Made (27 page)

She pulled away at the sound of it, putting space between the two of them. "So, uh, how about a tour?"

She wanted a
tour
? "You've been here before."

"I climbed in your window like a thief and got escorted right back out the front door," she said. "That hardly constitutes a visit."

"Fair enough," he conceded, waving down the hall. "After you."

He showed her the downstairs, flicking on lights in the different rooms, most of which she'd taken it upon herself to check out the day she'd broke in. He led her to the stairs. Celia walked in front of him, swaying her hips with each step, drawing his attention straight toward her backside. She stopped when she reached the top step, blocking him.

"How about that drink now?" she asked.

"Uh, sure."

"You got anything with alcohol in it?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Hmmm, just water then," she said, smiling. "Thanks."

He took a step back, eyeing her curiously, before heading downstairs. He went straight for the kitchen, flicking the light on before grabbing a small glass from the cupboard. He tossed a few ice cubes in and filled it with water before heading back out.

When he reached the stairs again, Celia was gone.

He started back up, figuring she'd look around on her own. It wouldn't take her long. Most of the upstairs was vacant, entire rooms full of nothing except space and squandered opportunity. He had no need for them. Besides the bathroom, the only other area he used was his bedroom, and it was scarcely furnished with the necessities—a bed, a dresser, and two nightstands.

The glow of the bedside lamp emanated from his room as he approached, the only door open on the second floor. Stepping into the doorway, he paused and blinked a few times to adjust his eyes.

And then every muscle in his body seized up.

Standing a few feet from him, the back of her legs pressed against the end of his bed, stood Celia. The blue dress lay rumpled in a pile by her feet, her shoes haphazardly kicked off on top of her clothing. All five-feet-seven of her slender figure was exposed, stark naked, not a single part of her hidden from his view. Impulsively, raptly, his eyes raked over her unclothed body, starting at her toes and working their way up, drinking in every drop of her bare flesh, savoring every last centimeter he could make out in the dim lighting. The curve of her hips, the striking hourglass shape leading to the swell of her perky breasts, mesmerized him.

His dry throat was scratchy when he reached her eyes, seeing a darkness lurking in them he'd never noticed before. Usually a warm brown, they now burned black, full of sin and secrets and surprises. They were the eyes of a predator, eyes that held an unadulterated hunger waiting to be satiated.

And this time, Corrado was the prey.

Without a shadow of a doubt, he threw up his white flag.

He surrendered.

Taking a deep breath, he brought the glass to his lips and gulped down every drop of the water, trying to soothe his parched throat, but the real thirst he knew only she could quench.

Setting the glass down on the dresser, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside, not uttering a single word. His eyes raked down her body one more time as he approached, this time starting at the top and drifting down. Reaching out, he ran the back of his hand along her arm. She shivered at his soft touch,
goosebumps
pebbling her skin. His hand settled on her hip, pulling her toward him, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her throat. She tilted her head, moaning, as his lips trailed toward her collarbones.

Meeting her lips, he kissed her slowly, as she unfastened his black silk tie. She moved on to his shirt next, her hands trembling as she worked on the buttons.

Fear
?
Was she afraid
?

Pulling back, he opened his eyes and scanned her face, trying to find any sign of distress, but he there was none.
Excitement
, he realized as she opened her eyes and bit down on her bottom lip, as if she were fighting to contain it all inside of her.

The blood furiously pumping through his system cleansed away every ounce of hesitation. Despite what he'd said to her, despite his warnings about what type of man he truly was, she offered herself to him. She was
giving
herself to him, all of her, and it was a gift he was more than happy to receive.

'Everything,' he'd said. He wanted
everything
.

And now he would take it.

Smashing his lips to hers again, he moved her hands out of the way and tore the rest of his shirt open before dropping it to the floor. He kicked his shoes off, discarding them, before fumbling with his belt. He had it unfastened, his pants unzipped and down around his ankles in a matter of seconds. Kicking them away, he pushed Celia onto the bed.

She broke the kiss, breathing heavily as she scooted back on it. He followed, hovering over her in his black boxers, and found her lips once more when she reached the pillows. Her body sunk into the comfortable bed, dwarfed by his six-foot-one broad frame.

Corrado grunted when her hand snaked into his boxers. She gripped him firmly, stroking a few times, as her other hand shoved down the material. He reached to help her, pushing his boxers away and kicking them onto the floor with the rest of their clothes.

There was no talking, no contemplating. He kissed and caressed every inch of her, tasting her sensitive flesh, bringing her to the edge and shoving her over with nothing more than the tip of his tongue. Fingers tangled in his hair, she gripped tightly, tugging, as she arched her back and cried out. The sound of his name catching in her throat, the breathy, broken "Corrado" that escaped her lips, ignited a fire way down deep inside of him.

A fire he never knew always burned…

The first thrust, deep and hard, elicited another loud cry from Celia. He stilled, mid-stroke, and shattered his silence. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Her eyes, squeezed shut, never opened. "No more than I want you to."

"Are you sure?"

"Jesus," she panted, shifting her hips toward him to take more of him inside. "Don't stop.
Please
."

"Please?" he whispered, leaning down to pepper kisses along her chest. He captured one of her nipples in his mouth and sucked on it.

"Please," she pleaded again, hands roaming his back, nails scraping his skin. "More."

He pushed into her slowly, sinking every inch of himself inside again. "Like that?"

"Harder," she demanded. "
Fuck
me, Corrado."

Those words were a lightning strike surging through his bones.

Pulling back, he thrust again hard, his hips slamming against her, and she gasped loudly, as if he'd knocked the breath right from her lungs. He did it again, and again, and again, finding her lips once more. She giggled into his mouth, gripping the back of his head. "Naughty boy, who knew you liked dirty talk?"

Apparently he did.

Celia continued teasing him, spurring him on as he gave her himself. He ravaged her body, pounding into her, every ounce of anger and frustration that had ever settled inside of him, making itself at home in the deep crevices of his soul, expelled through the force of his thrusts. Every time he thought he went too far, every time he tried to pull back, to reign it in, Celia would grip him tighter and claw at his skin, whispering words in his ear that could make a man as cold as steel turn to mush.

The sensation of being inside of her, their bodies connected, sent a chill down Corrado's spine that rivaled only the thrill he got from hearing her whimper and moan.
He
did that.
He
caused that. His hands—hands that roamed her flushed skin, hands that cupped her warm cheeks as he kissed her deeply—didn't just cause pain. Those hands didn't just brutalize. They were capable of pleasure, too, pleasure reserved for her.

His climax hit hard and ferocious. He lost his ability to speak, lost his ability to
think
, as he spilled inside of her. Grunting, he thrust a few more times before slowing to a stop, his weight pressing on her. She didn't protest as she held him, softly stroking his sweaty back.

Drawing back, Corrado stared down at her. His pointer finger—his trigger finger—gently glided across her bottom lip, pausing at the corner of her mouth, his thumb tilting her chin as he leaned down to kiss her. It was sweet, and innocent, and everything he never realized he was capable of being.

His nose rubbed against her jawline as he pulled away, breathing her in. She glowed from
sweat,
her body smelling like pure sex.

She smelled like
him
.

"No Sinatra," she mused when he rolled over in bed beside her. "Guess it wasn't Summer Wind, after all."

He pulled her into his arms. "No, you're the only music I need."

Corrado stood in the dark upstairs
hall,
leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, and watched Celia fix her hair in his small bathroom mirror. The curls had loosened, tendrils falling around her face as she tried to pin it in place. Her dress was back on, situated perfectly, shoes again strapped to her feet.

He, on the other hand, was slightly worse for wear. His wrinkled shirt was half tucked in, the top few buttons undone, exposing a hint of his chest. His hair was disheveled, wild from her fingers running through it.

There wasn't enough energy left in him to fix it.

"I'm ready," Celia said, shutting off the light and joining him.

Corrado motioned toward the stairs, grabbing his jacket before following behind her. They stepped outside into the cool Chicago night air as Corrado pulled out his keys. "I'll drive you."

"No, let's walk."

He glanced at his watch: a quarter till midnight.

Shrugging, he stepped off the porch, draping his jacket over her shoulders when she shivered. She shoved her arms in the holes to put it on, drowning in the oversized fabric.

Reaching over, she grabbed his hand, linking their fingers together as they strolled down the sidewalk in the direction of her house.

"Tonight was wonderful," she said. "Thank you."

His voice was quiet. "You don't have to thank me."

"Yes, I do. A few times, actually. I mean... wow."

"The pleasure was all mine."

She scoffed. "Hardly. Half of it was mine."

He squeezed her hand in lieu of a response.

They walked in silence as Corrado's thoughts drifted to the previous few hours, the night's events in a continuous loop in mind. Now that it was over, emotions tempered, common sense seeping back in, guilt nagged him, fueling the nervousness once again. He replayed it over and over, his stomach twisting.

About a block away, Celia stopped abruptly. Corrado only realized it when he met resistance from her hand. Footsteps faltering, he glanced back at her. "Everything okay?"

"I could ask you the same."

"What do you mean?"

"You're being quiet."

"Aren't I usually?"

"Yes, but not like this. You're usually quiet because you're so busy assessing your surroundings. But right now, you're so stuck in your head that you wouldn't notice a plane if it dropped out of the sky."

"I think I'd notice that."

"I don't know," she said. "You sure didn't notice the guy who whistled at me."

Brow furrowing, Corrado glanced past Celia, seeing a vague figure retreating down the block. A flurry of anger flared inside of him. What kind of man disrespected a woman like that?

What kind of idiot disrespected
him
?

"Corrado." Celia snapped her finger to hone his attention. "Seriously, what's gotten into you?"

He pulled his hand from hers and ran it anxiously through his hair. "I made a mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

"I didn't use any protection."

Lost in the whirlwind, stunned by the sight of her naked in his bedroom, he hadn't given any thought to condoms. The subject had never come up between them.

She frowned. "I told you I've only been with two others. You don't have to worry... I don't have any..."