‘Jazz...’ he breathed hoarsely, standing beside the side of the bed, wrenching at his shirt.
Jazz sat up abruptly. ‘Come here,’ she told him with a sigh. ‘You just ripped a button off your shirt.’
And he dropped down on the edge of the bed and she unbuttoned the shirt, full pert little rose-tipped breasts shifting beneath his mesmerised gaze with every movement. He tossed the shirt, stood up, unzipped his pants, thrust it all down, ran irritably into shoes and socks while wondering how any male could be so impatient for one woman that he forgot how to undress.
Jazz spread herself back luxuriantly against the pillows.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Vitale enquired almost curtly, feverish colour scoring his high cheekbones.
‘You look gorgeous,’ she told him truthfully, admiring every long, lean, powerfully muscular line of his big body and most particularly the potent proof of his hunger for her.
Vitale could feel his face burn because no woman had ever said that to him before. He had never encouraged that kind of familiarity in the bedroom but that would not inhibit Jazz, who would say exactly what she felt like saying. There was something wonderfully liberating about that knowledge. He didn’t know what it was, but it put to flight the stress of the long day and the very uncomfortable phone call he had just shared with his father.
‘You married Jazz?’ he had said. ‘Your mother will throw a fit.’
But Vitale could not have cared less at that moment as he hauled Jazz up to meet his mouth, all dominant male powered by seething hormones. His hunger currented through her like a wake-up call, setting every skin cell alight with his passion. And Jazz revelled in that awareness of his desire for her. It acted as a soother for other slights and insecurities. Nobody had ever wanted her the way Vitale seemed to want her. True, she hadn’t given any other man the chance, she conceded, but Vitale’s passion made her feel ridiculously irresistible. His sensual mouth greedily ravished hers, a knot of warmth already curling at the heart of her in welcome.
And then his hands roved over her, those sure skilled hands, fingertips plucking gently at her swollen nipples, stirring an ache between her slender thighs that dragged a moan from her because her whole body felt amazingly sensitised, amazingly eager, over-the-top eager, she adjusted in shame, squirming below his caresses, back arching as he began to employ his carnal mouth in a sweet tormenting trail down over her twisting length.
‘Don’t stop...’ she exclaimed helplessly, her narrow hips writhing and rising until he caught them in firm hands and stilled her to withstand the onslaught of his sensual attention.
‘Per l’amor di Dio,’ Vitale groaned against her where she ached unbearably. ‘If I had known I was this welcome, I’d never have kept my distance—’
‘Pregnancy hormones,’ Jazz cut in shakily. ‘That’s all it is.’
‘Possibly multiple pregnancy hormones,’ Vitale teased with unholy amusement dancing in his stunning eyes. ‘Bring it on, bellezza mia. That aspect went unmentioned on the website I read.’
‘Maybe it’s just me,’ she mumbled uncomfortably, her face hot as fire.
‘No, it’s intriguing to know a piece of me is in there,’ Vitale growled, splaying his fingers across her stomach. ‘It makes me feel like you really belong to me...weird,’ he added for himself.
‘All of it feels weird because it’s wonderfully new to us,’ Jazz reasoned, her fingers delving through his luxuriant black hair. ‘I still can’t quite believe it.’
Vitale let a fingertip trace lower and her head fell back, the power of speech stolen by an unexpectedly powerful flood of sensation that made her legs tremble. He bent his head and employed the tip of his tongue and her entire body jerked and shifted, little sounds of delight breaking from her throat that she couldn’t hold back. And then there was no more talking because she was trapped in the relentless need for fulfilment, need controlling her, hunger roaring through her like a greedy tempest, craving more and crying out in wonder as he gave her more and the all-consuming clenching of her body powered her into an unstoppable climax.
‘In bed, you’re my every dream come true,’ she whispered shakily, still rocked by the final waves of pleasure.
‘It’s the same for me,’ Vitale admitted raggedly as he rose over her, forging a strong path into the tender flesh he had prepared to take him. ‘It’s never been this good for me.’
He plunged into her and withdrew in a timeless rhythm as old as the waves in the sea. Erotic excitement gripped her as she gripped him, little gasps racking her, tiny muscles convulsing around him. She quivered with sheer anticipation as his pace quickened, stirring every atom of her being, driving her back up to the heights with every thrust until the bands low in her body began to tighten and she strained until he drove her over the edge again into glorious release. She watched him reach the same satisfaction as he shuddered over her, his lean, muscular body taut and damp and beautifully virile as he lifted himself at the last possible moment, striving not to crush her with his weight.
‘I feel good now,’ Vitale husked, sliding off her and pausing to drop a kiss on her brow before moving away.
‘I’m so pleased about that,’ Jazz said laughingly.
‘You can hug me if you want. I’ve got used to it,’ Vitale assured her arrogantly.
Jazz rolled her eyes at the ceiling. There he was making allowances for her again but not actively joining in. She had taught him to tolerate being hugged but it wasn’t enough for her. She needed him to grab her and hold her close and he wasn’t going to do that. But at the same time she couldn’t be a gift that kept on giving for ever. Shows of such affection from her would be thin on the ground from here on in, she told herself firmly.
‘Are you in a mood?’ Vitale asked quietly, leaning over her and gazing down at her with a very wary cast to his lean dark features.
‘No.’ Jazz stretched slowly and smiled. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Agnella is holding dinner for us,’ he volunteered.
‘Holding it? You mean it’s ready?’ Jazz exclaimed in dismay. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s fine. I told her you were in the bath,’ Vitale explained with the carelessness of a male accustomed to staff who worked to his timetable rather than theirs.
‘And how long ago was that?’ Jazz groaned, sliding hurriedly out of bed to head for the bathroom at speed. ‘We should be more considerate, Vitale.’
‘It’s our wedding night,’ Vitale reminded her, stepping into the spacious shower with her. ‘That’s different.’
‘Don’t you dare get my hair wet,’ Jazz warned him as he angled the rainforest spout. ‘It takes for ever to dry.’
Vitale laughed out loud and watched her wash at speed and step back out again.
‘You know there are other pastimes you can enjoy in the shower,’ he husked, humour sparkling in his dark eyes.
‘We’re going downstairs for dinner,’ Jazz told him squarely, leaving the bathroom to root through the tangle of garments she had tossed out of her case earlier and find fresh comfortable clothing.
Their evening meal was served on an outside terrace shaded by vine-covered metal arches. A silver candelabra illuminated the exquisitely set table in a soft glow of light.
The first course arrived and Jazz tucked in with appetite, conscious of Vitale’s scrutiny. ‘What?’ she finally queried in irritation.
‘I like the fact that you enjoy food. So many women don’t.’
‘No, I think there’s a certain belief out there that a healthy appetite in a woman is a sin and that it’s somehow more feminine to pick daintily at food,’ she told him, watching and copying what he did with his bread roll, still learning the little things she knew she needed to learn before she appeared at the fancy dinner that would precede the ball. Without warning, the concept of doing anything that could embarrass Vitale in public made Jazz cringe.
‘You must have been appalled by my table manners when we were children,’ she remarked u
ncomfortably.
‘No. You were always dainty in your habits. But I will admit that I envied your freedom. You did as you liked and you said what you liked, just like Angel,’ Vitale pointed out ruefully. ‘I only ever had that luxury during those holidays. My childhood was in no way normal at the palace. My mother expected me to have the manners and outlook of an adult at a very early age.’
‘I don’t want our children growing up like that,’ Jazz told him bluntly.
‘That day is a long way off,’ Vitale intoned with firm conviction. ‘The Queen will never voluntarily give up power.’
Jazz wandered round her new home, followed by two members of Vitale’s domestic staff, Adelheid the housekeeper and Olivero, the butler. Both spoke excellent English and she learned that Vitale’s wing had originally been the nursery wing devoted to his upbringing and in complete isolation from his mother’s living accommodation. Obviously, the Queen was not the maternal type, Jazz acknowledged, knowing that she would never accept her children being housed at such a distance from her and solely tended to by staff. The more little glimpses she gained of Vitale’s far from sunny childhood, the better she understood him.
Their spacious home stretched to three floors and steps led down from the big airy drawing room to the gardens. Jazz was smothering yawns by the time the official tour reached the master bedroom, which was decorated in subtle shades of green and grey. She was introduced to her maid, Carmela, who was already unpacking her luggage to fill the large, well-appointed dressing room off the bedroom. A maid, her own maid, she thought in awed disbelief.
Vitale entered after the maid had gone and found Jazz lying down on the bed with her shoes and jacket removed.
‘I thought I’d go for a nap before I start getting ready for the ball. I’m really quite sleepy,’ she confided, pushing herself up on her elbows, the braid she had undone to lie down now a tumbling mass of vibrant tresses falling over one shoulder, the arch of her spine pushing her breasts taut up against the fine silk bodice of her dress.