Taming the Last Acosta. Susan Stephens
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where he was going and how to get there. His control turned her on. He was a rock-solid promise of release and satisfaction, delivered in the most efficient way
‘Wrap your legs around me, Romy,’ he commanded as he lifted her.
Kruz’s movements were measured and certain, while she was a wild, feverish mess. She did as he said, and as she clung to him he whipped his hand across the desk, clearing a space for her. She groaned with anticipation as he moved between her legs. The sensation was building to an incredible pitch. She cried out encouragement as he positioned her, his rough hands firm on her buttocks just the way she liked them. Pressing her knees back, he stared into her eyes. Pleasure guaranteed, she thought, reaching up to lace her fingers through his hair, binding him to her.
This time… this one last time. And then never again.
She was so ready for him, so hungry. As Kruz sank deep, shock, pleasure, relief, eagerness, all combined to help her reach the goal. Thrusting firmly, he seemed to feel the same urgency, but then he found his control and began to tease her. Withdrawing slowly, he entered her again in the way she loved. The sensation was incredible and she couldn’t hold on. She fell violently, noisily, conscious only of her own pleasure until the waves had subsided a little, when she was finally able to remember that this was for both of them. Tightening her muscles, she left Kruz in no doubt that she wasn’t a silent partner but a full participant.
He smiled into her eyes and pressed her back against the desk. Wherever she took him he took her one level higher. Pinning her hands above her head, he held her hips firmly in place with his other hand as he took her hard and fast. There was no finesse and only one required outcome, and understanding the power she had over him excited her. Grabbing his arms, she rocked with him, welcoming each thrust as Kruz encouraged her in his own language. Within moments she was flying high in a galaxy composed entirely of light, with only Kruz’s strong embrace to keep her safe.
It was afterwards that was awkward, Romy realised as she pulled on her jeans. When they were together they were as close as two people could be—trusting, caring, encouraging, pleasuring. But now they were apart all that evaporated, disappeared almost immediately. Kruz had already sorted out his clothes and was heading for the door. They could have been two strangers who, having fallen to earth, had landed in a place neither of them recognised.
‘The seat on the jet is still available if you need it,’ he said, pausing at the door.
She worked harder than ever to appear nonchalant. If she looked at Kruz, really looked at him, she would want him to stay and might even say so.
‘I won’t be stuck,’ she said, assuming an air of confidence. ‘But thanks again for the offer. And don’t forget I’m only an e-mail away if you ever need any more shots from the wedding.’
‘And only round the corner when I get to London,’ he said opening the door.
What the hell…? She pretended not to understand. Say anything at all and her cool façade would shatter into a million pieces. When tears threatened she bit them back. She wasn’t going to ask Kruz if they would meet up in London. This wasn’t a date. It was a heated encounter in the press coach. And now it was nothing.
‘I’ll put the lights on for you,’ he said, killing her yearning for one last meaningful look from Kruz.
‘That would be great. Thank you.’ She was proud of herself for saying this without expression. She was proud of remaining cool and detached. ‘I’ve got quite a bit of work left to do.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Romy.’
Her head shot up. Was he mocking her?
Kruz was mocking both of them, Romy realised, seeing the tug at one corner of his mouth.
‘Me too,’ she called casually. After all, this was just another day in the life of a South American playboy. It didn’t matter how much her heart ached because Kruz had gone, leaving her with just the flickering images of him on a computer screen for company.
Glancing back, he saw Romy through the window of the coach. She was poring over the monitor screen as if nothing had happened. She certainly wasn’t watching him go. She was no clinging vine. It irked him. His male ego had taken a severe hit. He was used to women trying to pin him down, asking him when they’d meet again—if he’d call them—could they have his number? Romy didn’t seem remotely bothered.
The wedding party was still in full swing as he approached the marquee. He rounded up his team, heard their reports and supervised the change-over for the next shift. All of these were measurable activities, which were a blessed relief after his encounter with the impossible-to-classify woman he’d left working in the press coach.
The woman he still wanted
Yeah, that one, he thought.
The noise coming from the marquee was boisterous, joyous, celebratory. Shadows flitted to and fro across the gently billowing tent, silhouettes jouncing crazily from side to side as the music rose and fell.
And Romy was on her own in the press coach.
So what? She was safe there. He’d get someone to check up on her later.
Stopping dead in his tracks, he swung round to look back the way he’d come. He’d send one of the men to make sure she made it to the bunkhouse safely.
Really?
Okay, so maybe he’d do that himself.
Romy shot up. Hearing a sound in the darkness, she was instantly awake. Reaching for the light on the nightstand, she switched it on. And breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ the other girl said, stumbling over the end of the bed as she tried to kick off her shoes, unzip her dress and tumble onto the bed all at the same time. ‘Jane Harlot, foreign correspondent for Frenzy magazine—pleased to meet you.’
‘Romy Winner for ROCK!’
Jane stretched out a hand and missed completely. ‘Brilliant—I love your pictures. Harlot’s not my real name,’ Jane managed, before slamming a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry—too much to drink. Never could resist a challenge, even when it comes from a group of old men who look as if they have pickled their bodies in alcohol to preserve them.’
‘Here, let me help you,’ Romy offered, recognising a disaster in the making. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she quickly unzipped her new roomie’s dress. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Too good,’ Jane confessed, shimmying out of the red silk clingy number. ‘Those gauchos really know how to drink. But they’re chivalrous too. One of them insisted on accompanying me to the press coach and actually waited outside while I sent my copy so he could escort me back here.’
‘He waited for you outside the press coach?’
‘Of course outside,’ Jane said, laughing. ‘He was about ninety. And, anyway, it didn’t take me long to send my stuff. What I write is basically a comic strip. You know the sort of thing—scandal, slebs, stinking rich people. I only got a look-in because my dad used to work with one of the reporters who got an official invitation and he brought me in as his assistant.’
Looking alarmed at this point, Jane waved a hand, keeping the other hand firmly clamped over her mouth.
Jane had landed a big scoop, and Romy was hardly in a position to criticise the other girl’s methods. This wasn’t a profession for shrinking violets. The Acostas had nothing to worry about, but some of their guests definitely did, she reflected, remembering those prominent personalities she had noticed attending the wedding with the wrong partner.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked with concern as Jane got up and staggered in the general direction of the bathroom.
‘Fine… I’ll sleep it off on the plane going home. The gauchos said their boss