Free The Forced Marriage by Sara Craven Page A

dominated by the renewed demands of her own fevered flesh.
    The rasp of his breathing was echoed by her own. She felt as if she was poised on the edge of some abyss, and he must have felt it too, because he spoke to her, his voice hoarse and urgent. ‘Come for me, mia bella—mia cara . Come now.’
    And, deep within her, as if answering his cue, Flora felt the first sharp pulsation of rapture. She moaned aloud, burying her face against him, biting his shoulder, as the moment took her and sent her spinning out of control into some limbo where pleasure bordered on pain.
    Marco flung his head back, his eyes closed, his face taut with the same kind of agony, and she felt his entire body shudder like a tree caught in a giant wind as he came in his turn.
    When it was over, they lay together quietly. Flora tried to steady her breathing, to make sense of what had happened to her.
    ‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a thread. He didn’t answer, and she turned her head to look at him. He was lying, staring up at the ceiling, his profile as proud and remote as a Renaissance carving.
    She felt her throat tighten. ‘Marco—is something wrong?’
    He turned his head slowly, and smiled at her. ‘What could possibly be wrong, Flora mia ?’
    ‘You looked a thousand miles away.’
    He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I was thinking how ironic it is that I should have come all this way to find my perfect woman.’
    ‘Truly?’
    ‘You doubt me?’
    ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s just—that was a happy thought, and you didn’t look very happy.’
    ‘And you, mia bella , look as if you need to stop imagining things and sleep.’ He gathered her closer, so that her head was pillowed on his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart, still slightly uneven, under her cheek.
    He was not, she thought with satisfaction, as cool as he seemed. And she closed her eyes, smiling.
     
     
    She slept deeply and dreamlessly, and awoke with reluctance. For a moment she lay still, feeling oddly disorientated—as if her faintly aching body no longer belonged to her. And then, like a thunderbolt, her memory returned and she sat up.
    Oh, God, she thought desperately. I’m in bed with Marco Valante.
    Except that wasn’t strictly true. Because no sleeping man lay beside her. Nor, she realised, was there any sound from the bathroom, or any sign of his clothes either.
    She said aloud, ‘He’s gone.’ And her voice sounded small and desolate in the emptiness of the room.
    She lay down again, pulling the tangled sheet up over her body, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart was thumping.
    Well, Flora, she told herself. It seems you’ve just had your first one-night stand. Now you have to live with that, and I just hope you think it was worth it.
    And, to make matters a million times worse, you’ve had unprotected sex with a stranger. A man who’s probably left his notch on bedposts in every major capital of the world, and several small towns as well. And that’s something else you’ll have to deal with.
    She pressed her clenched fist against her mouth, to stop herself from moaning aloud.
    She had no one to blame but herself, whatever the consequences. After all, she’d gone out last night undressed to kill, flinging down a challenge to his sexuality that no red-blooded man could have ignored. And all because of a fit of pique.
    She stopped right there. Because that was too easy—too glib an excuse for what she had done.
    From that first glimpse of him, Marco had intrigued her. Had tantalised his way into her dreams, sleeping and waking. He himself had been the challenge—and the ultimate prize.
    And she had hardly been short-changed. In a few brief hours Marco had taught her more about her body and its needs than she could have believed possible.
    And she would never be the same again.
    The girl who had had the rest of her life mapped out, with a sensible marriage and a secure future, had disappeared for ever—if she’d even existed at