Sicilian's Baby Of Shame. Carol Marinelli

had run from.

      ‘Come here,’ he moaned, and his hand came up and pulled her head down onto his.

      Always she had avoided such contact, yet now she craved it.

      His mouth was soft, and the dark shadow of his skin did not make her skin crawl with its tickle; instead, it was rough and delicious and matched the building desire in her.

      Now, instead of resisting, she opened her lips, wanting and willing.

      His tongue felt like a reward as it coiled around hers, and then he slowly suckled the tip. They tasted each other, and they inflamed each other and not just with their mouths. He was stroking her breast through the fabric of her dress. His thumb was teasing her nipple and Sophie ached for bed.

      His bed.

      She pulled back, and knew that even now she could walk out having shared no more than a kiss.

      ‘You taste spicy,’ Bastiano said.

      ‘And you taste sweet.’

      ‘But I’m not,’ he warned her.

      ‘I’m working,’ she told him, for she would get into the most terrible trouble if anyone found out.

      ‘You finished an hour ago,’ he reminded her, and then he stretched out an arm and she heard the click of a button that would turn on the Do Not Disturb sign outside.

      ‘I’m in my uniform...’

      ‘Good,’ he said.

      He thought her experienced, Sophie suspected.

      Perhaps now would be the time to tell him she was not. That this morning was, in fact, a most irregular occurrence for her.

      But Sophie knew that would change things. And there was nothing about this man and this morning she would change, even if she could.

      Sophie wondered if she was on that conveyer belt again, for she moved so easily to be closer to him and when he guided her so that she sat on his stomach, she went readily.

      Bastiano looked up as his fingers undid the buttons to her uniform and revealed a threadbare bra so sheer that her nipples could almost part the fabric and he could see the dark of her areolae. His hands cupped her breasts and he wanted her to shrug off the dress, to discard the bra and to lower her head, yet she closed her eyes in bliss as he toyed with her breasts.

      ‘Take down your hair,’ he told her, for he wanted the curtain between them when she took him in her mouth; he guided her back so that she sat on his thighs and the sheet moved with her.

      She saw him erect, and since it was the first time she had seen, let alone touched, such a thing she held him in her hands.

      ‘Sophie,’ he said, for he did not want hands and tentative fingers even as he grew to them.

      He was mesmerised, though, watching as she stroked.

      Simply touching him was compelling. The feel of soft skin was a contrast to the strength in her palm and there was a coil of want that seemed to tighten within him as she gripped him more firmly.

      ‘Take down your hair,’ he said again, yet Sophie did not care for his orders, for the pleasure that grew was not just his. Her knickers were damp and she ached to feel him there. She wanted to stand and remove them, yet her legs felt clamped to his thighs.

      She ran a finger over the tip and teased out a silver drop; the moan he gave had her rise to her knees.

      He lifted the skirt of her dress, taking his own thick length and running it over her covered mound.

      Sophie knelt up with her hands on his chest, biting on her lip at the exquisite pleasure he delivered. Oh, it was wrong! If she examined it, then she knew that was the only conclusion that could be drawn.

      Yet there was so much that she had not even known was missing and she felt like a colourblind person able to see a rainbow for the first time.

      She had for a long time dreaded sex and that dread had now completely gone. Sophie was turned on like she had never been in her life. Even in her imaginings there had never been desire such as this.

      Despite the barrier of fabric he pushed in just a little way, enough to incite and make her ache for more.

      He reached into the bedside drawer for condoms while she hovered and teased, and then he held a condom out for her once she had peeled off her knickers.

      ‘Put it on,’ he said, his voice ragged as his fingers met the pink lips that would soon enclose his length. ‘Sophie...’ His impatience was building for he had to be inside her. ‘Put it on.’

      And then she spoke and the words that she said stilled him.

      ‘I don’t know how.’

      Bastiano’s conscience had left him a long time ago.

      He had thought it buried alongside Maria, for he cared nothing for anyone, but when it hit that he would be her first, his conscience made itself known once more.

      Bastiano knew very well how things worked, especially in hotels, and often he didn’t need to go out or even pick up the phone for sex to drop into his lap.

      Sophie wasn’t his usual style—an innocent conversation and a breakfast.

      Sophie really was sweet.

      ‘What the hell are you doing here, then?’ he asked.

      ‘The same as you,’ she told him, and his lips pressed together as he got first hand a taste of her defiant streak.

      ‘I think you should go.’ His conscience seemed to stand in the wings and, like a prompter, told him the words he should say. ‘I’m not looking to get involved with anyone. I’m back to the single life, Sophie.’

      ‘You already told me that,’ she said.

      ‘You’ve been saving yourself, and a one-night stand in a hotel room—’

      ‘It’s morning,’ Sophie interrupted, but Bastiano was having none of it and he tipped her from his lap and pulled up the sheet.

      ‘Go.’

      There was no air of negotiation to his tone but still she sat there.

      ‘Out,’ he told her, and Sophie climbed from the bed.

      Humiliated, she stuffed her knickers into her uniform pocket as Bastiano looked at the ceiling, or rather anywhere than at Sophie.

      And again she could see her life spreading out before her.

      Regret.

      Utter regret that her first time had not been with someone as beautiful and sensual as him.

      She was twenty-four and she ached to know such intimacies.

      Bastiano was exquisite.

      He was male beauty personified, expensive yet raw too, with a visceral undercurrent that finally matched hers.

      That was why she had waited—to find someone who was her match.

      Maybe later she would finally give in to her parents’ silent demands and return home. Perhaps someday she would settle and marry and pretend that it was her first time, while holding the secret that it had been him all along.

      Almost.

      ‘You’re right,’ she said, and went to do up some of the buttons on her uniform. ‘I have been saving myself—for a time and a person of my choosing.’