The Italian's Pregnant Mistress(3)

By: Cathy Williams

‘Angelo!’

‘Happy to oblige.’ With that he ran his flattened palm over the firm lines of her belly, down to her thighs, nudging them open so that he could rub exploring fingers along her throbbing womanhood. Yes! Wet and waiting for him, and that felt so good.

He turned her to him and kissed her, a long, tender kiss that seemed to stretch into infinity.

After all these months their bodies had become attuned to each other but, for all that, there was no less of the shocking excitement whenever they touched.

He had never expected it to last as long as it had. She knew that, even though he had never said as much to her. He was a high-profile money earner who moved in high-profile circles and, as such, his reputation had preceded him.

He had moved through women like a connoisseur sampling fine wines, but only a glass at a time. A heartbreaker, one of her catwalk companions had confided. Francesca couldn’t imagine ever having her heart broken, but she had still shied away from him, and even when they had become an item it had never crossed her mind that over a year later they would still be seeing one another.

She coiled her hands around his neck and returned the kiss with equal tenderness.

‘Have I told you how sexy you are?’

‘A number of times,’ she whispered, dropping her head back, knowing that he would be unable to resist her breasts pushing against him.

Angelo propelled her towards the small, heavy kitchen table which was covered in a cloth of vibrant, swirling patterns and she lay back on to it, smiling drowsily with the anticipation of pleasure. She wondered whether whoever had fashioned this table would now approve of the unconventional use to which it was being put.

When he leaned over her and began tracing the outline of her nipple with his tongue, she had to fight the urge to maintain her control. They had already made love twice since he had entered the apartment a few hours ago, but she still wanted him now as intensely as she had when he had walked through that door into her arms.

She wanted him to smother her breasts with his mouth, and he did. And she wanted him to find other parts of her to explore, and he did, and she squirmed with pleasure when he did that.

It was still amazing for her to think that no man had ever done that act of intimacy with her before him, that her body had been embalmed in ice until he had come along and set it ablaze.

When he finally thrust into her she was on the edge of climaxing and they both came with a shudder that seemed to last for ever.

He was perspiring as he helped her sit up, just as she was.

‘Better than a sandwich?’ he teased, sweeping her hair away from her face and clasping it behind her neck.

‘Much, much better than any sandwich and especially mine.’ It was a running joke between them that her culinary skills were hopeless. He frequently told her that she would have to start learning how to cook pasta and her reply was always that a restaurant would do it better so why bother to try?

One day, she would solemnly promise, she would become a cordon bleu cook and then he would never be able to joke about her cooking skills again.

‘But you’re still hungry…hmm?’

‘Fancy making me a sandwich?’ she asked.

‘What do I get in return?’

‘What would you like?’

You in New York with me. You everywhere with me.

‘We have something to eat and then I shall bathe you…’ As in every other area of his life, when Angelo prepared something to eat he did it with style. The legacy of having an Italian father, he told her as he grated mozzarella cheese over the bread, added a touch of mustard and turned the grill on. An Italian father, an Irish mother and a childhood in downtown Chicago.

‘I see the Italian,’ Francesca mused, watching him as he strolled naked through the kitchen, utterly at home with his nudity. ‘But where’s the Irish?’ He didn’t often talk about his past, only dropping the odd snippet here and there, and she was hungry for more information.

‘Would you have preferred me with red hair and freckles?’ He handed her a plate and perched on the stool next to her.

‘It might have been very fetching.’ She looked at his raven-black hair, eyes almost as dark, and the harsh, angular features that spoke of his Italian ancestry. The treasured son. His parents had longed for a sprawling family and instead had had to suffice with just the one child. Now they were waiting for grandchildren. He had told her that ages ago, when she had asked him why he was still a bachelor. He was going to live it up, he had told her, and then settle down and, when he did, it would be for ever. He didn’t believe in divorce.

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