Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine's Command / One Night, Twin Consequences. Lucy Ellis
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stepped a little closer to her, gripped her chin a little more firmly and watched as she dragged a breath in through bared teeth.
‘And since that’s all you’re offering, we’re not going to waste a moment. I’ve got a place round the corner …’
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Wet lips.
‘If you behave yourself I’ll take you to your friends so you’re …”back on plan”. Does that meet with your approval?’
Her narrowed eyes signalled that she knew he was mocking her.
‘It does.’
‘Excellent. Our first compromise. We’ll head straight to my town house, then.’
He held open the car door and waited. She fired him a look that told him he’d only won the first round. Then she slid inside. He scanned the street again and joined her.
The moment he closed the door they slammed together across the leather.
Seconds later and the flames roared around them. A pyre of passion.
But she hauled herself back, splayed her hands on his thighs and looked up, straight into his eyes.
‘Just for the record, I wasn’t playing games. I went to the party because I didn’t want to let Esme down—not to flaunt myself in front of you. If it hadn’t been for her I’d still be tucked up in my bed. So consider yourself lucky.’
Still in combat.
He grabbed her bare arms, his fingers closing round them easily. He stifled a chuckle. Nodded seriously. ‘Oh, I do—I do.’
But suddenly he was struck by just how close they’d come—how far they’d journeyed. How easily they could have lost this opportunity. How hard he needed to pursue her just to scratch this itch.
He added quietly, ‘I think there’s more than luck at work here. It was always going to end this way with us.’
The car moved slowly; the darkness loomed. Her heaving breaths answered him. Her skin looked silvery smooth, each slim arm still braced on his thighs. She was mesmerising.
He grabbed a handful of silky hair and tugged her head back. He wanted to savour every second, to devour her, to linger over every moment like an eight-course, wine-matched gourmet meal—to swallow her whole.
He met her mouth as she reached for his—succulent as watermelon, sweeter than syrup.
He tasted. Lost himself. Scooped her like sauce onto his lap and let her soak against him.
He sat back as she straddled him … as they went up in flames again.
Seconds more and the car turned a corner, then stopped. They were here.
He reached for the door handle, caught the flash of the driver’s eyes in the mirror, held her as he stepped out of the car and strode to the iron gates.
Still dark, the straight path to the curved, domed entrance was softly illuminated with studs of light. His finest home. His proudest purchase. Every step proof of how far he had come from thieving street child to national hero. Normally he lingered, savoured. But not tonight. Tonight he marched with his treasure. Past the low sweet-scented bushes, the spiky-headed lavender and geometric box hedge. None of that mattered.
He had waited for her. And now she was here. Right here in his city, in his house, in his arms.
The heavy half-glazed door reflected them as they stepped up. She looked tiny, slight, and for a moment he remembered the girl she had been. So full of energy, so bold and uncompromising. She might have grown up, filled out slightly, but under her subtle make-up and silky hair and the well-cut dress, she was still that refreshingly natural, honest creature he’d first laid eyes on in that muddy lane.
And finally he was going to take her in the way he had longed to take her. He could hardly bear any more heat at his groin right now. He was slightly out of control—he could feel it.
His hand was steady as he pressed the keypad, but that was sheer force of will. The door swung open into the high domed entrance. Lamps glowed like sleepy sentries down the hallway. Palms bent their heads in welcome. Portraits calmly considered them. It was as if the whole house was waiting.
He felt her step in beside him.
‘Mother of God, what a place …’ she breathed.
She was turning three-sixty, gazing at the glass, the gilt, the marble, the grand sweep of carpeted stairs. But the normal flush of pride, the pause and then the proud history lesson, didn’t ease from his lips.
‘Upstairs,’ he said.
He caught her as she turned back to him, hoisted her weightless body into his arms and strode to the stairs.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
She didn’t lie back—not Frankie. She grabbed his head, tried to kiss him.
It was the sheer force of the habit of climbing those stairs that got him to the top without missing a step. She was insatiable. He could hardly contain her as she slid her legs round his waist, held on to his head and licked and tongued her way across his face.
He had to stop—couldn’t take another step with this erotic creature writhing all over him. He had to take her now. Here in the hall.
In a heartbeat he’d scooped his arm up her spine, bent her backwards and laid her straight down on the floor. Her eyes flew open with the speed of his move, but the wicked flash of joy told him she was even more fired up.
‘You don’t want to take this slowly, do you, querida? You haven’t got the patience.’
‘You can go slow with your blondes.’
She blew in his ear, her hot breath sending him into a fury of desire for her.
‘But I haven’t got all day, so get a move on.’
He braced himself just to look at her. No one spoke to him like this—no one. He would never tolerate any mention of previous partners, never entertain censorious comments. But she did it. And he was loving it.
‘You think …?’
She lay still. Just for a moment. Her hair was a spill of the darkest rum, her eyes diamond black in the hollows of her satin-skinned face. Mesmerising. Absorbing. So beautiful.
Something hovered between them in that second. Heavy, humid, portentous.
And then, like a tide taken at the flood, they grabbed for each other.
She pulled at his shirt—fingers grabbing, nails scratching. Vaguely aware of his wound throbbing, he filled his hands with her. Hauled her dress up and over her hips. She tried to scrabble towards him, to get at more of his clothes, but he had to see her and touch her. Had to.
He pinned her to the ground with his hand and stared at her slender bones, at the tiny triangle of her panties. She was so delicate, so feminine … Another jolt of lust made him even thicker. Even harder. He grabbed the fine fabric that covered her in his fist and tugged. She yelped and breathed out hard. But she still clambered to clutch at him as he balled the shredded silk and tossed it aside.
‘I liked those,’ she said.
‘You put them on knowing I’d take them off. Didn’t you?’
‘You’re so hot for yourself—aren’t you, Hurricane?’
He grinned at her again—couldn’t help it. She fired him up to be a little more rough, a little more bold.
‘I’m hot for you.’
He pulled her dress right up to her waist, exposed her nakedness to his hungry eyes.
‘You’re perfect.’
She was. Exquisite. The neat V of dark hair drew his gaze, and as the words left