An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
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Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
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The next morning, I woke when Luca slipped out of bed to use the bathroom. To my surprise, he didn't go downstairs to make coffee afterward. Instead, he climbed through the gauzy curtains hanging from the canopy rails and got back in bed, kissing me. He smelled like mint.
Still sleepy, I used the bathroom too. When I returned, I paused after parting the curtain. Luca had fallen back asleep, and the sheet only barely covered his hips.
Wow.
His mouth, full and sensual, was relaxed and supple, his breathing deep. Reaching out to him, I stopped myself from touching his lips.
Would I ever tire of this insatiable attraction? No. He was breathtaking, that bronze skin against the white covers. Like a Roman god in repose. My eyes went to his muscular chest, then to the tantalizing trail of hair below his bellybutton. Just thinking about what was beneath the sheet made me flash hot.
Stripping off my T-shirt and panties, I slid under the sheet next to him, wrapping my bare skin around his body. God, he felt good.
He shifted, circling me with his arms. He moaned a little when I softly bit his neck. He tilted my face up and pressed his lips to mine.
Then my phone rang, the ridiculous, chirpy song blaring from the nightstand. I rolled over to check.
Dammit, it was the paper.
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