The High-Society Wife. Helen Bianchin

      ‘You’re wearing too many clothes.’ Was that husky voice her own?

      He trailed a path down to her breasts and savoured one dusky peak until she groaned out loud.

      ‘Remove them.’

      How had she not noticed he’d already shrugged out of his jacket, torn off his bow tie and toed off his shoes?

      Because she lost all her senses when he kissed her…except one. Sensuality to a heightened degree… invasive and all-encompassing.

      Franco had the power to make her forget who she was, her surroundings. Everything.

      There was only him, his warm musky male scent, the magic of his touch…the heat, the passion, and the wild erotic sorcery he was able to weave with her emotions.

      She barely registered her fingers slipping free the buttons on his shirt, nor did she make a teasing play to draw out the moment, or seek to provoke.

      Need guided the speed with which she dispensed with his shirt, freed him of the fine tailored trousers…and sought the source of her pleasure.

      His indrawn breath as she enclosed him brought a soft sensual smile to her lips, and her fingers slid slowly down to cup him, only to return to create a slow, tantalising pattern that had him grasping her bottom and lifting her high against him.

      Gianna cried out as his mouth closed over her breast and suckled, teasing the tender peak with the edge of his teeth before exploring its soft curve.

      It was almost more than she could bear as his fingers sought and found the aroused clitoris, caressing it until she went wild, swept high by mesmeric primitive sensation.

      Just as she began to ease down, he sent her up again, closing his mouth over her own in an invasive kiss that mirrored the sexual act itself.

      It wasn’t enough, and she wrenched her mouth free and told him so, demanding more…so much more.

      Franco shifted, reached for the bedcovers and tossed them aside before drawing her down onto the bed.

      What followed was a feast of the senses, a long leisurely tasting that drove them both to fever pitch, and it was she who lost control as her body sang to a tune only their shared sexual chemistry could evoke.

      Passion…mesmeric, electric, tempestuous. A hungry slaking of the senses driven by shameless need and primeval desire.

      The feel of him entering her, the long slow thrust as he slid in deep, sent every nerve and muscle into convulsing life, and she arched up to meet him when he began to move, exulting in the wonder of two people in perfect sexual accord.

      Gianna became lost, so caught up in him she was unaware of the guttural cries emerging from her throat, or the soft feline purr of satisfaction so much later as Franco gathered her in against him on the verge of sleep.

      Sated, she tucked a hand against his chest and burrowed in, a soft smile curving her generous mouth as he gently traced a soothing trail down her back.

      Within minutes her breathing slowed into a regular pattern and she didn’t feel the light touch of his lips against her temple. Nor was she aware he lay awake for some time.