Married On Paper. Maisey Yates
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So stupid. So dangerously foolish. But she’d had a taste of true passion in his arms, and no one else had ever aroused anything remotely as intense.
Why take less?
And tonight, Lazaro wasn’t offering less than what she’d felt before. It was more. So much more than she remembered.
“Thank you,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly as a wave of emotion washed through her, making her shake inside.
“For?”
“For remembering. The condom. I think I would have forgotten.”
She was glad he’d thought of it, because she hadn’t. There was so much happening and she couldn’t think straight. Marriage or not, she wasn’t ready for a baby. Not when everything at Pickett was so unstable.
She pushed that thought to the side and focused on Lazaro. Nothing else mattered. Not now.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as he moved back into the position he’d been in, poised to take possession of her body. She kissed him as he thrust into her, focusing only on the pleasure he was giving her with the erotic glide of his tongue, ignoring the vague, tearing pain.
It passed quickly at least, her body adjusting to him, welcoming him. He put his hand on her thigh and urged her to wrap her leg around his, as she’d done on the dance floor. The move opened her up to him, made each of his thrusts stimulate her inside and out.
Pleasure built inside her again, lower, deeper, more intense. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, lowering his head so that he could take one of her nipples into his mouth, his thumb gliding over the other one.
She arched against him, meeting his thrusts, letting his hands, his body, his touch, block out everything. Everything but the climax she was working toward, everything but the pleasure that was threatening to overtake her, body and soul.
His thrusts came faster, harder, his control slipping. He moved his hands to her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. She slid her tongue over the line of his jaw and she felt every muscle in his body shake, then seize as a harsh groan escaped his lips. His pleasure—seeing it, feeling him pulse inside her—pushed her over the edge and she was lost in her own sensation, in the ecstasy that drowned out everything else, every thought, every worry.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on to him, holding him to her. For the moment, nothing else mattered. It was only Vanessa and Lazaro, and everything else was just peripheral. For now, this was the reality, and everything else was the fantasy. Distant and fuzzy. Unimportant.
Lazaro shifted and extricated himself from her arms, standing and walking into the bathroom. She watched him walk the whole way, dazed, sated and enjoying the view.
Her eyes started to flutter closed, a drugging sleepiness overtaking her, making her limbs feel heavy, pleasantly numb.
Lazaro walked back in, his expression blank. “Vanessa …”
“Don’t,” she mumbled, sleep slurring her words. “I promise, we can fight in the morning, but right now, can we just … sleep?”
He returned to the couch, settling beside her and drawing her into his arms. She put her head on his chest, his heart thundering beneath her cheek. Tomorrow would be reality. For now, she was going to enjoy the fantasy.
Lazaro watched a shaft of pink sunlight catch one of the windows on a building outside, throwing its reflection into the living room of the penthouse, illuminating Vanessa’s perfect body.
He had built fantasies around the idea of what her body might look like, of the way her face would look when he brought her to the peak of pleasure. Of what her silken flesh would feel like beneath his fingers.
He had convinced himself that there was no way she, any woman, could live up to what he had made Vanessa in his mind. A fantasy spun in the mind of an eighteen-year-old, left to grow, had to be beyond reality. Beyond what was possible.
But Vanessa had surpassed a mere fantasy last night. She had been perfection, a taste of heaven and light and a kind of soul-deep satiation he had never believed existed.
He could not have conjured up something more, something better.
She was complete female perfection. Every curve. Every dip and swell. Skin like cream; plump, pink-tipped breasts that made his stomach tighten with desire. Everything about her—touch, taste, sight and scent—satisfied him in a way that was utterly foreign.
But, incredibly, coupled with that bone-deep satisfaction was a need for more that made him ache.
She stirred against him, her nipples brushing his chest, the contact lighting a fire in his blood. He moved his hand over the curve of her hip and she made a soft sound of pleasure and arched into him.
He dropped a kiss onto her bare shoulder and her eyes popped open. She rolled slightly and slid off the couch onto the floor, cursing before standing, her cheeks bright pink.
“Where are my clothes?” she asked, her voice rusty from disuse.
“Around,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position.
“Could you not look at me for a second please?”
“I’ve seen it, Vanessa. More than seen.”
“Please,” she said again.
He looked out the window, all his concentration taken by the effort it took to pull his focus away from her perfect body.
“You act as though you haven’t had a morning after before,” he said.
The telling silence made his stomach tighten, and he couldn’t keep himself from looking back at her. She was standing there, clutching her dress to her chest, biting her lip.
“You haven’t?” he asked.
She huffed out a breath, shifted her weight to one side, one bare hip looking more rounded, more prominent. “How many women have you slept with?”
“Excuse me?”
Her dark eyebrows shot upward. “Rude question, isn’t it?”
“Odd,” he said. “And pointless.”
“Then I don’t suppose I have to answer either.”
His heartbeat quickened. It really shouldn’t matter, and yet, he found it did. Because he wanted her to be his. His alone. The idea that no other man had ever been with her like that sent a rush of pure, unenlightened testosterone through him. His. In every way possible.
“I don’t know,” he said, disgust filling him as he spoke the words.
“You don’t know if I have to answer the question?”
“I don’t know how many women I’ve slept with,” he bit out.
She frowned. “Oh.”
He hadn’t anticipated this. That his vast experience could cause him shame. He didn’t brag about his luck with women, but inevitably, if there was an article about him written anywhere, his reputation with the opposite sex was mentioned. It had always earned him a certain measure of respect.
It wasn’t respect on Vanessa’s face. It was disappointment. It passed quickly, her expression neutral again, her eyes focused on a spot just past him.
Even though it was a fleeting impression of disappointment, it left a hollow feeling in his chest.
“I answered,” he said.
She met his eyes. “Then no, I haven’t had a morning after before.”
“How is that possible, Vanessa? I didn’t pick you out as a virgin when you were sixteen.”
“But I was. Well, obviously I was then, since last night I still was.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t you know how many women