sister? "I want you. Only you."

  She managed to smile and still look sad. "You don't need lie to make me feel good."

  Stubborn, pigheaded girl. "I don't want Francesca. I don't miss Francesca. And wherever she may be, she doesn't miss me. She hated me."

  She frowned. "Why?"

  He couldn't confess while looking into her trusting face. He turned his gaze to the ceiling. "I didn't treat your sister well. I had only been with ‑‑"

  No, he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't tell her that the women he'd been with, whores one and all, would let a man bounce up and down on them and profess great enjoyment. "I had no experience with decent women. I ... I hurt her."

  And then he'd gone to another whore, and paid her to teach him how to please a woman. But it had been too late. Francesca had never let him near her again.

  Mariana put her hand on his shoulder. "I forgive you."

  He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, then held it against his chest. "Your sister never did."

  Her fingers tightened on his. "I'm sorry for you, and for her. But I forgive you."

  He stroked her hand with his thumb. "I don't deserve you, Mariana. But I'm too selfish to let you go."

  She smiled wide. "Is not a problem. I like my selfish man."

  Like? Hell, it was a start.

  He caught sight of her discarded dress, lying on the bed next to her. The dress that had once been Francesca's. That reminded him. "I have a surprise for you."

  He slid out of bed and found his tangled long johns on the floor.

  "What is it?"

  "You'll see." He buttoned up his long johns, tossed on his coat, and pulled on his boots, leaving them unlaced. "Stay here."

  He went to the barn, found the package he'd hidden there yesterday, and brought it inside. She was sitting up in bed with her shift on, and the fire crackled in the stove. She must have built it up.

  He pulled off his coat, kicked off his boots, and sat next to the package on the bed. He kept his gaze on her face as he untied the string and pulled the paper apart. Her eyes went wide, and she gasped. "What is it?"

  He pulled out the swath of blue fabric that was on top. With a flourish, he draped it over her shoulders. Yes, it matched her eyes nicely. He'd hoped it would. "I think it's your wedding dress."

  She gasped again and held the dress out. "But ... how?"

  "When I went to town yesterday, I stopped by the seamstress's. Told her I needed a wedding dress by Valentine's Day, and she was happy to oblige." And she'd charged him a small fortune, even though she'd had a dress ready-made, close to Mariana's size. But this happy look on her face made it worth it.

  She smoothed the dress against her front. "So beautiful," she murmured.

  Yes, she was. So beautiful that looking at her made his chest ache. He handed her the next garment. His favorite.

  "More?" She held it up over the dress. The white nightgown was close to his fantasy one, with a low neckline, small buttons, and a lacy ruffle at the bottom. Tiny red hearts were embroidered around the neck and cuffs. She'd look like a little virginal bride in it for sure. A little virginal bride who whispered filthy words in his ear. He could hardly wait.

  She reached out and drew the rest of the fabric toward her, looking a
t the yards of blue and yellow and red. He'd had no idea what colors she'd want. "I could only get one ready-made dress. The fabric's for you ... to make some yourself."

  Her eyes looked up at him, still round with wonder. "All this? For me?"

  He nodded.

  "But you say, no money for clothes."

  What a fool he'd been. "They're a gift. A Valentine's Day gift."

  She touched the blue dress with one finger, as if she didn't believe it was there. "I never have any clothes new. Never." She scooted closer and gave him a hug. "Thank you. Thank you, John."

  Such a little thing to make her so happy. He cupped her chin in his hand. "You deserve a new dress for our wedding. You deserve clothes made of silk, and a better house than this one-room shack, and ... so much more than I can give you."

  She shook her head, smiling, and he was lost. Words tumbled from his mouth. "I'm sorry about earlier. About yelling at you. I swear I'll try to be ... to make you ... Ah, hell, I can't think straight anymore. And it's you, it's your fault. Mariana, I've fallen hopelessly in love with you."

  She just stared at him, faintly puzzled. God, she hadn't understood him. He hadn't even meant to say that. And now he'd have to say it again.

  He pulled her tight, hiding his face against her neck. Even though he wasn't looking at her, his stomach clenched. "Ti amo," he muttered.

  She went still. "What?"

  He'd never repeat it. Saying it once had made his gut turn over. "You heard me."

  She moved back, enough to look into his face, and gave him an impossibly beautiful smile. And then she laughed.

  She laughed at him.

  God, he was a fool. He pulled away, or tried to.

  She held his arms tight. "Oh, John. You look so sick."

  No wonder, considering the riot in his stomach.

  Her laughter stilled, and she lifted a hand to cup his cheek. His scarred cheek. "Anch'io ti amo," she said, her voice soft and sure.

  He couldn't breathe. "Truly?"

  "You heard me," she replied, trying for a surly tone and sounding thoroughly adorable.

  They laughed. Together.

  "I love you, too," he said. Just to tell her how to say it in English. This time his stomach didn't hurt at all.

  Her eyes were teary, and she couldn't seem to stop stroking his cheek. "But how? No, I mean ...why?"

  He shook his head vaguely. "I don't know. I only know that I felt ... dead inside. Then you came, and made me feel ‑‑"

  "Angry?"

  He smiled. "Not just angry. Alive. You gave me ... yourself. So generously." He brushed her hair back so he could see her eyes clearly. "And ... you look at me, and you don't see the man I am. You see a better man. The man I want to be, for you."

  "I see the man you are. A good man. A good man you are."

  No, he wasn't.

  "You are," she insisted, as if he'd spoken. "You look at me, and you don't see a silly, pretty girl. You make me feel ... like woman. And when I have ideas, you listen. You let me talk."

  He smiled. "It would be difficult to stop you from talking."

  She smiled with him. "Is true."

  "But you're wrong about one thing, Mariana. When I look at you, I see a very pretty woman." A beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. He felt too awkward to say it.

  "Thank you."

  He touched the delicate nightgown that rested in her lap. "Why don't you put this on, pretty woman?"

  "Why? I can see, it will fit."

  He grinned. "If you put it on, I can take it off you."

  She blushed and swatted his hand lightly. "We should wait maybe one thing for our wedding night, John."

  He took her hand and toyed with her wedding ring. Their wedding ring. "But we're already married."

  Her chin went up in that stubborn tilt. "Then we will save the nightgown for Valentine's Day. For tomorrow. It is a Valentine's gift, yes?"

  The first of many. "Yes."

  She started a little. "Oh, John ... you gave me all these gifts, and I have nothing for you."

  Silly girl. He didn't want anything but her. "Just marry me. Marry me and give me your love. No one else ever has."

  How on earth had that come out? He looked away, embarrassed.

  "You're nice man. But you no say truth. Your parents must have ‑‑"

  "I never knew my father," he said, cutting her off. "And my mother ... my mother left me in an orphanage when I was small."

  He set his jaw. Don't offer me pity. Anything but that.

  She waited for a long moment, then gave a decisive nod. "Your mother loved you," she said, in Italian.

  He snorted. "I'm not a child anymore. Don't try to coddle me."

  "She was sick." Mariana stopped again, her head tilted as though listening to someone. "Dying. There was no one to take care of you."

  "How ..." He could hardly think. His mother had been coughing a lot when she abandoned him. "Why do you say that?"

  Her gaze fell to his lap. "Ever since I came here, I've heard a woman's voice. Speaking to me."

  He looked around, but the room seemed the same. No eerie noises, no creeping shadows. "A ghost?" No. Impossible.

  "Is true."

  Maybe. Or maybe Mariana was so tenderhearted, she couldn't imagine a mother not loving her son.

  "Why would she speak to you, and not to me?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe you can't hear her. But I ... I have the second sight." She looked up at him a little warily.

  A warm draft from the stove blew across his face. Believe. A bare whisper of sound.

  He must have imagined it. Or had he?

  It didn't matter. All that mattered was Mariana, looking at him like she feared his reaction to her confession. He gave her a soft kiss on the forehead, still amazed when she didn't recoil from him in horror. "If she's speaking to you and not to me, I guess that means she approves of you."

  Mariana's brows furrowed. He repeated himself in Italian for her.

  She grinned. "Not at first, no. She tried to make me leave. She thought I would hurt you."

  Like her sister had. He never would have wished Francesca ill, but thank heaven her greedy father had sent Mariana to him. "We'll be good to our children, Mariana. They'll never have cause to doubt."

  Her fingers laced through his, brought his hand to lay flat against her belly. "Before next year Valentine's Day, maybe we have a child of ours."

  She wanted children. His children. By the cross, she must truly love him. But ... "You're so slim. I worry that you won't be able ..."

  No. He wouldn't even say it. Not for anything in the world would he frighten her.

  She squeezed his hand. "Don't be afraid, John. My mother is same as me, and she have seven healthy children." She gave him that flirty smile of hers. "We work hard, yes? To have baby by next year Valentine's Day?"

  Her smile was irresistible. He couldn't help but smile back. "Yes. But even if we don't have that baby, Mariana, I'll still have you. The first Valentine's Day present I ever got." He kissed her softly. "And the best I ever will get."

  Doreen DeSalvo

  A lifelong daydreamer, Doreen DeSalvo sold her first short story at the age of eight. Her payment was a candy bar. Over thirty years later, her passion for writing -- and chocolate -- remain. Her work has received the National Association of Independent Publishers’ Fallot Literary Award and the Doubleday Venus Book Club’s Best Book of the Year award. She currently lives in a Victorian house in San Francisco with her husband of over 20 years, and considers herself fortunate to be writing stories that always have happy endings.

  Visit Doreen on the web at http://www.doreendesalvo.com/ or email her at doreen@doreendesalvo.com.

 

 

 
r: grayscale(100%); -moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share