Scandals Of The Royals. Lynn Raye Harris
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wasted. “Rodriguez, this isn’t easy for me, can we just walk?”
“And not talk?”
“That would probably be best.” She didn’t want to think. She wanted … she didn’t want to think about what it was she wanted either, because there was nothing smart or good or self-controlled about what she wanted. It didn’t really matter if Rodriguez was the man she was supposed to marry. She didn’t have any of the feelings she should have for a future husband for him, she just … needed him.
The need was elemental. It wasn’t a pursuit of rebellion, it was physical. As necessary as breathing. Terrifying and foreign in its intensity, but far too compelling to walk away from.
“Then follow me.” He started walking again and she followed. He led her down a stone path that went from the house and disappeared into the thick, lush sand of the beach. “You might need to lose your shoes,” he said, looking down at the glittering high heels she was wearing.
“Right.”
He tightened his grip on her while she lifted one foot up and toed the first spiky shoe off, then the other. He picked them up off the sand, the feminine heels out of place in his large, square hands. “I don’t want you to lose them,” he said.
“Thanks.” She didn’t really care about the shoes. She couldn’t. She felt somehow outside of herself and more connected to her body’s physical needs than she’d ever been. Above and also deeply immersed in what was happening to her, to them. She just wanted to block everything out but the feelings that were moving through her. The desire and lust and things she’d ignored for so long. To embrace the heat in her blood instead of trying to suppress it.
For one moment, she just wanted to be a woman. To capture what had been ripped from her life, not just by Gabriel, but by her parents and their disapproval, the media and their cruelty.
She scanned the beach, looking for a place that might afford some privacy.
“This way,” he said, drawing her forward, into a cove of palms that stood back from the water. There was a cabana there, linen curtains tied back on thick, wooden posts, blowing in the warm evening breeze.
A large, white mattress was placed in the middle on a wooden frame. It was clearly meant for two, and it was obviously meant for privacy. As private as one could get out in the open.
“Before you go and get angry, I’ve toured the property before. I haven’t sneaked out of parties and brought dates here.”
“Not here specifically.”
“I never claimed to be a saint.”
“Neither did I,” she said, climbing the wooden steps that led into the secluded structure. “But I seem to have been trying to do an impression of one for most of my life.”
She sat on the edge of the lounge and leaned back slightly, almost shocking herself with her boldness.
He approached the lounger and rested his knee on the thick, white padding, just between her thighs. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel his heat, felt a hollow ache starting at her core and working its way into her stomach, making her feel needy and edgy. Nervous too.
He leaned in closer and she leaned back, the move reflexive. She could see a smile curve the corner of his wicked mouth in the dim lighting. He rested his hand next to her hip, brought his face closer to hers and she scooted back a fraction. He chuckled, resting his other palm on the other side of her so that he was over her, his lips so near her she would barely have to move to kiss him.
So she did it. She tilted her head up, bringing her mouth against his, her tongue teasing the seam. He tasted even better than she remembered. Until two weeks ago it had been so long since she’d been kissed, so long since she’d felt beautiful. So long since she’d wanted anything that was just for her.
He returned the kiss, his mouth hot and hungry, his tongue sliding against hers, the friction so sensual she thought it might kill her. She didn’t think anything had ever felt so good. Her hands moved to his shoulders and she felt herself falling back slowly, her head resting against one of the throw pillows that had been placed on the lounger.
He put one hand on her leg and pushed the hem of her dress up, allowing her to part her thighs so he could settle between them, the hard ridge of his erection hot even through layers of lace and silk, teasing her sensitized body.
He rocked against her, teasing her with the slight pressure from his arousal, pleasure pouring through her like warm oil. She arched into him, wanting more, wanting him to keep kissing her. Wanting him to touch more of her. Wanting more in general.
“Touch me,” she whispered against his lips, moving her hands from his shoulders to the front of his shirt, jerking the knot on his tie, loosening it and pulling it off so she could get to the buttons on his dress shirt.
She worked the buttons quickly, desperate to touch his skin. Desperate for more. She placed her palm flat on his chest, his flesh hot and hard, the hair prickly and masculine beneath her hands.
His chest vibrated with a low, masculine growl as he tore his lips from hers and pressed a line of kisses down her neck, sucking the tender skin where it met with her shoulder. She arched her back, a silent entreaty for him to touch her breasts.
And he knew just what she wanted. He moved his hand around to the back of her dress and with one deft motion he slid the zipper down, loosening the lacy garment so that he could tug the top down, baring her black strapless bra.
“Perfecto,” he said, his palm grazing her rib cage, skimming over the tips of her breasts. Not even close to enough.
Her breath hitched, her entire body drawn so tight she thought she was going to explode. She’d never been so turned on, so fast, in her life. But she felt like she was ready to go over the edge at any moment.
He lowered his head, his tongue trailing just beneath the line of her bra, so close to what she wanted and still not enough. “Rodriguez. Please. I need more. I need you to touch me,” she said, her words coming out halted, labored.
He reached his hand behind her again and undid the catch on her bra with a swift flick of his fingers. The night air was warm against her bare skin, and she couldn’t feel embarrassed. Not even for a moment.
He swore, short and sharp, before lowering his head and drawing one of her nipples into his mouth. She gripped his head, lacing her fingers through his hair, holding him to her.
The heat spreading through Rodriguez was reckless. Dangerous. He enjoyed sex. Always. But it never took him over like this. Usually, the heat of desire was comparable to standing near a fireplace. Warm, something he looked forward to, but not something wild or dangerous. The feeling Carlotta gave him was more like a wildfire, burning hot, raging through him with nothing to contain it.
Her desire wasn’t calm, it wasn’t polite or restrained. She wanted him, and she wasn’t shy about showing it. And he could give her no less. He had no ability to effect the persona of a smooth, experienced lover. Not now. He could only feel.
Her nipple hardened beneath his tongue and her obvious need for him sent a shot of pure, hard lust through him, making his erection jerk with the need to be inside her. His hands shook as he started to slide her dress down her hips. He couldn’t remember trembling before sex since he was a sixteen-year-old virgin.
He felt her go stiff beneath him suddenly, her body tight when before she had been pliant in his arms. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, drawing away from him.
“No.” His blood was roaring too loudly in his ears for him to hear anything.
“Madre di dio,” she cursed, reaching down to the side of the lounger and retrieving her bra, quickly covering her lush breasts with the band of black fabric.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly hysterical as she tugged the top of her dress back into place and contorted her body