Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

in love with you,” she said on a soft breath.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said after a moment. “With Ben and Andrew we were friends first. It developed slowly. With you, I feel…I felt, from the moment I got here, like I wanted…”
“Go on,” he demanded, throaty and impatient.
“You,” she finished softly. “I guess you experience this all the time, but I don’t. I’ve never met anyone and just wanted to rip their clothes off.”
His eyes swept shut at her innocent remark, a muscle throbbing at the base of his jaw.
When he opened his eyes, there was something like surrender in their depths, but his face still held a look that was troubled, laced with rejection and cynicism.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Because it will mean nothing to me. Niente. Is that what you really want?”
She thought about that, and yes, she could see that it would hurt. Despite the fact she didn’t know him and didn’t love him, she wasn’t capable of having sex with a man and not having it mean something. Still, it would hurt her more to walk away from him, and this, so she nodded slowly.
“I don’t care.”
Again, his eyes swept shut, his body tense; she could feel his arousal against her stomach and she wanted everything he was offering.
“And if I forget your name when you’re gone from here, forget you ever existed?”
She reminded herself he was pre-emptively hurting her for her own good, making sure she was prepared for what this was. Sex. Just sex. Nothing more.
“Then I’ll forget yours too,” she said with a bravado they both knew to be forged. “I’m flying out of Italy in a week, weather permitting. I have a busy schedule in America. Believe me when I tell you I won’t be pining over you, no matter how fantastic you are in bed.”
His smile lacked humour. It was, if anything, an indictment.
“You talk a good game, Isabella, but I don’t think you’re capable of the kind of detachment you’re suggesting.”
“Your ego is seriously overblown,” she responded, moving her hips in a silent invitation, an attempt to tempt him.
He dug his hands into her hips in response, his eyes holding a warning. “We’ll see.”
Hope flew through her. She didn’t know what the heck she was doing, only that she was at a tipping point and didn’t care. Victory was within sight, and euphoria flooded her body.
“So show me,” she challenged, her eyes clashing with his, the invitation not silent any longer.
His smile was sardonic, his eyes dark, as he dropped his head to hers. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Isabella couldn’t answer. His kiss robbed her of breath and completely stole her ability to think. She was riding a wave of sensation and she never wanted it to end…

8
SHE WAS LIKE VELVET beneath his fingertips, her skin so soft it reminded him of rose petals in the first light of morning, covered in dew, delicate and silky. He ran his hands over her hips, around to her back, linking his fingers together so he could cradle her closer, locking her to him. Not that he needed to do that – her body was pressed to him, her hips moving side to side, trying to get close to him, to make love to him despite the barrier of their clothes. Hell, he wanted to carry her to his bed and make this last, but more than that, he wanted her now – needed her now. He’d been denying himself to prove a point; he’d failed. He was weak. The torturous strength he’d taken from denying himself this pleasure had dissipated in the wake of his desire.
Kissing her was the bursting of a dam; his control was shot to hell.
He pushed at her jeans, lowering them impatiently, his hands roaming to cup her bottom, kneading her flesh, lifting her as he touched her, kissing her, anxious to feel her, wanting every part of her.
She whimpered his name, over and over again, filling the room with the sound of her pleasure. When he removed her shirt, cupping her breasts, she tilted her head back, crying out sharply. His mouth sought a nipple, dusky pink aureole firm beneath his tongue as he encircled it, his knee wedging her legs apart, his hand pushing his own pants down.
She weighed nothing; he lifted her with ease, wrapping her legs around his waist and stepping forward, until her back connected with a wall. He braced her there, lifting his mouth to hers, kissing her, holding her, his arousal throbbing painfully, seeking her sex. Something was blaring in his brain, a warning, or a reminder, he couldn’t hear it though over the din of his desire. It was a desperate, pounding, raging tsunami, too fierce to ignore. He swore as he entered her, dropping his head to nuzzle the curve of her shoulder, kissing her there, needing a moment to catch his breath as her impossible tightness squeezed him hard, wrenching him further from reality. He was conscious of nothing but the physical sensations assaulting him from all angles. The crush of her breasts to his chest, her breath against his ear, her ankles at his back, her heart ramming against his, her muscles convulsing around his length so that he growled, his control slipping away so that he had to grind his teeth to stop from coming – something that had never happened to him so swiftly before.
She was a witch. An auburn-haired witch delivered from the forest, conjured by magic on that dark snowy night, sent to curse him in some way. He felt that certainty wrapping around him as he moved, thrusting into her again and again, harder, faster, his every movement jerking her against his body so he felt her softness and hardness all at once.
Her first orgasm was a revelation. Her muscles tightened and her voice grew loud, her nails digging into his shoulders as though holding on for dear life. He stilled, waiting, watching, then dropped