Monte Carlo Affairs: The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal. Emilie Rose
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then followed Franco inside, wishing she’d drunk more than one glass of wine. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t be so nervous. But she’d never acquired a taste for wine. She preferred girly drinks with umbrellas, and she drank precious few of those because she kept herself on a strict budget. Unfortunately, sobriety left her tense and clear-headed enough to doubt her sanity in accepting his proposition. Besides, getting drunk would be stupid. She needed to stay in control.
Whatever had possessed her to believe she was qualified to be Franco’s mistress? How could she satisfy a worldly man like him? And how could she become intimate with a man she barely knew? Franco wasn’t much of a talker. If he’d shared half as much conversation as he had lingering, desire-laden, toe-curling glances, then she could write an in-depth biography about him. But he hadn’t. Then again, neither had she.
Details aren’t necessary. This isn’t about friendship or forever.
Stacy stiffened her spine. She could get through this. She’d survived attending fourteen schools in ten years, her mother’s shocking and unexpected death and her father’s betrayal. Four weeks as Franco’s plaything would grant her the economic freedom to buy a home and to stop feeling like a visitor in her own life—a visitor who might have to pack up and leave at any moment.
But thinking about the money made her feel a little like a hooker. A lot like one, actually. So she shoved those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the man. About how sexy and desirable Franco made her feel …
When she wasn’t thinking about the money. She winced.
Franco deposited the tray beside the sink and then took the goblets from her and set them on the counter.
“Let me help you wash those,” she offered, hoping to buy time.
“The dishes can wait. I cannot.”
Before Stacy could do more than blink, Franco’s arms surrounded her and his mouth crashed onto hers. Possessive. Hungry. Demanding. He cupped her bottom, pulling her flush against the length of his hot muscle-packed body, and his tongue found hers, stroking, tasting, tangling. Arousal simmered beneath Stacy’s skin, but it couldn’t completely overcome her stomach-tightening trepidation or doubts.
Franco was a wealthy, powerful man who had the money to buy whatever he wanted—including her. Would he play by the rules? She was on foreign territory here—both in Monaco and in this affair. Who would protect her if this turned ugly?
She pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. “Wait.”
“For?” His barely audible growl swept across her damp lips, and his passion-darkened eyes bored into hers.
She licked her lips and tasted him. “What if I don’t meet your expectations?”
“I find that unlikely.” His hand covered her breast, his thumbnail unerringly finding and caressing her nipple with a back and forth motion.
Tendrils of sensation snaked through her defenses. She had to stay clear and focused. Letting go meant becoming vulnerable. Perhaps she should just take care of him? But how? Drop to her knees and take him in her mouth? If so, she had a problem, because her one and only experience with that in high school had not gone well. She shuddered.
He gripped her upper arms and set her from him. “Stacy, what game are you playing?”
“I’m not playing a game. I just …” She bit her bottom lip. “We don’t know each other very well.”
“What is there to know except the pleasure we can give one another?” His fingers threaded through her hair, tugging gently and tipping her head back. “Have you never experienced immediate attraction for someone you have just met and let passion lead?”
“Uh …no.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. But I, um …”
“You haven’t had many lovers.”
Was it obvious? Heat scalded her cheeks. She wanted to hide her face, but his grip on her hair prevented it. “No.”
His nostrils flared. “I will teach you what pleases me, and I will satisfy you, mon gardénia.”
He stated it with surety and she wanted to believe him, but why would he bother? He’d bought her whether she liked sex with him or not. “If you say so. You probably should have asked about my sexual experience before offering your bargain.”
“Ce n’est pas important.”
Not important? How could her lack of experience be unimportant?
He released her hair and laced his fingers through hers. “Come. The kitchen is not the best place for our first time.”
Nerves twisted tighter in her stomach with each step. She knew where they were headed long before they reached the carved double wooden doors. His bedroom. Once inside the large chamber he faced her. “I have pictured you here. Sprawled on my sheets. Naked except for the flush of passion on your skin.”
She wheezed in a breath at the sensual image his words painted and blurted, “Do you have condoms? Because I’m not on the pill.”
“And even if you were, the pill is not protection against sexually transmitted diseases—of which I have none,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Her discomfort with the current conversation further illustrated her lack of qualifications to become Franco’s mistress. A more experienced woman could probably have this preliminary chat without as much as a blush. But not her. She shifted on her feet. “Me neither.”
“I have protection.” He turned her toward the bed, reached for the zip of her dress, swiftly pulled it down to her hips and then flicked her bra open.
Oh God, were they going to just do it? She shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed. Despite what the magazines said, in her experience, that’s the way it happened. Rushed, fumbling hands followed by awkward contact and grunting. At least it would be over soon.
Air cooled her skin and then warm hands slipped inside the gaping fabric of her dress to trail down her spine with a feather-light touch. Goose bumps rose on her skin and her toes curled in her pumps.
Franco’s thumbs worked upward from her lower back, massaging her knotted muscles all the way to her neck. His fingers drew ever-widening circles over her shoulders, down to her waist and back again. Her eyelids grew heavy and she shivered as unexpected pleasure rippled over her.
A hot, open-mouthed kiss on her nape surprised a gasp from her, and then her dress and bra fell from her shoulders. Startled by the swift disrobing, she grabbed at her clothing, but too late. The garments puddled around her ankles. She crossed her arms over her chest, covering her breasts.
“Non. Do not hide.”
Her eyelids jerked open. She found her gaze locked with Franco’s in the large gold-leaf mirror hanging over the dresser. Slowly, painfully, she lowered her hands and fisted her fingers beside her. Her heart pumped harder as his gaze devoured her breasts, her black hipster panties and then her legs. In her opinion, her body was okay, her breasts merely average, but if Franco was disappointed in what he’d bought he didn’t show it.
Behind her, he discarded his coat and tie, tossing both toward a chair without breaking her gaze. His belt whistled free and then thumped into the chair. Each movement stirred the air around them and teased the fine hairs on her body. He unbuttoned his cuffs and then his shirt and tugged his shirttails free, but didn’t remove the garment. Part of her wanted to turn and examine him as he had her, but the governing part of her stood transfixed, muscles locked and rigid.
“Tu es très sexy, Stacy.” His hands, shades darker than her pale skin, curved around her waist.
Her lungs failed, but whooshed back into action when his palms splayed over her belly, one above her navel and one below. An unaccustomed urge to shift until his hot hands covered more