Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

E VERY SINGLE ONE OF HER PULSE POINTS REVERBERATED, fired to life, made her heavy with an awareness of her body, and his. They moved with absolute fluidity. Nothing was jarring, nothing was conscious. It was as if they were sleep walking, into one another's arms. His kiss was both languid and desperate, a kiss of contradictions, heavy with need and also regret, bitter and beautiful. Their clothes almost seemed to melt off their bodies, and only when she, at one point, moved quickly, did she remember the sprain of her ankle and cry out, so Dante simply scooped her up, as he'd become so adept at doing, and carried her to the bed, laying her down with reverence and disbelief.

She groaned when his kiss moved from her mouth to décolletage, his teeth grating across her collar bone before dropping to her breasts, taking one into his mouth and then the other, before travelling lower, his tongue flicking her skin, tasting her, teasing, so she arched her back, ignoring the throb in her ankle in preference of other, far more tantalizing feelings .

His touch was like silk and gossamer at first, as though he needed to taste and feel every single piece of her, but the more he touched, the more she felt, and a sense of urgency stole through her almost without warning, so it was Georgia who began to push harder, to kiss deeper, to move from silk-weight exploration to vice-like need. She couldn't help it.

It had been so, so long since she'd done this. So long since she'd been free to explore this side of herself. For so many years, she'd put herself in a form of stasis, focussing on raising the boys, on doing her parents proud. While she'd gone out with guys in that time, only two of those relationships had progressed beyond casual dating. After the second relationship had ended, and ended badly, she'd decided it was just easier to avoid complications until she'd seen the twins off to college.

And here she was, a week into the trip of a lifetime, finally free, allowed to pick up the threads of her own life, this precious one-year long trip she'd promised herself time and time again, whenever she began to feel frustrated with everything she was missing out on. It wasn't Georgia's nature to complain, nor to feel sorry for herself, but there had been times when everything had felt so damned hard, and the lure of this trip was how she'd coped with the difficult times.

It had never been about meeting a guy though. Not once had she thought she'd find someone she was attracted to and fall into bed with them, broken ankle be damned. This trip was all about her. For the first time in her life, she was going to be selfish, and she was going to enjoy it. Starting right now.

Urgency fueled her movements—and there was an urgency to this, a desperate, rabid ache to fulfill a part of herself that she'd been ignoring for far too long. Her ankle twinged; she ignored it, or perhaps wasn't even conscious of feeling it, because other sensations were so much stronger. Pleasure was a deluge, a wave that was swallowing her whole.

She pushed at his chest, and though he was so much bigger than her, he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, his hands running over her body as he kissed her, his chest moving with each harsh intake of breath, and then it was Georgia, driven by frantic need, who moved over his arousal, the sensation of his hardness against her sex mind-wipingly perfect, so she eased slowly down onto him, her eyes wide at the unfamiliar, welcome, perfect sensation. He swore in Italian, and then his hands tightened on her hips as he lifted up, thrusting into her all the way, his face flushed as her muscles tightened around him. Neither moved then. Only the sound of their breath filled the air, as both marveled at this. For Georgia, there was such fullness, such rightness, that she wanted to commit every single piece of it to memory.

He recovered first, moving his hips again, so she arched her back and he ran his hands over her breasts. She was euphoric. Warmth spread through her, cell by cell, like a tiny constellation of stars forming a Big Bang all at once.

"Dante," she groaned, moving her hips, and again she felt as though they were engaged in a ballet of sorts, moving both in unison and opposition all at once.

Her pleasure was swift to build and all-encompassing when it broke across her soul. She cried out into the room, her breath mingling with words that barely made sense. She was lost, dazed, on a sea of wildness and release, and then he was moving, rolling her onto her back so her head was close to the edge of the bed, and his fingers were tangling with hers, pinning her hands to her side as he made love to her in earnest, his every movement a gift and a wonder.

Never in her life had she known sex could feel like this. Whether it was the randomness of it, or the unexpectedness, or the somehow illicit nature of making love to someone whose surname you didn't even know, for Georgia, every moment was a firestorm and blessing.

Her pleasure built and broke twice before he came with her, his explosion guttural and raw and totally consuming so she grabbed hold of his shoulders and dug her nails into his skin, not even considering that she might draw blood. How could she hold rational thought in her brain when there was pleasure such as this?

Dante flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling with the most devastating sense of shame he'd ever known.

He closed his eyes, and even as Georgia's rushed breathing filled the room, all he saw was Bianca's face. Her smile, her eyes, the little ski jump nose he'd loved to kiss the tip of, and he felt as though he might vomit. Panic flooded his just-satiated veins with adrenalin. He moved quickly, off the bed, as if by clearing himself of the space, he could undo the betrayal he'd just enacted.

He wanted, more than anything, to take it back. To go back in time and not kiss Georgia. Not touch her. To not make love to her.

In succumbing to this temptation, it felt like he'd lost the very last part of Bianca he'd still held onto. It was a new grief, a desperate sense of it, because he couldn't help but feel he'd failed her. After she'd died, he'd promised to be true to her and he hadn't even lasted a decade.

He couldn't look at Georgia; in that moment. Because he was afraid of what might happen if he looked; he was afraid a glance at her would draw him back to bed.

He'd been weak. He'd made a mistake, and he'd never forgive himself for it.

With a spine that was ramrod straight, and a heart that was racing far too fast with the adrenaline and dark emotions coursing through him, he walked from the room, knowing that he had to escape before he did something else he was going to regret, like kissing Georgia again.

Guilt made for a sleepless night. Once the storm had passed, Dante pulled on his jacket and took a torch from the kitchen, before heading out of the house and driving with care down the steep road that led away from the villa, looking all the way for obstacles and impediments. When he reached the power line, he didn't see what he'd hoped: work crews. His lips formed a mutinous line. He knew better than to try to move the damned thing himself, without the requisite equipment, but he also knew he couldn't have Georgia in his home for a minute longer than was strictly necessary. And so he did something he knew he'd probably regret—but in that moment, it was the lesser of two evils.

He picked up his phone, dialed his assistant and said, "Portia? I need you to do something for me." For the moment he spoke the words, he knew that somehow, from hundreds of miles away, Portia would manage to get this sorted. Unflappable, capable Portia would dispatch some kind of private crew to move the wires and at first light, he would personally drive Georgia to the nearest hospital to have her ankle looked at, and that would be the end of it. He'd never seen her again, and he could, one day, forget this had ever happened.

It was one night, and it changed nothing: He loved Bianca, and he would never feel that for another woman. Never.

Strange, disconcerting sensations flooded Georgia when she woke. Loneliness tangled with need as her hand reached out over the empty bed, running across impossibly luxurious sheets, as if searching for someone, and then the memory of whom she was searching for hit her and she sat up straight, heart racing. Had she dreamed it?

But no.

Her body was awash with reminders of him. Nipples that were too sensitive, thighs that showed patches of red from his stubble and grip, a heat between her legs, and finally, a churning in her belly she didn't understand at all.

Until she remembered afterwards.

The way he'd rolled off her and left the room without a word, a glance, a smile, nothing.

It had been the most brutal rejection she'd ever known, and it had left her with a gaping wound deep inside her chest. And a festering anger. How dare he treat her like that?

Okay, they hadn't planned to have sex. It hadn't been on either of their radars, and after the way they'd sparred, she still didn't quite understand how it had even happened.

But it had.

She'd enjoyed it.

She'd more than enjoyed it. She could see how quickly she could come to need that feeling. Sex had always been…nice…but never essential. Never the kind of thing that could put a person back together in a wholly different way.

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at her still very swollen ankle, her heart turning over in her chest at the thought of facing Dante again, of needing his help.

Just as she was contemplating calling for him, a sharp rap sounded at her door. She grabbed for the sheet—she was still naked—but he didn't wait for a response, rather opened the door to say something. And froze at the sight of her, sitting on the edge of the bed, half covered by the sheet, but in a way that made it abundantly clear she wore nothing else.

His eyes raked over her body and damn her treacherous self for actually responding to him even then. Fires reignited in her bloodstream and her pulse began to thunder in her ears.

"The road is clear. I'll take you into town when you are ready." He hesitated a moment, his face pale beneath his tan. "Do you need help?"

The idea turned her blood cold. "No." How could she accept help from him after last night? After the way he'd just walked out on her afterwards?

"Georgia—,"

"I said no ," she responded, tightly.

His eyes sparked with hers and then he nodded once. "I'm just outside if you need me."

I don't need you , she thought angrily, as he closed the door behind himself. Only, alone in the room, Georgia had no earthly idea how she'd actually manage without help. Pride forced her to try though.

She ignored the sharp pain of her ankle as she stepped down from the bed and limped around the room, collecting the clothes she'd discarded and pulling them on, resenting the necessity of dressing once more in items he'd given her, items of his. Hating now what she'd loved yesterday: the snuggly feeling of such over-sized items.

But what alternative was there?

Once dressed, she hobbled to the door and pulled it inwards to find him standing on the other side. His gaze swept over her and his throat shifted visibly as he swallowed.

"Your clothes," he muttered. "I'll get them."

"It's fine." All she wanted was to escape now—the sooner the better. "I have more clothes."

He stared at her, as if to argue, but then took a step forward. She flinched away from him, hating with all her soul the idea of being touched by him. His eyes swept shut for a moment.

"You cannot walk downstairs."

"I'll manage," she contradicted.

"Georgia, let me carry you. It's not a big deal."

"No," she spat, eyes flashing with him, hiding behind anger rather than giving into the hurt she felt lashing her soul. "I said I'll manage."

His nostrils flared. She knew he was going to argue, because he had a valid point about her not being physically up to it, but she refused to be touched by him again. She thought a part of her might wither and die if he did so.

"Okay. It's your life."

She tilted her chin and glared at him a moment before she turned, carefully, and began to hop towards the stairs.

Dante refused to care about her. But how could he not? Not because they'd slept together, but because she was a flesh and blood human being. While he didn't ever want to see Georgia again, nor did he want her to come to more harm on his property.

She was adamant though, and just the sight of her determinedly making her way to the top of the stairs then gripping the bannister as she took the first step pulled at something inside his gut.

He'd noticed when she'd climbed the tree how athletic she was, how coordinated, and he saw that again now. It was clear that every movement was difficult. About four steps down, she paused, her hand shaking a little.

"Georgia—," her name was torn from him. He wanted to help her. He wanted to apologise to her, to explain, but he also needed her to leave before he could do anything of the sort. To have slept with her was bad enough. To speak to her more, to talk to her, maybe even enjoy talking to her, was the ultimate betrayal. He straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, walked behind her, close enough that he could catch her if he needed to, but not so close that either of them could object.

At the bottom, she stopped to catch her breath and when he came level with her, he saw that her face was drained of colour. From pain? From the difficulty of that?

He'd never felt like more of a bastard. He hated every part of himself.

Even when they reached the car, she still wouldn't accept his help, beyond his opening the passenger door for her. She averted her gaze as she lowered herself to the seat. She was stronger than Dante—he couldn't look away, so he saw the way she grimaced in pain as she lifted her ankle into the car.

And inwardly he swore. Every curse he knew ran through his mind, but didn't pass his lips. He wouldn't reveal, to anyone, the depths of his despair at what he'd done. What he was still doing. He should apologise to Georgia; should explain to her. But he didn't.

He just needed her gone. He needed Georgia to go, so she could become a part of his past. The only comforting thought he had, as he drove away from his villa, down a road that was covered in debris courtesy of the storm, was that he would never have to see her again.