Читать книгу Monte Carlo Affairs: The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal - Emilie Rose - Страница 12

Franco could not believe the evidence before him, but the wonder on Stacy’s face and her current embarrassment could only have one cause. “Your first orgasm?”

She winced and dipped her chin in the slightest of nods.

Franco swiftly withdrew his hands. Not because her revelation repulsed him, but because her confession sent a volatile cocktail of emotions through him. Anger rose swiftly toward those who’d misused her, and possessiveness wasn’t far behind. Stacy would be his, certainement, but only temporarily. The third and possibly the most dangerous reaction was understanding. Inexperience, not manipulation, explained the mixed signals she’d been sending him. None of those responses had any place in this relationship.

“Stacy.” He waited until she eased open her eyes again. “Your first, but not your last.”

Her lips parted and then relief replaced the surprise in her eyes. Had she thought he would reject her because her past lovers had been selfish bastards? She might be a pawn in the game with his father, but she would not suffer for it.

He turned her in his arms and covered her mouth, gently this time. Seducing instead of taking. Sipping, suckling her bottom lip and teasing the silken inside with his tongue instead of ravaging her as he’d done earlier.

He still desired her, still hungered for her, but for her sake, he would dull the sharp edges of his need and make this good for her. Good for both of them. By the end of their month Stacy would be a sexually confident woman. She would not forget the lessons he taught her. That other men would benefit bothered him marginally, but he brushed the concern aside.

Inexperienced or not, she accepted your proposition. That makes her like all the others.

Stacy clutched his waist, bunching his shirt in her hands. He wanted her hands on his skin. He released her long enough to rip off the garment and cast it aside.

Stacy’s breath caught. Her pupils expanded as her gaze explored his torso, following the line of hair to his waistband. He captured her hands and spread them over his skin and then glided their joined hands over his burning flesh. Her fingers threaded through his chest hair, tugging slightly, and sending electrifying bolts of pleasure straight to his groin. Her palms dragged across his nipples. His whistled indrawn breath mingled with her gasp as hunger charged through him. He released her hands and fisted his by his side, fighting the need to crush her to him.

She tentatively traced the lines defining his abdominal muscles, and his flesh contracted involuntarily beneath her curious fingers. His control wavered like tall trees in the hot sirocco winds.

What is this? You are no boy.

And yet he trembled like one.

“Unfasten my pants,” he rasped.

She hesitated and then slipped her fingers between fabric and flesh. His stomach muscles clenched and his groin tightened as she fumbled the hook free and then reached for his zipper. Franco gritted his teeth as she lowered the tab over his erection.

Perhaps all women are born knowing how to torture a man.

When she finished the task, she paused, bit her lip and looked up at him though her thick lashes. His control frayed.

Franco moved out of reach, ripped back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. He swiftly removed his shoes and socks, letting his gaze rove over her as he did so. Stacy did not have the stick-straight model figure to which so many women aspired these days. Her breasts were exquisite, round, the perfect size to fill his palms, and tipped with dusty-rose aureoles which he could not wait to taste. Her waist and hips curved nicely. Who would have guessed that she hid such an alluring body beneath her sedate clothing?

“Remove your panties.” He didn’t dare touch her. Not yet.

Her breath hitched and then her thumbs hooked into the black, shiny fabric and slowly pushed it over her hips and thighs to encircle her ankles. She toed them aside and crossed her hands in front of her dark curls. He shook his head. “Let me look at you. Next time I will taste you.”

Her eyes closed. She swallowed.

Franco extended his hand. “Come.”

Watching him warily, Stacy shuffled forward.

“Sit.” She turned as if she were going to sit beside him on the bed, but he caught her, pulling her toward him until her legs straddled his. She slowly sank onto his thighs, her knees flanking his hips on the mattress and her buttocks resting on his lap. The position left her breasts level with his mouth and her feminine core open and exposed.

She was his, his to do with as he wanted, and at the moment he wanted her hot and wet and writhing with pleasure in his arms. He would wipe away the memory of her selfish lovers.

Franco pulled a nipple into his mouth, sucking, laving and gently nipping until her panted breaths stirred his hair. He caressed her back, her buttocks, savoring the smooth texture of her skin, the scent of her filling his lungs and the taste of her on his tongue. “Touche-moi.”

She lifted her hands to his shoulders and then tangled her fingers in the hair at his nape.

He groaned against her breast. Need urged him to grind his hips against hers, but he settled for reaching between them to stroke her slick folds. Her short nails dug into his skin and a quiet whimper slipped free.

By the time he finished with her, she would not be shy about expressing her passion, he vowed.

His thumb found a rhythm to bring her satisfaction while he feasted on one nipple and then the other until she shuddered against his palm as le petit mort rippled over her. Not a moment too soon. Franco was about to erupt.

He stood abruptly, lifting her and then laying her on the bed. Just as he’d envisioned, only a passionate flush covered her skin. He swiftly removed his pants and briefs and reached into the bedside drawer for a condom. Lips parted and eyes wide, Stacy watched his every move as he donned protection. The color on her cheeks deepened and spread to her kiss-dampened breasts, and desire hammered insistently inside him.

He knelt between her legs, finesse and patience long gone, and cupped her buttocks in his hands. “Guide me inside, Stacy.”

She curled her fingers around his length. He slammed his eyelids closed, clenched his teeth and stiffened his spine against the exquisite agony of her touch. She steered him toward her entrance and, muscles rigid and trembling with the effort to go slowly, Franco eased into her tight core one excruciating inch at a time. Restraint made his lungs burn and sweat bead on his skin.

When she lifted her hips to rush him the rest of the way in his control snapped. Franco surged deep, withdrew and plunged again and again and again. He fell forward, catching his weight on arms braced on the pillow beside her head. Stacy’s back bowed, her arms encircled him, and her breasts teased his chest. The scrape of her nails on his back stimulated him past sanity. He gazed into her eyes and saw desire and surprise as her breath quickened and her body arched.

Her muffled cry as she climaxed again combined with the contracting of her inner muscles to hurdle him over the edge. His roar echoed off the walls as desire pulsed from him.

He collapsed to his elbows, satisfied and yet at the same time unsettled. Gasping for breath, he searched for the cause of his disquiet. And then understanding descended like a guillotine. Quick. Sharp. Cold.

He had let sex with Stacy become personal. A mistake he’d learned to avoid long ago.

It could not—would not—happen again.

***

Even before her pulse slowed, Stacy had regrets. What had she done? She’d had sex for money. And she’d enjoyed it.

What did that say about her?

Nothing complimentary, that’s for sure.

She closed her eyes tightly and tried to distance herself from the lean, hard body of the man above her. Inside her. But she couldn’t block out the comfortable weight of him pressing her into the mattress, his scent or the aroma of sex.

Franco rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed with his back curved and his elbows on his knees. Her sweat-dampened skin instantly chilled without the heating blanket of his body, but he was sitting on the covers. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she crossed her ankles and hugged her arms over her breasts.

He rose and his pale backside mesmerized her. As much as she hated herself at the moment, the ashes inside her sparked to life at the sight of corded muscles rippling beneath the sleek, tanned skin as he shoved his fingers through his hair. The movement drew her gaze to the breadth of his shoulders. Had she made those scratches? Embarrassment flamed her face.

“Would you like to shower?” he asked in a flat, unreadable voice, without turning.

She blinked and looked away. “No. Thank you.”

She wanted a shower. But not here. Not now. What if he decided to join her? He’d bought her. Did that mean she’d forfeited the right to say no? She hadn’t yet come to terms with the pleasure he’d wrung from her tonight, so she wasn’t ready for another intimate encounter. She had to keep this affair impersonal, because opening up to more than that would make her vulnerable.

But there had been nothing impersonal in what they’d just shared. At least not on her part.

Sex for money. She clutched the thought close—like a talisman. As ugly as it sounded, it was safer than trusting her heart to a man like Franco Constantine. A man with more money and probably more power than her father.

The moment he disappeared into the bathroom Stacy vaulted from the bed and snatched up her clothing. Her hands trembled so badly it took three tries to fasten her bra. In her haste she pulled her panties on wrong-side out, but she didn’t dare take time to remove them and put them on again. She wanted to be dressed before Franco returned. Dressed and ready to leave.

She stumbled over her shoes—she couldn’t even remember removing them—and shoved her feet inside, and then snatched up her dress and dragged it over her head. The zipper stuck in the middle of her back. Frustrated tears stung her eyes as she tugged in vain. She bit her lip, blinked furiously and willed them away.

Gentle hands nudged hers aside. Stacy nearly jumped out of her pumps. She hadn’t heard Franco return. His knuckles brushed against her spine, raising goose bumps as he fiddled with the zipper, freed the fabric and pulled up the tab.

Stacy stiffened her resolve and met his gaze in the mirror. His broader naked form framed hers. Her hair was a mess and her lips were swollen, but she didn’t care. “I want to go back to the hotel.”

His jaw shifted. All signs of passion had vanished from his face, leaving his features hard and drawn. “I’ll drive you.”

“I’ll wait in the living room.” She bolted.

“Stacy.” His voice halted her on the threshold.

Reluctantly, she turned. Her breath caught at the sight of Franco in all his naked glory standing with one knee cocked and his torso slightly angled in her direction. The man had a body worthy of the beefcake calendar someone had given Candace at her bridal shower. His chest was wide and covered with dark curls, the muscles clearly defined, but not bulky like a body builder’s. A line of hair led to a denser, darker crop surrounding a masculine package any centerfold would be proud to claim, and his legs were long and strong.

“Are you all right?” The question seemed forced.

Physically? “Yes.”

Mentally? She was a wreck. She’d never felt more alone or confused or ashamed of herself. She needed to reassess. Maybe financial security wasn’t worth it. On the other hand, she’d enjoyed sex for the first time in her life. But sex with a man she’d known only three days. Brazen, that’s what she’d been.

“I will be with you in a few moments,” Franco said, reaching for his shirt.

Stacy nodded and fled. Agitated and anxious, she paced the length of the living room, skirting the red rugs and ending at the kitchen archway. She needed to do something to channel her thoughts and nervous energy. Her gaze lit upon the dirty dishes. Seconds later she had them submerged in a sink filled with hot soapy water. She scrubbed the fine china probably harder than she should have.

Franco had turned cold immediately after he’d … finished. Had she turned him off with her fumbling and inexperience? What if he drove her to the hotel and told her to forget the deal? At this moment she wasn’t sure that wouldn’t be a good thing. She wasn’t sure about anything except that she needed to be alone.

She cleaned the second plate, rinsed and dried it and then tackled the stemware.

“Que fais-tu?” Franco asked from behind her, startling her into almost dropping the last glass.

She didn’t turn. “I’m washing the dishes.”

“My housekeeper comes tomorrow.”

She finished drying the wineglass, set it on the counter and carefully folded the damp towel, delaying facing him until the last possible moment. When she did she focused on the cleft in his chin rather than his eyes. “It’s done.”

“You are my mistress, Stacy, not my maid.”

Mistress. Her mother would have been appalled. Her mother, who’d always told Stacy the right man would treat her like a princess. Her mother, who’d led a secret life Stacy hadn’t known about until the investigation into her mother’s murder had revealed details of a life that looked like a fairy tale to outsiders, but had actually been a nightmare.

“Am I? Still?”

Franco closed the distance between them. He’d dressed in the clothing he’d worn earlier, but without the tie or jacket, and he’d left the top few buttons of his shirt open. Her traitorous nipples tightened at the memory of those dark, wiry curls teasing her breasts.

He reached out and lifted her chin, forcing Stacy to look into his eyes—eyes that no longer burned with passion, but were completely inscrutable instead. “Unless you find my touch repugnant, and I don’t think you do, mon gardénia, then our agreement stands.”

She couldn’t speak and didn’t know what she’d say if she could find her voice. Did she want the affair to continue? His fingers stroked down her neck, making her pulse leap and her skin tingle. Apparently, no matter what her brain said, her body was all for the affair.

He withdrew his hand. “Come. I’ll drive you to the hotel.”

“You look shell-shocked.”

Stacy pivoted and found Madeline behind her in the hotel lobby. “Hi.”

“Was that Franco I saw leaving?”

“Yes.” After a silent ride from his home, Franco had insisted on walking her inside. Stacy hadn’t invited him upstairs.

“Okay, Stace, what gives?”

“Nothing. I … we had dinner.” He hadn’t kissed her goodnight, and she didn’t know whether that was good or bad.

“Uh-huh, and what else?”

Her cheeks burned. She wished she and Madeline were closer, because she needed to talk to someone, and she was certain the more experienced woman would be able to help her unravel her tangled and conflicting emotions.

“Stacy, did he hurt you?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. We should go up. It’s late.”

“It’s barely midnight, and we’re not going upstairs until you tell me what has you fluctuating between blood-red and hospital-sheet white.” Madeline hooked her arm through Stacy’s and half led, half dragged her toward the bar.

Within minutes Madeline had snagged them a secluded table, an attentive waiter and a couple of fruity cocktails. “Drink and spill.”

Stacy didn’t know where to begin or how much to share with this woman whom she’d only met a week ago.

“Okay, let me start. You slept with him and …” Madeline prodded.

Stacy choked on her drink. “How did you know?”

Madeline shrugged. “Was it good? Because I’m going to be seriously disappointed if a guy as sexy as Franco Constantine was a lousy lay.”

Lousy lay. The words echoed in Stacy’s head, an unpleasant blast from the past, compliments of the high-school jock who’d wooed her until she’d surrendered her virginity. She’d thought being a popular guy’s girlfriend would win her acceptance in a new school, but afterward he’d dumped her and told all his friends she was a lousy lay. That was the first time Stacy had welcomed her mother’s decision to relocate.

Madeline gripped her hand. “You’ve gone pale again. Start talking, Stace, or I’m calling the cops, because I’m starting to think he forced you do something you didn’t want to do.”

“No, don’t. There’s no need for that. Yes, we slept together and no, it wasn’t lousy. He didn’t hurt me or force me. I promise.” Uncomfortable with the confession, she shifted in her seat.

“Did he dump you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She hesitated and then confessed in a whisper, “I barely know him and I had sex with him.”

“So?”

So she felt like a tramp. Worse, she’d made a bargain with a man who had the power to make her repeat her mother’s mistakes. Not one of her finest decisions.

“You weren’t a virgin, were you?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not seeing a problem. It was good, right?”

Stacy could feel a blush climbing her neck as she nodded.

“And what’s wrong with being with a guy who makes you feel good as long as he’s not diseased, married or committed to someone else?”

Stacy fidgeted with her napkin. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Stace, there are plenty of guys out there who’ll make you feel like crap. You have to grab the good ones when you can. And if it lasts, great. If it doesn’t …well, you tried. As long as you’re careful. STDs are ugly. Take my word on that. I see plenty of them in the E.R.”

Madeline took a sip of her drink and then continued, “It’s a double standard, you know? Guys are expected to be experienced and good in bed, but women are supposed to virtuously wait for Mr. Right. How will we recognize him if we don’t look around? And what happens when our Mr. Right turns out to be a total jerk?”

Stacy vaguely remembered Candace mentioning a nasty breakup in Madeline’s past. She tentatively covered Madeline’s hand offering support, but at the same time Madeline’s words lifted a load from Stacy’s shoulders.

An affair with Franco wouldn’t hurt anyone as long as she remembered his passion-profit-and-no-promises offer was temporary and kept her heart safely sealed off. For the first time all night she smiled. “Thanks, Madeline. I needed to hear that.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”

Friends. Stacy savored the word and nodded.

When she left Monaco behind she’d have friends, good memories of sex instead of only bad ones, and for the first time in her life, she’d have a nest egg and soon, a home of her own.

And she’d be an ocean away from the man who threatened her equilibrium.

“Everybody needs to take a nap today,” Candace said as she entered the sitting room for breakfast and their usual planning session Friday morning. She placed her cell phone on the coffee table. Candace was the only one of the women who had one that worked in Monaco. Their U.S. cell phones were useless here.

“Why?” Stacy asked.

“Because Franco’s taking us to Jimmy’z tonight. He says the place doesn’t start rocking until after midnight.”

Franco. Stacy’s heart skipped a beat. She’d wondered when she’d see him again. Wednesday night he’d left her with a vague, “I will be in touch.”

Because she refused to waste a day in paradise sitting in her room and waiting for him to call, she’d spent yesterday exploring Monaco-Ville, the oldest section of Monaco, alone. Her suitemates had other commitments. She’d looked over her shoulder countless times as she watched the changing of the palace guard, wondering if she’d run into Franco, but he’d have no reason to visit tourist spots like the Prince’s Palace or the wax museum. He’d probably seen it all before. Besides, he was probably at his office … wherever that was.

Filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread, she’d returned to the hotel late in the afternoon. But there’d been no message from Franco. Stacy had shared a quiet meal at a sidewalk café with Candace and then gone to bed early, only to toss and turn all night.

How could she miss a man she didn’t even know? She blamed her uneasiness on not wanting to violate the terms of their agreement by being unavailable. It definitely wasn’t a desire to see him again. The warmth between her thighs called her a liar.

“Typical of a guy,” Candace continued, “he was stumped when I asked him what we should wear.”

Stacy reached for one of her three guide books, looked up the club and read aloud, “‘Jimmy’z—An exclusive dance club where the jet set hangs out. Dress code—casual to formal, but wear your designer labels.’”

Stacy didn’t own any designer labels.

“You three can go shopping after we tour the Oceanographic Museum and the cathedral this morning,” Candace said. “But I have an appointment with the stylist for a practice session on my wedding-day hairdo.”

Madeline shook her head. “Not me. I have plans for later.”

“Same here,” Amelia offered.

Stacy couldn’t afford anything new, and she refused to let Candace keep buying things for her. “I’ll find something in my closet.”

And just like that Franco undermined Stacy’s concentration for a second day. Every tall, dark-haired man she spotted in the distance Friday morning made her pulse spike, and no matter how impressive the sights, she kept thinking about Franco and the night ahead. Had it not been for her lack of sleep for the past three nights she wouldn’t have been dead to the world when the suite doorbell rang later that afternoon. Shoving her hair out of her eyes she stumbled groggily into the sitting room, opened the door to a hotel staff member.

“A package for Ms. Reeves,” he said.

“I’m Stacy Reeves.” She accepted the large rectangular pewter-colored box and the man turned away. “Wait. I’ll get a tip.”

“It’s been taken care of, mademoiselle. Bonsoir.”

He turned away. Stacy closed the door and leaned against it, her exhaustion totally eradicated. Only Franco would send her something. She pushed off the door and carried the package into her room. With trembling hands she plucked at the lavender ribbon and opened the box.

A folded piece of ivory stationery lay on top of the lavender tissue paper. She lifted it and read, For tonight.

No name. No signature. But the handwriting was the same as that on the card included with Franco’s flowers. Franco. She inhaled a shaky breath and pushed back the tissue paper to reveal a pile of teal garments, the same shade as the Mediterranean Sea outside the hotel windows.

She pulled out the first piece, a soft, silk camisole, and laid it on the bed. The second, a sheer, beaded wrap top, matched perfectly, as did the third, a handkerchief-hem skirt with the same beading on the edges as the wrap. She held the skirt against her body. It would be fitted from her waist through her hips, but the lower half would swish and swirl about her thighs as she moved. The perfect dancing outfit, and judging by the designer label, it probably cost more than her monthly rent and car payment combined.

And then her gaze caught on two more wrapped items in the bottom of the box. She unwound the tissue from the largest first and found strappy sandals to match the clothing. She slipped one on her bare foot. Perfect fit. In fact, everything looked as if it would fit. How had Franco known her sizes? Even she didn’t know the European conversions. Had Candace told him? Or was he so experienced with women he could accurately guess their sizes just by looking at them. Probably the latter.

She opened the last package, gasped and dropped the matching bra and thong in the exact same shade of teal on the bed. Heat rushed through her.

Franco was dressing her from the skin out. He’d bought the privilege to do so, just as he’d bought the right to undress her later if he chose.

Anticipation—or was it dread?—made her pulse race.