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it. I didn’t—”

She turned toward him. She was sobbing; her face was wet with tears.

“Baby,” he whispered, and then she was in his arms.

RAFE gathered his wife tightly in his arms, his heart soaring as she looped her arms around his

neck and pressed her body to his.

He knew that his anger had been nothing but a pathetic attempt at hiding the truth. He wanted

her, had wanted her from that first kiss in Sicily. And she wanted him.

He was not going to turn away from that tonight.

The bed was only a few steps away.

He could take her to it, strip her naked, tear off his own clothes and bury himself in her. One

deep thrust and she would be his.

Some still-functioning part of his brain told him he owed her much, much more.

She was innocent. A virgin. And she’d been told things about what happened between men and

women that had terrified her.

He had to make what came next perfect. As perfect as her innocence.

“Chiara,” he said softly.

Slowly she opened her eyes. The pupils were enormous, deep and dark and filled with all the

questions a man could ever want to be asked. With all his heart, Rafe hoped he had answers that

would please her.

“Chiara,” he said again, and kissed her. Once. Twice, his lips brushing gently over hers, each

time lingering just a little longer until she gave a sigh of pleasure and her lips parted.

“That’s the way,” he murmured. “Yes, sweetheart. Open for me. Taste me. Let me taste you.”

He could feel her hesitation. Then, slowly, she let him in.

The need to tumble her onto the bed swept through him with such power that he felt his muscles

constrict. His big, powerful body shuddered.

“Raffaele?”

“It’s all right. I just—I want—” He framed her face between his hands, lifted it to him and kissed

her, his mouth hot and open over hers, his tongue seeking the sweetness that awaited him.

Her taste filled him. Honey. Cream. Vanilla. And, mingled with it, the taste of a woman aroused.

He whispered her name. She moved closer. Her hands crept up his chest to his shoulders, and he

lifted her into him. He felt the delicate weight of her breasts against the hard wall of his chest,

felt the feminine convexity of her belly pressed against the taut flatness of his.

Felt his erection rise and swell until he groaned with the almost unbearable pleasure of it.

Chiara gasped. Clutched his shoulders. Said his name again, and he could hear shock, wonder,

apprehension in the single whispered word.

He was like stone. And all of this was new to his wife.

He took his lips from hers. Held her by the shoulders. She whimpered, tried to move closer, and

though it killed him to stop her, he did.

“Why—” Her voice was low and thready. “Why did you stop kissing me? Did I do it wrong? If I

did—”

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no! There’s no right way or wrong way to kiss.” Another deep

breath. “But I don’t want to hurry you, sweetheart, or frighten you.”

“I am not afraid of you,” she whispered. “It is the rest. The…the touching.”

“We can stop now,” he said, and wondered if a man who was a liar could still be a candidate for

sainthood.

Her response was too soft to hear.

She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t want to stop. I want to know what it is men and women do

together.”

“Not men and women,” he said gruffly. “Us. You and me.”

Her smile filled his heart. “Si. You and me, Raffaele. Show me, please.”

He brought her hand to his lips, pressed kisses to her fingertips, then brought her hand between

them and laid it lightly over his erection. Her breath hissed between her teeth; her palm cupped

the hard bulge in his jeans.

Rafe shuddered and Chiara snatched back her hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said gruffly, clasping her hand, putting it on him again. “No, you didn’t hurt me. I—”

he swallowed hard “—I love what you just did. Touching me that way…Do you know what it

means, that I’m hard like that?”

He watched her teeth worry her bottom lip. He longed to do that for her. Bite gently into that

delicate flesh.

“It means—” Her voice was so low he had to bend to her to hear it. “It means you…you want to

do things to me.”

Rafe swallowed an oath. “It means that I want to do things with you. To touch each other in

ways that bring us both pleasure.”

She nodded, dipped her head so that her curls became a curtain that hid her from him.

“Do it, then,” she whispered.

Rafe took a long breath, expelled it slowly enough to give him time to think. Then he put his

hand under Chiara’s chin and lifted her face to his.

“Hey,” he said gently, “this isn’t a visit to the dentist.” That bought him a smile, as he’d hoped it

would. “Chiara. Sweetheart, we’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“That’s just it. I do not know what I want or do not want.” She lifted her hands to his chest.

Could she feel the race of his heart? “I only know that…that something happens when you kiss

me, Raffaele. I feel…I feel—”

“Tell me.”

Her face colored. “I feel things. Sensations. In…in parts of me…” A laugh that was close to a

sob caught in her throat. “I cannot talk about it. Talking about my body is—”

She gasped as he cupped her breast, gave a little cry, almost pulled back, but he slid an arm

around her, held her while his fingers moved gently, unerringly over her nipple. He could feel it

budding even through the harsh, unyielding cotton of her dress. She moaned. Her lashes drooped,

became inky-black crescents against her cheeks.

“Do you feel something when I do this?” he said hoarsely.

She looked up at him, her face striped with color. “Yes. Oh Dio, yes. Like that. Just like—”

“Where do you feel it?”

“There. Where you are touching me. And…and elsewhere. Lower than my breasts, Raffaele. I

feel it—”

She cried out as he ran his hand down her body, to the juncture of her thighs. He had touched her

there before but all of that had gone too quickly. None of what would happen now would be

quick. He would bring her slowly, slowly to pleasure, and never mind his own desires.

This first time, only her needs, her pleasure, her fulfillment mattered.

“Here?” he said thickly. “What do you feel, baby?”

“I feel—I feel—heat. A tingle. It is what happens during a storm, when you stand outside and the

lightning strikes on the hills and you can almost feel the electricity in your bones. Do you know

what I mean, Raffaele?”

He knew. It was how he felt now, as if a storm of incredible magnitude were building inside him,

the tension almost more than he could tolerate.

He answered the whispered question by urging her thighs apart, just enough so he could cup her

over the stiff fabric of her dress. She gasped, her eyes wild. “I feel as if…as if I am melting.

There. Where your hand is.”

He could feel his muscles trembling. Her innocence was enough to send him to the edge of

control, but he would not let that happen.

“Your body is readying itself for me, sweetheart. For us.”

He moved his hand and she gasped again, then buried her face against his shoulder. “I never

knew—”

“No,” Rafe said with a little laugh, “neither did I.” It was true. He’d been with a lot of women

and enjoyed them all, but this, what was happening now, what he was feeling now…

“I think I am burning up,” she whispered.

So was he. When she returned tomorrow morning, Mrs. O’Hara might well find this bedroom in

ashes.

“I think—” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we get some of this clothing out of the way?”

“Is it time for me to…to undress?”

“Leave that to me,” he said huskily.

Did everything she owned have a thousand buttons? Did the buttons always have to be so small,

especially when his fingers were so big and clumsy? It took forever to undo the first button. The

second. The third…

The dress began falling open, revealing her to him, and he forgot about buttons, buttonholes, the

size of his fingers. He skimmed the back of his hand down her throat, then followed the same

path with light kisses. Her pulse, in the tender hollow where her neck met her collarbones,

danced beneath his mouth and he exulted at the feel of it.

At last the buttons were all undone. Rafe freed her of the dress and let it fall to her feet.

Her bra, her panties were white cotton, just as they’d been that first time. Except he hadn’t

undressed her then, he’d torn the dress from her body.

All the more reason to do this with the greatest care. He would touch her as if she were made of

the most delicate crystal.

He would. He would—but the curve of her breasts above that modest bra was lush. And, God, he

could see the dark outline of her nipples…

Rafe bent his head and closed his mouth around the tip of one cotton-covered breast. Chiara’s

cry of pleasure almost tore him apart.

On a low growl, he scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bed and laid her down. He

kicked off his mocs, yanked his sweater over his head and tossed it aside. Chiara’s gaze flew

over him, as hot and urgent as a caress. He came down on the bed beside her and kissed her, his

mouth drinking the honey from hers, his hands learning her body.

Her bra closed in the front, and he sent up a silent thank-you to whatever god had sent him that

gift. She didn’t try to stop him as he undid the clasp but when the bra came away, her hands

fluttered up to cover her breasts.

He shook his head, gently caught her wrists and brought her hands to her sides.

“Let me see you,” he whispered. “I need to see you, Chiara.”

She lay back. She was breathing hard. He could feel her eyes on him as he looked at her.

Ah, she was beautiful. More beautiful than he had imagined. Her breasts were round, with dusty

pink crests already peaking as they begged for the heat of his mouth.

He brought his gaze to her face, watched her eyes as he cupped one breast, groaning as he felt

the perfect weight of it in his hand. Her pupils widened, then seemed to swallow her irises as he

moved his thumb over the tip.

“Raffaele…”

Her voice was shaky. He stroked her nipple again, then captured it between his thumb and index

finger, gently caressed it.

Chiara moaned.

“Do you like that?” he said thickly.

A sob broke in her throat. She moaned again as he increased the pressure of his caress, lowered

his head, closed his lips around the straining nipple and drew it deep into the heat of his mouth.

She said something in Italian. He didn’t understand the words, but the arching of her body, the

feel of her hand clasping the nape of his neck as he sucked on her beaded flesh, told him all he

needed to know.

He drew back. She made a sweet sound of protest.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

“No,” he said fiercely. “Never.”

It took only seconds to unzip his jeans, get rid of them and his shorts. He saw her eyes flash to

his genitals, then widen and fly to his face.

He’d never considered what a woman might feel the first time she saw a fully aroused male.

Now he did. Could it be frightening? Maybe, especially if the woman was completely innocent.

And if the guy was big.

He was.

He’d always taken a kind of arrogant male pride in his size. Now he realized that what might

make an experienced woman smile with anticipation could make his Chiara feel terror.

He took her hand. Brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss into the palm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said

softly. “This is just another part of me.” He kissed her hand again, then slowly brought it to his

erection. She hesitated and then he felt the first, cool brush of her fingers.

It took all the determination he possessed not to throw back his head and groan.

“See?” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Slowly her hand closed around his turgid

length. Rafe bit his lip.

“You are so hard here,” she said in wonder. “And yet, so soft.”

“Not soft,” he said, trying for a little levity. “Not—”

Ah. She moved her hand. Up. Down. Up…

He caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said gruffly. “Or this will end too quickly.” He pressed a light

kiss to her mouth. “Besides,” he whispered, “this isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t?”

He smiled. “I’m naked. You’re not.”

He kissed her again, deeper, longer, and as he did, he slid her panties off. Then he traced the path

they’d taken with his hand. The lovely indentation of her waist. The curve of her hip.

The delicate curls that guarded her feminine heart.

Her fingers clamped on his.

“I won’t hurt you, Chiara,” he said softly.

Slowly she took her hand away.

Rafe stroked those curls. Soothed her with soft words. Softer kisses. She was silken under his

touch, warm and, yes, wet. Wet for him.

He drew back and looked at her. His throat constricted.

Naked, she was everything he had imagined. She was an El Greco painting come to life,

Praxiteles’s Aphrodite made all the more exquisite because she was flesh and blood, not cold

marble.

“Chiara,” he whispered, and he moved down her body and pressed his lips to that sweet, female

delta.

Her hands flew to his shoulders. “No! You must not—”

He caught her wrists and went on kissing her. Gradually, her hands relaxed in his grasp. Her

breathing quickened. And when he gently parted her delicate folds, she sobbed his name.