Page 31 of The Amalfi Bride

“Definitely, it’s Your Highness,” she said.

He growled low in his throat.

“Maybe we should call you Your Bigness,” she said as she buried her face against his groin. “Or Your Hugeness.”

“I’m almost beginning to like Your Highness.”

Then she began to lick him, up and down and all around. With every delicate stroke, he grew harder and tighter and bigger until, finally, he burst in her mouth.

He began to whisper to her in Italian.

“How I love it when you speak Italian.”

“How I love it when you do the things you do.”

Very tenderly he lifted her up. Encircling her with his arms, he held her close against his chest for a long time.

“Good thing the hotel is five star.” He turned off the faucets and opened the shower door.

“What?” She felt as limp as a noodle as he toweled her off.

“The hot water never gets cold.”

“I wouldn’t think you, being a prince, would know anything about running out of hot water.”

“Four-hundred-year-old castles leave a lot to be desired.”

She brushed her teeth while he watched, which was kind of nice and almost as intimate as the sex. He observed her darken her brow with a pencil and put on mascara, too.

She opened her lipstick and whirled on him. “I’m going to mess up if you don’t go.”

When he didn’t budge, she couldn’t stop staring at His Bigness, which caused prickles of heat to climb her spine.

“I like knowing what you do in the morning to put yourself together,” he said.

“I want you to think I’m a natural beauty.”

He leaned against the doorjamb.

“Would you just go? Or at least put on a towel. My hand is shaking.”

“Hot for me again?”

She forced her attention away from His Bigness.

“No! What I am is starved…for breakfast.” And she was. Much to her surprise, she really was.

“So, you worked up an appetite.”

“Why don’t you be a good boy, Your Highness, and call room service? I want some of those delicious strawberries again and an omelet and more of those fabulous croissants with the gooey chocolate inside them. Can you see if they have hot chocolate, too?”

“Bossy. It’s getting harder and harder to remember who’s the blue blood.”

He grabbed a towel off the rack, whipped it around his waist and wandered off to do her bidding, so that, at last, she could put on her lipstick and dress in peace.

She smiled when she heard his deep voice on the phone ordering coffee, omelets, berries, fresh orange juice and croissants.

“You’re forgetting the hot chocolate,” she yelled.

He laughed and ordered it for her.

How easy it was to imagine he would be with her every morning for the rest of her life.

The next few moments were filled with bliss and peace. He asked her what she wanted to do for the day. She handed him one of the long lists she’d made of the various possibilities.

He laughed. “We’d need two weeks.”

“You pick,” she whispered.

“I see you listed a sightseeing boat to view the coast. I’ll take you out on Simonetta. You’ll save money, and I’ll have you all to myself.”

She put a new smart card in her camera and snapped dozens of pictures of him wearing only a towel, and then, when he was dressed, more shots of him out on her balcony with the gulf and the mountains behind him.

He stole her camera and photographed her, too. Then she set the camera up on the railing and made the necessary adjustments so that it would photograph them together. But every time she tried to pose or get him to pose for the camera, he’d cup her breast or buttock and kiss her lips in such a way that the picture probably looked like she was swallowing his tongue.

“I’m not going to be able to show anyone my X-rated pictures.”

“I want you to remember me.” His mouth stretched lazily into a grin. “Like this!”

The flash went off as he put his mouth to her breast again.

When the expected knock sounded at the door, she jumped away from him like a startled wild thing. Not wanting the hotel waiter to see her erect nipple or the telltale damp spot on her sundress, she turned and began to rearrange her hair and the folds of her full skirt and let Nico stride to the door.

When he threw it open, she heard men, yelling questions.

“Prince Nico, who is she—”

When she turned, a dozen flashes whitened Nico’s chiseled, tanned face.

He swore vividly in Italian or, at least, she imagined the harsh, rapid-fire bursts to be colorful curses.

With a little cry, she ran to him, hoping to protect him from the horde and their cameras, not realizing that her sudden appearance would energize the demons.

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