CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

H IS CHEST ROSE beneath her cheek. His breath was rhythmic and his heart thrummed steady and strong in her ear. His arm was possessively curled around her, his hand locked to her hip. Emma couldn’t move even if she wanted to. One hand on his stomach and one by her side, she stayed exactly where she was.

She’d never spent the night in anyone’s bed. Never shared one for longer than she had to in her existing memory. She’d certainly never fallen asleep. But she’d slept all night with him in a tangle of limbs.

The sun streamed through the windows, highlighting the contours on his chest. Golden undertones chased by dark shadows of hair between deep lines on his abdomen led down towards the duvet that covered the lower half of his body.

Warmth gathered in the pit of her stomach. Last night had been... a lot.

It hadn’t been perfunctory or stolen. It had been transcendent, powerful , addictive. Because even now, though her body ached, she wanted more. More of him on her. More of her on him.

She could do it now . Slide down his body, under the duvet, and take him in her mouth. Wake him like that.

She could do what she liked. Take and give as much as she desired, and he’d meet her stroke for stroke as he had last night. And she’d meet him too. Kiss for kiss. Thrust for thrust. A mutual consideration of each other’s pleasure.

It was safe sex. Emotionally and physically, she was—

Panic flared in her ribcage.

They hadn’t used protection. She hadn’t thought, hadn’t—

Her hand shot to the flat of her stomach.

What would it mean if she was pregnant? Did they have a clause in their contract? Would that void it? She didn’t want children. Did he ? Eventually? When he married someone without a contract? When he found—

Her stomach churned.

He didn’t believe in love. He said he didn’t want it, that he understood, as she did, it was a lie.

‘What’s wrong?’ He must have sensed her anxiety. Woken to it. Or perhaps she’d alerted him to her panic by tightening her grip on his stomach.

She froze. Stayed where she was on his chest. Her hand splayed taut on his abdomen.

‘We didn’t use protection,’ she said, and listened. But the tempo of his heart remained unchanged. It was calm. Steady. ‘I might be pregnant.’ Nothing . ‘I don’t know when my last cycle was. I’ve never been consistent. I’ve never not used a condom. We— I —could get emergency contraception.’

Idly, his fingers stroked her hip bone. ‘You can’t be pregnant, Emma.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked.

‘I can’t have children,’ he said flatly as his other hand moved to her hair and smoothed over it. Over her scalp. ‘I had a vasectomy many years ago. Before we met.’

A feeling settled in her chest, something heavy. And she couldn’t distinguish it from relief or sorrow. It felt very similar to the blow she’d felt when Dante had told her of the loss of her mother. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? To mourn the fact she’d never carry his child?

‘Do you regret it?’ she asked and immediately felt that she should apologise. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—’

‘No, I don’t regret it,’ he answered matter-of-factly. ‘I never wanted children.’

‘Why not?’ she asked, curiosity blooming where it shouldn’t.

His heartbeat quickened.

‘My mother used me as leverage against my father. He wanted an heir, and she sold him one. I never wanted to be in a similar position. Where my child was used as a bargaining chip.’

Emma jolted into a sitting position, dislodging his hands, and stared at him. ‘Your mother sold you?’

‘She did.’ He remained where he was against the pillows. And he seemed almost relaxed, comfortable. But how could that be the case when he had told her something so abhorrent?

‘For how much?’ she spat. ‘Her soul?’

He shrugged. ‘Lifetime financial security and a private island the size of a small country.’

‘She—’

His eyes flashed. ‘Is unimportant,’ he remarked, obviously eager to be done with this line of enquiry. But Emma was not done.

‘How can she be? She—’

‘Has no bearing on my life.’

‘You made the choice not to have children because of her.’

‘And I would make that choice again.’

‘How can you be so calm?’

Dante shrugged. And Emma immediately understood.

‘Because you thought there was no other choice,’ she said simply.

Her heart ached for him. For the little boy who had been sold and abandoned by his own mother. And she wanted to cry for him. For the man who chose to never risk a child of his being used as collateral.

She’d never wanted them either. Children . Never wanted to raise a child on her own. Never wanted to raise a child to be alone. Teach her— him —it was safer that way.

You aren’t alone anymore.

He scowled. ‘I made the choice to protect all parties involved.’

Emma became conscious of her own nakedness then. Aware of how intimate this conversation felt.

‘Do not worry about the choices of the man you never knew,’ he said, inching closer. ‘He was eighteen. He’d just lost his father. It was the right choice to make. He— I— would make it again.’

His hands caught her face, then cradled her cheeks as he made her meet his eyes. ‘Besides, it is a gift to be inside you without risk or consequence.’

His light-hearted tone was forced, she could tell. But she also knew that this discussion was over. And just as quickly her uncertainty was replaced by need. Unable to resist, aching for him, she kissed him.

She wanted him to pulse inside her as he had last night. She wanted him to fill her with his hardness, to push her over the edge of desire once again.

She climbed onto his lap. Slid her thighs down the bareness of his. Felt his arousal find the heart of her and tease at her entrance. She rode him, stroking herself against him.

‘Emma,’ he moaned against her lips. And she let it feed her newfound confidence in her sensuality. A sensuality he’d brought to the surface.

And it felt good to be bold. To be brave. To take this pleasure for herself simply because she wanted it. Wanted him .

‘Lie back,’ she said as she gently guided him back into the pillows.

And then her hands were seeking his, linking and entwining them, raising them above his head and holding them there.

The tips of her breasts were teasing against his chest. She tore her mouth from his and rose above him. Taking control, exerting her power over him.

Slowly, she took the tip of him inside her, before sinking down and taking him all. Taking him deep.

Her head fell back, her mouth opened and a moan was wrenched from her. A sound she’d never heard her body emit. It was a roar. A screech. A plea.

Emma knew all she could do was trust in their connection and surrender to it. To this urge to follow her instincts and embrace it all. The connection of their minds, their bodies. For as long as it was there.

‘Ah!’ He raised his hips as his hands pulled her down onto him. And it was too deep. Not deep enough.

‘Dante...’

‘I want to pour myself inside you,’ he growled. ‘I want to fill you while you pulse around me. I want to feel you tighten. Squeeze me. Until there is nothing left for me to give you.’

She lifted her hips and pushed back down. Again and again, she took him deeper than she thought her body would allow.

His breath hissed from his mouth, encouraging her to ride him faster. Take him deeper.

And Emma rode him faster.

Took him deeper.

‘I’m coming,’ she said, and this time she didn’t resist it. She leaned into it.

She didn’t have to close her eyes. She didn’t have to hide who she was because he knew who she was. She was his wife. He knew her body. What she liked. This was not a one-night stand to receive a perfunctory release.

He knew her . And she wanted to know him too. To give him pleasure. To receive her own. From his lips. From his body. On her. In her.

‘Emmy!’ he shouted, and filled her. Poured himself inside her. And she was lost in the contractions of her body. To his thickness. To his heat.

Emma lost herself to her husband.

Dante’s plan had worked.

His wife was in his bed.

For almost twenty-four hours, she’d given herself to him. And he’d taken everything she was willing to let him have. They’d played out every single one of his fantasies.

He closed his eyes. Stilled the fingers stroking down her spine. Closed his eyes to the blond hair fanned out across his chest. Shut out the warmth of her body against his. Her sated, exhausted body.

He’d done that to her. Fatigued her. Pleasured her until the pleasure had seemed endless. Until she’d begged him to never stop.

He should be elated.

He should be content.

But there was no ignoring it. No ignoring that their connection had widened, deepened. That this thing between them, far from being sated, was more powerful.

It just wouldn’t die .

And he could take her again, wake her with his kiss and accept his welcome into her body. Drive his need for her out of his body and into hers.

But it would reignite again, he knew. And continue to reignite over and over again.

She asked far too many questions, made him think far too much. Made him forget every rule he’d ever made to keep himself at a distance.

He was trying his best to remember the rules. But she kept forgetting.

And every time she forgot them, every time she asked a question he did not want to hear or think of, he’d remind her what they were. That there was no more, there was no promise of forever, of happily-ever-after. But she persisted. Would not be distracted by sex any longer.

How could he make her understand?

He wanted to be alone. He needed to be away from the bed. Away from her.

The garden flashed in his mind, along with her story of fairy lights and reading books under trees. Where all was still. All was quiet. All was safe from a world that was too loud.

He had a similar place, didn’t he? No flowers, or fairy lights, but a room. A similar place in every country, every city. Somewhere he could go when he needed peace, needed quiet.

He was not so selfish, was he? To leave her behind after...

And yet, perhaps, this was how he could make her understand his need to keep people at a distance. That for him, emotional connection wasn’t something to be embraced but was to be avoided.

So he’d take her with him. To the place in Shinjuku City that he went to when he needed to centre himself, to be alone. He would show her that he wasn’t a stranger to keeping himself distanced.

He swallowed thickly.

He resisted the urge to kiss her. To wake her, as he had too many times to count. Instead, he stroked her. Her hair. Her spine. Her cheek.

‘Emma, wake up.’

She stirred beneath his fingers. Her bare back arching into his touch.

She pushed the hair from her eyes. ‘I’m awake,’ she said, and ran her open palm down his torso.

His pulse accelerated.

Lust coiled in his gut, giving life to what always lived beneath his skin. His readiness for her. To possess her.

He caught her wrist—pulled her fingers away and brought her knuckles to his mouth, brushed them against his lips.

He could be tender, couldn’t he? Considerate? He was not—

He swallowed down whatever was in his throat, because he didn’t want to taste it. His voice uneven, he finally spoke.

‘I want to take you somewhere.’