Summer rain

This sexy story from Just This One Summer by Clare Connelly is published with permission.

Erotic sexy story excerpt from Just This One Summer by Clare Connelly

Read the story excerpt, or listen to the sexy audio stories version produced for The Good Bits podcast!

 

“I don’t know your name,” she said with a small shake of her head, the intensity of this overwhelming.

“It’s Nico,” he provided, his eyes scanning her features, as if looking for something – she couldn’t say what.

“Nico.” She repeated it, filling the silence with another question. “Is it short for anything?”

“Niccolo,” he nodded. “Conqueror of the people,” his voice assumed a deeper tone and he posed his features into a mask of strength so she laughed.

“Perfect.”

Si?”

The question surprised her, because it forced her to admit that yes, she’d been speaking honestly.

There was something about him that spoke of victory and conquering, of being conquered.

How she wished she had a tighter grip on her body’s responses! But she didn’t – a force was at work that was so much bigger than her. Desire was flaring in the pit of her stomach and even when she could think of a dozen reasons to ignore it, she knew she absolutely didn’t want to.

“Yeah.” She angled her body to face his, her pulse racing. Was she really going to do this? Do what? Her brain screamed. He might not be interested in her. She might be misreading everything. Before Michael, it had been a really long time before she’d dated anyone. She wasn’t good at this stuff.

And this guy was really gorgeous. Undoubtedly he could have his pick of anyone. Lightning flashed just beyond the window and she startled. It wasn’t much. Just an involuntary shiver – barely enough to register. But his hand shot out, as if to steady her, his strong fingers curving around her arm. The lightest touch, so gentle and reassuring, but it shot little arrows of awareness through her bloodstream and made her cheeks burn with heat.

“You’re okay?” He murmured. Had he moved closer? Or had she?

They stood toe to toe, so she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes now. She could feel his chest moving with each breath he drew.

She nodded, sucking in a gulp of air that was spiced with his intoxicatingly masculine fragrance.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re jumpy.”

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She was. She had been since Michael. Her lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“You don’t need to be.” A divot formed between his brows. “You’re safe here.”

Had he intentionally chosen the word she’d let slip earlier? She bit down on her lower lip, chewing it distractedly. “Am I?”

A growling noise of agreement. She lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest, surprising them both. “I don’t know if I want to feel safe right now.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, his face unreadable. “No?”

Her blood was rushing so fast she could hear it in her ears. She shook her head slowly, her eyes holding his in a courageous display of need. “Nope.”

“Maddie,” her name on his lips was a sensual incantation, but he stayed where he was. “I didn’t invite you here for this.”

Insecurities cut through her desire. She dropped her hand and spun away from him. “Oh, God. I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She shook her head, unable to look at him, staring across the room. “You’ve been really kind and I shouldn’t…”

His fingers curved around her wrist, pulling at her gently. “The same thing that came over you has come over me too,” he promised and her heart skipped a beat. “But I invited you to shelter here with no agenda. I need to know you believe that, that you won’t think I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

Pleasure flooded her heart. So considerate. So kind. But Michael had seemed like that at the start, too. He’d seemed so perfect. She bit down on her lip, swallowing the bitterness that cloyed at her throat.

Nico wasn’t Michael, and nor was she the same woman she’d been then. And in any event, she wasn’t looking for a relationship – she’d learned her lesson there. God knew if she’d ever feel secure enough to want to pursue anything long term. But in this moment, with this man, her desire was big enough to cloud her doubts and questions. The future felt a long way away, tomorrow and in another universe.

“And if I want to take advantage of the situation?” She murmured, lifting up onto the tips of her toes so their lips were just an inch apart.

Dio aiutami,” he groaned.

“What does that mean?”

“It means God help me,” he muttered, but the last words were smothered by his lips as he crushed them to hers. It was a kiss of complete and total possession. Her knees felt weak and his arm clamped behind her back as though he knew without his support she might slide right to the ground.

Stars exploded through her mind, celestial dust blowing through all her dark spaces, filling her with light and heat and warmth. His other hand cradled her head, his fingers pushing through her damp hair so she moaned, opening her mouth wider. Their tongues dueled but it wasn’t a fight; no, it was a capitulation in every sense of the word. Only she didn’t feel as though she was surrendering; she felt victorious, as though she were reclaiming an important part of herself. As though this simple act of passion could stitch something of Madeleine Gray back into place, just as she’d been before Michael.

Her hands, pressed to his chest, sought his shirt, pushing it so her fingertips could connect with the naked expanse of his muscular abdomen.

He was so warm. He said something in his native tongue, the word firing through her body, landing in the pit of her abdomen. Need grew. The storm raged wild outside their window but neither heard it – their own storm was so much more intense, so much more demanding. He lifted her easily, holding her body pressed to his own as he carried her through the house, shouldering a door to a darkened room.

“Presumptuous?” He asked with a sexy grin as he flicked a light switch on. She looked around for just long enough to ascertain that they were in a bedroom.

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“Nope.” Her hands found his shirt again and now she pushed it up his body. “Perfect.”

“The bedroom or my body?” he teased.

“Both.” But she was kissing him again, her hands working the button of his pants, unfastening them so she could shove them down his legs without breaking their kiss. He stepped out of them with the same degree of urgency and she laughed – for no reason except that she was deliriously happy.

He wore only his boxers. And at that point, she slowed, uncertainty rocking her. Doubts plagued her. It had been a long time since she’d done this. And he was so different. So different to anyone she’d ever known.

“You are so beautiful,” he muttered darkly and the words brought her right back to the present, dragging her into the room, filling her with sensual awareness. There was no room for doubt. This was right. It was perfect, just like she’d said.

She lifted her hands into the air, her eyes holding an unspoken invitation. Everything about him was remarkable. She saw the way his throat shifted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and then he was lifting the jumper he’d given her, pulling it softly over her head and letting it fall to the floor.

She should have felt more self-conscious but she didn’t.

Even when his eyes dropped, so he was staring at her, taking in every detail, and her nipples pulled taut and began to feel tingly.

“So beautiful.” The words were deep, but his smile was sexy and sweet all at once. He shook his head, almost as though he couldn’t believe it, and she wanted to tell him such extravagant praise wasn’t necessary – she didn’t need it and it was hard to believe it was true. She hated that too though – Michael had made it so easy to discredit any compliment anyone paid her. He’s just saying it because he wants to get into your pants, Michael would have pointed out – quite rightly.

Just like he had when her editor had praised her latest book. It’s a true work of art, Madeleine. Michael had naturally laughed. Well, they’ve already bought it, right? A bit late to tell you it’s meaningless crap given your copy-editing deadline.

“No words,” she said, lifting a finger and pressing it to his lips. “It’s easier.”

He pulled a face. “Really?”

“Uh huh.”

“As easy as this?” He grabbed her by the hips and lifted her, dropping her unceremoniously onto the bed so she laughed as she scrambled onto her elbows.

“As easy as what?”

“This.” He wrapped his mouth around one of her nipples, his tongue circling the sensitive flesh, teasing it, rolling it, pulling it so she whimpered and arched her back, desire driving her utterly wild. Heat pooled between her legs.

“God,” she cried and felt him smile against her breast. His finger and thumb pressed to her other nipple, clamping down on it with just enough pressure to make stars shoot against her eyelids. “This is…wow.”

“I thought we weren’t talking?” He mocked, bringing the full weight of his body down over her, his arousal between her legs a stark reminder of what was about to happen. A kaleidoscope of butterflies rampaged her belly.

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“I meant…compliments…” she groaned as he rolled his hips, pressing his arousal to her sex so despite the barrier of his boxers and the shorts he’d given her, she was incandescent with pleasure.

“I can’t tell you you’re beautiful?”

“I don’t need to hear it,” she corrected, pushing at his boxers, needing more, needing to feel him, needing to be possessed by him. “Please,” she whimpered into the room.

He pulled up, shifting his mouth to her other nipple but this time, instead of closing his mouth over it, he simply flicked it with his tongue. It was already so sensitive from the way his finger and thumb had been toying with it seconds ago, so the sheer hint of contact from his mouth sent her senses into overdrive. His hands roamed her body, running down her sides with a lightness of touch that was infuriating because it was simply not enough. She needed everything he could give her and she needed it immediately.

At her waist, his hands found the elastic of her shorts and pushed them down, easing them from her body.

She lifted her bottom off the mattress to make it easier.

His hands didn’t leave her legs long, once he’d discarded the shorts. Starting at her ankles, they began a slow cruise upwards, towards her thighs, where he pushed a little, separating her legs. She groaned, writhing on the bed beneath him, impatient, hungry for him.

“Don’t forget a condom.” Inwardly, she was surprised she’d managed to remember.

“I will. When it’s time.”

She didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant. His mouth connected with her sex, his tongue – his clever, clever tongue – moving slowly at first, and then more intently, buzzing her sensitive cluster of nerves until she was burning up. It was so intimate her cheeks flamed, but she didn’t think, for even one moment, of asking him to stop. Instead, her hands found his hair, running through it, holding on as pleasure threatened to burst through her, tearing her apart completely.

When she was at the brink of breaking, he moved faster, his tongue tormenting her, lashing her until she was trembling. She arched her back and pushed down against him and then she was tumbling off the edge of the earth, exploding against his mouth, exploding with his name on her lips over and over again.

It was unrelenting. Even as she came, he didn’t stop, so she was fire and flame, desperate for him even as she was at the end of her tolerance for pleasure. He somehow knew – he understood, and pulled away, moving his mouth to her inner thigh, kissing the flesh there before moving back to her sex, kissing her more gently, allowing her time to breathe, to recover before he began his next incursion. This time, a finger moved inside of her and she moaned, shaking her head, desperate and terrified of the strength of her desperation even as she knew she would happily surrender to this anytime, anywhere.

He watched her in a way that made her feel precious and special and sexier than sin.

He watched her in a way that she loved, like he wanted to understand everything about her so he could pleasure her over and over. The promise was delicious but she pushed it away. This wasn’t about promises. It was just this. Sex. No, not just sex. It was more. It was a healing, a balm, an undoing of Michael, overwriting the memories of how he’d treated her body with this: someone who was worshipping her, existing purely to pleasure her.

It was a physical act with an emotional resonance that she didn’t want to analyse in that moment.

And it was only just beginning.

*

 

SANTA MADRE DI VIA. What was happening?

This was fast, even for him. Sure, he was no stranger to one-night stands but usually he took a woman for dinner and drinks first, and knew more about her than her first name.

This had been like an avalanche.

From the minute she’d stepped into his home he’d felt as though this had been pre-determined. He’d tried to fight it – briefly – to be noble and remember that she was there as a guest, sheltering during a storm, but then she’d put her hand on his chest and he’d exploded with a need that was feral and wild, unspeakably urgent.

Her body was so responsive. She burned up at the slightest touch, and he loved touching her. His fingertips stole across her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake for his lips to pursue all the way to her cupid’s bow of a mouth, which he claimed as though he’d been doing it all his life.

She tasted like strawberries and moonlight.

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She was soft beneath his hardness, her breasts crushed beneath his chest. He extended an arm without breaking their kiss, pulling a condom from his bedside table. He had to lift up from her then, to rip the foil square open with his teeth and guide the condom over his arousal.

Her eyes were locked to his and there was a question in them, a doubt that had him pausing, bracing himself over her. God, he wanted her, but he was mindful even then of the circumstances of this, of the fact he’d offered her sanctuary in his home, the knowledge that he didn’t want her to feel she’d been taken advantage of.

“You’re sure?” He lifted a hand and stroked the side of her face, marveling at the softness of her skin – like a rose petal.

“Uh huh,” she nodded, but the doubt was still there, trapped in her eyes.

“We don’t have to…”

She shook her head urgently. “Don’t you dare stop. I want this. I want you.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.” Relief permeated his body and his arousal nudged between her legs. And for the briefest moment, he paused, pushing up to stare at her again. “You’re not a virgin?”

She burst out laughing. “Seriously?”

Okay. It was a stupid thing to ask. “You looked hesitant,” he explained.

“I’m not.” A slight frown touched her lips. “It’s just…this isn’t something I do often.”

“Sex?” He queried, pushing his arousal against her, so she gasped.

“With a stranger.”

“We’re not strangers,” he grinned. “You’re Maddie…”

“Gray,” she supplied, pushing up to kiss him, smiling against his mouth.

“Right. Maddie Gray. And I’m Niccolo Montebello.”

He pushed inside her as he said his name, and whatever she’d been about to think or say was lost in the groan that consumed her body.

Gesú Christo, she was so tight. Her muscles squeezed him hard, her body lifting to meet his, her hands on his hips digging in so her nails scored deep marks in his flesh. “Perfection,” he grunted, once he was buried deep inside her.

She pushed up and bit his shoulder, her teeth hard against his muscles.

“Yes,” she agreed, simply, but the word was rushed, burning from her with heat and need. He pulled out of her and drove himself back in, deeper, harder, watching her face as she scrunched it with pleasure.

He caught her hands in his and held them above her head so her body was his prisoner and he moved himself, possessing her completely, his body claiming hers, making it his, making her his until she was capable of saying only his name.

And she said it again and again, spilling the word into the room, so he was sure when this was over he would never lie here again without hearing the ghosts of her voice chasing themselves around the space.

“Don’t stop,” she cried, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his waist, holding him deep inside her.

“Please, whatever you do, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, kissing her, his tongue moving in time with his cock, his body instinctively understanding what she needed and doing everything he could to deliver it.

“Oh, God.” She was moaning over and over, pulling at her wrists, freeing her hands to run down his back, her nails digging so deep he was sure she was drawing blood.

And he didn’t care. Battle scars.

Proof of this – an earth-shattering coupling that was robbing him of breath and sense until she tipped over the edge, her muscles squeezing him so tight he stilled, propping on his elbows so he could watch this moment, watch the way she exploded, her features a mask of unbridled pleasure, her brow beaded with fine perspiration, her face pink and flushed. She slammed her palms into the mattress as though she couldn’t contain herself; he was transfixed. She was an image of sensual heat and he was wild with wanting her – more than he was already possessing her, he needed to explode with her, to chase her orgasm with his own, but he knew that when he surrendered to that bliss and euphoria, it would bring an end to this and he wasn’t ready for that. No, not yet.

He wanted to give her more, and he wanted to watch her explode.

“I could do this all day,” he groaned, moving again, slowly, letting her body come down from its high, so her sensitive flesh could recover as he gently brought her back to life.

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“Okay,” she grinned, a feline smile that spread gold dust through his body. “If you say so.”

He laughed gruffly. “Be careful what you wish for.” And to demonstrate his meaning, he drove himself into her: deep, hard, purposeful, each stroke of his arousal and possession that flared her eyes and filled them with a matching degree of animalistic need.

“Is that a promise?” She panted, her eyes closing.

He swore under his breath. “Yeah.”

“Good.” A purr. It drove him wild, so he felt the first fragment of his control slipping completely away from him, but he knew that even once he’d climaxed, he’d do this again. Once wasn’t going to be enough.

Who the hell was this woman and what wild twist of fate had blown her into his life on this storm-filled afternoon?

Was she real? Or one of the ancient sirene fabled to survey this landscape? It beggared belief that this could be happening.

“Nico, I’m…” but she didn’t need to finish the sentence. He could feel her reaching fever-pitch, her muscles clamping around his length, her body flushing, her cries of his name getting louder, higher in volume, until her body was squeezing his and he answered her this time, holding her tight to him as he pushed into her again and again, spilling his seed, his voice a guttural cry in his bedroom.

Their ragged breathing was a symphony, in, out, thick, throaty, spent. He held her as her breathing slowed, the madness that had overtaken them receding a little now that relief had been afforded.

She turned her face towards the window; he felt her move, he felt her everything. “It’s stopped raining.”

The observation was slumberous. He pulled up a little, running his fingertips over her cheek so she blinked her eyes to him and smiled. A burst of relief filled him. There was no self-consciousness in her expression – just heady, intoxicated satiation.

He understood that. His limbs were heavy in that delicious way sex brought about. Not just sex – great sex, like this. Wild, uninhibited, passionate, completely fulfilling. He dropped his hand to her breast, his eyes on hers as he traced the outline of her nipple, circling it slowly until she shivered and he felt her muscles squeeze his length with renewed need.

It wasn’t over, and he was glad. So glad. He rolled off her but didn’t leave the bed.

On his back, he drew her against him, so her head was on his chest, and he lay like that, listening to her breathing, feeling it becoming more rhythmic, more slumberous, heavier. And he wondered again who she was and why she’d ended up in his home – and thanking Dio that she had.

*

Begging for more? You can buy Just This One Summer here.

Clare Connelly is the bestselling author of more than eighty titles. She writes heart-warming love stories for Harlequin Presents and Harlequin Dare, and when she’s not chasing after energetic children, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she’s writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.

You can follow her on Twitter and Instagram or review her on Goodreads.

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