A Price Worth Paying(42)

And she learned something about herself then, in the scorching heat of his hot mouth and stroking tongue and seeking, inquisitive hands. She learned that she could tolerate blackmail, forgive arrogance and sweep aside the worst character faults, if this was to be her reward.

‘I want you,’ he said, wrenching himself breathlessly from his kiss, one hand curled around her breast, his fingers stroking over her nipple until it was achingly hard, his other hand sliding down to tantalisingly cup the curve of her behind. And his declaration was so raw and honest that even if his touch hadn’t already been electric and set her senses on fire she could not deny it.

‘I know,’ she gasped.

‘You want me,’ he said, a statement rather than a question, and there was a challenge in his eyes, a challenge for her to give in and admit it and utter the word she could not say.

She did, but still she shook her head, if you could call the half-hearted movement a shake. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘That’s just the point,’ he growled, low in his throat, hesitating just a moment before sucking her into the whirlpool of his kiss. ‘It doesn’t have to.’





CHAPTER TEN



IT SHOULD MEAN something. She wanted so much to disagree with him, she wanted to argue the case for the affirmative. Except with her body jammed tight up against his and his mouth locked on hers, his seeking tongue like an inferno to her senses, it was hard to think straight. It was hard to remember why it was so important.

And in the end logic got swept away by the tide of need. Making love with this man wasn’t just a contract condition—an obligation. Making love with Alesander was as inevitable as the constant whoosh of the tide or the falling of the night or the rising of the moon. There was no stopping it. It was always going to happen.

She was in the lift before she realised they’d somehow crossed the road, barefoot and locked in each other’s arms, lost in sensation. She was consumed with heat and him and a need that threatened to engulf her.

The lift was slow.

Alesander was faster.

He had her backed against the wall, one hand tangled in her hair, the other sweeping aside the layers of her skirt in a bid to reach her heated flesh. She gasped, the touch of his hand on her thigh searing, electric, and her body pulsed and ached and vaguely she thought that if the lift didn’t hurry up he might just take her here and now.

His hand glided higher, his thumb skimmed her mound and a million nerve endings screamed inside her and she wished he damned well would.

But before he could the lift doors opened and they tumbled out together across the private lobby. He pulled off his jacket while he fumbled for the key, still locked in their kiss. His tie followed as the door opened and he put his hands to her shoulders and put her away from him, his dark eyes almost black with need, his breathing choppy. ‘I was going to do this slowly,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think I can wait that long.’

Her simmering blood rejoiced. She didn’t want to wait. She couldn’t. Now that she was on this course, now she had made her choice, she didn’t want time to reflect or analyse or allow logic to intervene. There would be time for reflection later. Maybe even time for regret.

But that was later.

Right now she had other priorities.

‘I don’t want to wait either.’

And he growled as he swept her up into his arms and kicked the door closed behind them on his way to his bed.

If he noticed her weight in his arms, he didn’t show it; he was so strong and powerful as he strode purposefully through the apartment, and she was nervous, her heart pounding, knowing and yet not knowing what was to come. She was no innocent. She’d had sex before and there had been times it had been good. Essentially it was the same act of intimacy. There was nothing new.

And yet something told her that this time was different.

Maybe because this time she was with a man, who made Damon seem like a boy in comparison.

Was it wrong of her to imagine just for a moment that this was real? Would it hurt to pretend, just for a little while, that she was a real bride and that this was a real wedding night?

His room shared the same magnificent view as the living room, the waters of the bay dark with a foaming white edge, framed by the lights of the city and the mountains that stood guard, and all frosted in silver from a lovers’ moon.

Her view was better.

Dark-featured and olive-skinned, he was beautiful, this arrogant Spaniard, his hot mouth ripe for pleasure, his body built for sin.