Шэрон Кендрик - The Italian's Christmas Housekeeper

Molly was aware of a crushing sense of disappointment. She’d wanted... She stared very hard at her brandy glass as if the dark amber liquid would provide the answer. What had she wanted? To see him at breakfast—their eyes meeting in a moment of shared complicity as they remembered this illicit, night-time drink?

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ she said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

He smiled, as if her earnestness had amused him. ‘You know, you’re far too sweet to be hiding yourself away somewhere like this, Molly.’

Sweet. Molly knew it was a compliment yet for some reason it offended her. It made her sound like the cake he’d caught her eating. Because sweet wasn’t sexy, was it? Just as she wasn’t sexy. ‘Am I?’ she questioned tonelessly.

He nodded, walking over to the desk and writing something on the back of a business card before crossing the room and handing it to her. ‘Here. Take this. It will get you straight through to my assistant. If ever you decide you want a change, then give her a ring. She knows plenty of people, and domestic staff are always in short supply.’ He met her eyes. ‘You could always find something better than this, you know.’

‘Despite dinner being such a disaster?’ She tried to sound jokey even if she didn’t feel it, because she realised she was being dismissed. Getting up from the comfort of her fireside seat, Molly took the card and slid it into the hip pocket of her dress.

‘Despite that,’ he agreed, his words suddenly trailing away as his gaze followed the movement of her hand.

Molly became aware of a subtle alteration in the atmosphere as Salvio lifted his eyes to her face. She’d wondered if the attraction which had sizzled between them earlier had been wishful thinking, but maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it had been real. As real as the sudden thrust of her nipples against the soft fabric of her dress and the distracting heat between her thighs. She held her breath, waiting, instinct telling her that he was going to touch her. Despite him being who he was and her being just Molly. And he did. Lifting his hand, he ran the tips of his fingers experimentally over her hair.

‘E capelli tuoi so comme a seta,’ he said, and when she looked at him in confusion, he translated. ‘Your hair is like silk.’

It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her and when she heard it in Italian it made her want to melt. Was that why he did it, knowing it would push her a little further beneath his powerful spell? Molly told herself to move away. She should thank him for the drink, for his kindness and for giving her his card and then hurry back to her little room to mull over her memories and hug them to her like a hot-water bottle. But she didn’t move. She just carried on gazing up into the rugged perfection of his looks, praying he would kiss her and make the fairy tale complete—even if that was all she was ever going to have to remember him by. ‘Is—is it?’ she questioned.

Salvio smiled, letting his thumb drift from the fire-warmed strands, to hover over the unmistakable tremble of her lips. He felt a tightness in his throat as he realised what he was about to do. He had invited her here because he sensed she was lonely and unhappy—not because he intended to seduce her. Because there were rules and usually he followed them. He no longer took physical comfort just because it was available—because it was pretty much always available to a man like him. Just as he no longer used sex to blot out his pain, or his anger.

But the little housekeeper had touched a part of him he’d thought had died a long time ago. She had stirred a compassion in his soul and now she was stirring his body in a way which was all too obvious, if only to him. He could feel the aching hardness at his groin, but the urge to kiss her was even more overwhelming than the need to bury himself deep inside her body. He told himself he should resist—gently shoo her out of the door and send her on her way. And maybe he would have done—had she not chosen that moment to expel a shaky breath of air, the warmth of it shuddering softly against his thumb.

How could something as insignificant as a breath be so potent? he marvelled as he stared down into her wide grey eyes. ‘I want to kiss you,’ he said softly. ‘But if that happens I will want to make love to you and I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Do you understand what I’m saying, Molly?’

Wordlessly, she nodded.

‘And the only thing which will stop me, is you,’ he continued, his voice a deep silken purr. ‘So stop me, Molly. Turn away and walk out right now and do us both a favour, because something tells me this is a bad idea.’

He was giving her the opportunity to leave but Molly knew she wasn’t going to take it—because when did things like this ever happen to people like her? She wasn’t like most women her age. She’d never had sex. Never come even close, despite her few forays onto a dating website, which had all ended in disaster. Yet now a man she barely knew was proposing seduction and suddenly she was up for it, and she didn’t care if it was bad . Hadn’t she spent her whole life trying to be good? And where had it got her?

Her heart was crashing against her ribcage as she stared up into his rugged features and greedily drank them in. ‘I don’t care if it’s a bad idea,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe I want it as much as you do.’

Her response made him tense. She saw his eyes narrow and heard him utter something which sounded more like despair than joy before pulling her almost roughly into his arms. He smoothed the hair away from her cheeks and lowered his head and the moment their lips met, she knew there would be no turning back.

At first his kiss was slow. As if he was exploring her mouth by touch alone. And just when she was starting to get used to the sheer dreaminess of it, it became hard. Urgent. It fuelled the hunger which was building inside her. He levered her up against him, so that her breasts were thrusting eagerly against his torso and she could feel the rock-hard cradle of his pelvis. She should have been daunted by the unmistakable bulk of his erection but she wasn’t, because her hungry senses were controlling her now and she didn’t feel like good, rule-following Molly any more. She felt like wanton Molly—a victim of her own desire.

And it felt good.

More than good.

His laugh was unsteady as he splayed his fingers over one of her breasts, the nipple instantly hardening against his palm. ‘You are very passionate,’ he murmured.

Molly gave a small gurgle of pleasure as he found the side zip of her dress because suddenly she felt passionate. As if she had been waiting all her life to feel this way. ‘Am I?’

‘I don’t think you need any reassurance on that score, bedda mia .’

He was wrong, of course—but he wasn’t to know that and Molly certainly wasn’t going to tell him. She felt breathless as he peeled the plain black dress away from her body and let it fall to the ground before stepping back to survey her. And wasn’t it funny how a look of admiration in a man’s eyes could be powerful enough to dispel all a woman’s instinctive insecurities? Because for once Molly wasn’t thinking that her tummy was too plump or her breasts unfashionably massive. Or even that her bra didn’t match her rather functional pants. Instead she was revelling in the look of naked hunger which made his eyes resemble black fire as they blazed over her.

And then he picked her up. Picked her up! She could hardly believe it. He was carrying chunky Molly Miller towards the bed as if she weighed no more than a balloon at a child’s birthday party, before whipping back the brand-new duvet she’d purchased that very morning and depositing her beneath it. It was the most delicious sensation in the world, sinking into the mattress and lying beneath the warmth of the bedding, her body sizzling with a growing excitement—while Salvio De Gennaro began to undress. She swallowed, completely hypnotised as she watched him. The shoes and socks were first to go and then he unbuttoned his shirt, baring his magnificent chest before turning his attention to the zip of his trousers. But when he hooked his thumb inside the waistband of his boxers, Molly squeezed her eyes tightly closed.

‘No. Not like that. Open your eyes. Look at me,’ he instructed softly and she was too much in thrall to disobey him.

Molly swallowed. She couldn’t deny that it was slightly daunting to see just how aroused he was and as she bit her lip, he smiled.

‘Me fai asci pazzo,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

‘Wh-what does that mean?’

‘It means you make me crazy.’

‘I love it when you talk Italian to me,’ she said shyly.

‘Not Italian,’ he said sternly as he slipped into bed beside her. ‘Neapolitan.’

She blinked. ‘It’s different?’

‘It’s dialect,’ he said and she noticed he was placing several foil packets on the antique chest of drawers beside the bed. ‘And yes, it’s very different.’

The appearance of condoms somehow punctured some of the romance, but by then he was naked beside her and Molly was discovering that the sensation of skin touching skin was like nothing she’d ever known. It was heaven

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