Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine's Command / One Night, Twin Consequences. Lucy Ellis
Читать онлайн книгу.
your blonde. I don’t want anything to do with you—I don’t want my name associated with you!’
He fumed, dipped his head closer to her. All she could see were glittering black eyes.
‘So that’s it? You want my body and my bed but you don’t want anyone to know? You’re still trying to play the good girl? Even though it’s obvious to anyone here tonight that you are desperate for my touch.’
As he spoke he trailed one featherlight finger over her cheek. She shuddered. Feverish.
He drew his head back an inch and smiled like the devil.
‘Desperada,’ he whispered.
Then he reached behind her and squeezed her backside, pulling her into furious contact with his pelvis again.
She opened her mouth, but the raging defence she’d intended to spit out died in her throat. There was no defence. She burned for him. She ached for him. She had to have him or she would never, ever be complete.
She reached for his face. Grabbed hold of his head in her hands and pulled it down—pulled down that mouth she had dreamed of and kissed it.
She thought she might drown.
Her fingers threaded and gripped his hair. His cheekbones pressed into her palms. Hot wet lips pushed against hers. His tongue darted into her mouth and her legs gave way. He licked and suckled and smoothed his tongue over hers.
He grabbed her head with one hand and the cheeks of her backside with the other. He pulled her flush against him. Hard against him. She moaned his name and he silenced the sound. He breathed her in and she breathed him. Her hands flew around, grabbing hair and shirt and skin. She moaned again and again. His mouth was on her throat, kissing and biting, and then moving back to her lips. She snaked her leg round his waist, heaved herself up as close as she could.
He walked them two paces, then slammed her against the wall.
‘You little wildcat. You crazy little wildcat.’
They were the first words he’d said, his breath in her ear as he held her against the wall with his body and ran his hands over her, up and under her dress. He found her panties and tugged them to the side, slicked fingers across her soaked, swollen flesh. The bullet of pleasure careered to her core and she bucked. Once, twice.
‘Rocco …’ she cried into his shoulder.
‘Here? In this hallway? We wait ten years and it is to be here?’
He barely touched her and she cried out again—almost a scream.
Over his shoulder she saw a figure, but she didn’t care.
He must have sensed it, for he immediately slid her to the ground and sorted out her dress. She stood like a rag doll. He tilted up her chin, smoothed her hair, looked at her with eyes blazing and glinting and fierce.
Then he cupped her face and bent down for a kiss. Slower, softer, but still a kiss that killed her. He tilted his brow to rest it on hers and held her close in his arms. She felt the heat, the strength, the fire of this man all around her.
‘I want you so badly. I want you like I’ve never wanted any other woman. Ever.’
He pushed back from her, still holding her head, stayed nose to nose with her.
‘You are with me now. The games are over.’
He kissed her again, fiercely branded her mouth with his tongue. Then he stepped back, ran one hand through his hair and took her hand in the other.
‘Come. We will go to my home.’
She started to move in a passionate trance, her legs and her head swimming and weak.
‘Wait—I need to tell Esme. I’m with her.’
‘Brett Thompson’s wife? I told her already. I told her you were leaving with me. Told her and Hugo. As if I would let you spend another moment with him.’
She processed that. ‘You did what? When did you do that?’
He looked down the hallway, tension and command rolling off him. ‘You’d left your table. I asked where you had gone. They presumed to the restrooms, so I told them you wouldn’t be returning—we had unfinished business.’
She stalled and her eyes flew open.
‘You said that?’
‘What? Was there really going to be another outcome, querida? Did I force your tongue into my mouth and your legs around my waist?’
Without waiting for an answer, he led her off down the plush carpet of the hall.
Oil-painted bowls of fruit and soft amber lamps lined their path. At the end, the giant Lalique chandelier marked the entrance and the exit. The table below it was cleared of champagne, its gleaming oak surface smoothly and proudly uncluttered. A few people still milled around. More rested in armchairs, their voices lower, softer, tired.
And outside the night was turning to day and the day was only beginning.
ROCCO HAD THREE HOUSES and one boat. His town house in Recoleta was mere streets away. They could walk it. His estancia, La Colorada, was two hours away by car. His seafront villa in Punta del Este was a short helicopter trip away. And his boat was somewhere off the coast of Cayman.
His head rolled options like dice as he palmed the small of Frankie’s back and escorted her out.
He wanted unrestricted, uninterrupted access and time with this woman. He deserved it—he needed it. And so did she.
He glanced at her and she turned big hazel eyes up to him. He put his arm round her shoulders and squeezed her into his side. She reached up and touched his chest, scraped her fingers across the new wound that throbbed under his shirt. Better than any physio, she would be the ultimate remedy for every last thumping bruise and cut from today’s match.
‘How long until you go back to Europe?’
He nodded to the doorman and walked her down the carpeted steps. His car rolled into view. He checked each way and across the street. Nobody. He checked behind them. Clear. He always checked. He was always his own security, but he was hers, too—for now.
‘A week. We go to Punta del Este later today—Esme and Brett and me. Then I have a business trip to the Pampas on Thursday. Flying back on Friday.’
So she was heading to Punta, too?
‘They’ll be going to the Turlington Club party,’ he said, almost to himself. So was he. He never missed it.
But if the world was heading to Punta, he would be heading in the opposite direction. With Frankie.
‘I’ll take you to Punta. Tomorrow.’
Dice rolled. Decision made.
She stopped right there on the pavement, a flare of anger replacing the passion that had flooded her body. ‘I told you my plans. There’s no way I’m changing them.’
‘No? You’ve already changed them. You’re here now. Are you really saying that you’d rather lie on a beach with your friend than climb into bed with me?’
He trailed a thumb across her jaw as her mouth pursed, framed a retort, then slid into a sexy smirk.
She dipped her eyes, then fired him a look. ‘I’ll give you a day of my time. After that I’m back on plan.’
He couldn’t help but smile back. He didn’t normally deal well with independence—women were all about love, not combat. But for the few hours they were going to have together, it wasn’t going to be a deal-breaker. So far it had even added to her allure. So far …