So that’s what all the fuss is about.
Winded and stunned by the intensity of her response, Stacy forced her lids open and met Franco’s gaze in the mirror. Questions filled his eyes and her skin baked with embarrassment. Feeling raw and exposed, she ducked her head. He must think her totally shameless.
But then shameless is what he’d bought.
Five
Franco could not believe the evidence before him, but the wonder on Stacy’s face and her current embarrassment could only have one cause. “Your first orgasm?”She winced and dipped her chin in the slightest of nods.
Franco swiftly withdrew his hands. Not because her revelation repulsed him, but because her confession sent a volatile cocktail of emotions through him. Anger rose swiftly toward those who’d misused her, and possessiveness wasn’t far behind. Stacy would be his, certainement, but only temporarily. The third and possibly the most dangerous reaction was understanding. Inexperience, not manipulation, explained the mixed signals she’d been sending him. None of those responses had any place in this relationship.
“Stacy.” He waited until she eased open her eyes again. “Your first, but not your last.”
Her lips parted and then relief replaced the surprise in her eyes. Had she thought he would reject her because her past lovers had been selfish bastards? She might be a pawn in the game with his father, but she would not suffer for it.
He turned her in his arms and covered her mouth, gently this time. Seducing instead of taking. Sipping, suckling her bottom lip and teasing the silken inside with his tongue instead of ravaging her as he’d done earlier.
He still desired her, still hungered for her, but for her sake, he would dull the sharp edges of his need and make this good for her. Good for both of them. By the end of their month Stacy would be a sexually confident woman. She would not forget the lessons he taught her. That other men would benefit bothered him marginally, but he brushed the concern aside.
Inexperienced or not, she accepted your proposition. That makes her like all the others.
Stacy clutched his waist, bunching his shirt in her hands. He wanted her hands on his skin. He released her long enough to rip off the garment and cast it aside.
Stacy’s breath caught. Her pupils expanded as her gaze explored his torso, following the line of hair to his waist-band. He captured her hands and spread them over his skin and then glided their joined hands over his burning flesh. Her fingers threaded through his chest hair, tugging slightly, and sending electrifying bolts of pleasure straight to his groin. Her palms dragged across his n**ples. His whistled indrawn breath mingled with her gasp as hunger charged through him. He released her hands and fisted his by his side, fighting the need to crush her to him.
She tentatively traced the lines defining his abdominal muscles, and his flesh contracted involuntarily beneath her curious fingers. His control wavered like tall trees in the hot sirocco winds.
What is this? You are no boy.
And yet he trembled like one.
“Unfasten my pants,” he rasped.
She hesitated and then slipped her fingers between fabric and flesh. His stomach muscles clenched and his groin tightened as she fumbled the hook free and then reached for his zipper. Franco gritted his teeth as she lowered the tab over his erection.
Perhaps all women are born knowing how to torture a man.
When she finished the task, she paused, bit her lip and looked up at him though her thick lashes. His control frayed.
Franco moved out of reach, ripped back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. He swiftly removed his shoes and socks, letting his gaze rove over her as he did so. Stacy did not have the stick-straight model figure to which so many women aspired these days. Her br**sts were exquisite, round, the perfect size to fill his palms, and tipped with dusty-rose aureoles which he could not wait to taste. Her waist and h*ps curved nicely. Who would have guessed that she hid such an alluring body beneath her sedate clothing?
“Remove your panties.” He didn’t dare touch her. Not yet.
Her breath hitched and then her thumbs hooked into the black, shiny fabric and slowly pushed it over her h*ps and thighs to encircle her ankles. She toed them aside and crossed her hands in front of her dark curls. He shook his head. “Let me look at you. Next time I will taste you.”
Her eyes closed. She swallowed.
Franco extended his hand. “Come.”
Watching him warily, Stacy shuffled forward.
“Sit.” She turned as if she were going to sit beside him on the bed, but he caught her, pulling her toward him until her legs straddled his. She slowly sank onto his thighs, her knees flanking his h*ps on the mattress and her buttocks resting on his lap. The position left her br**sts level with his mouth and her feminine core open and exposed.
She was his, his to do with as he wanted, and at the moment he wanted her hot and wet and writhing with pleasure in his arms. He would wipe away the memory of her selfish lovers.
Franco pulled a nipple into his mouth, sucking, laving and gently nipping until her panted breaths stirred his hair. He caressed her back, her buttocks, savoring the smooth texture of her skin, the scent of her filling his lungs and the taste of her on his tongue. “Touche-moi.”
She lifted her hands to his shoulders and then tangled her fingers in the hair at his nape.
He groaned against her breast. Need urged him to grind his h*ps against hers, but he settled for reaching between them to stroke her slick folds. Her short nails dug into his skin and a quiet whimper slipped free.
By the time he finished with her, she would not be shy about expressing her passion, he vowed.
His thumb found a rhythm to bring her satisfaction while he feasted on one nipple and then the other until she shuddered against his palm as le petit mort rippled over her. Not a moment too soon. Franco was about to erupt.
He stood abruptly, lifting her and then laying her on the bed. Just as he’d envisioned, only a passionate flush covered her skin. He swiftly removed his pants and briefs and reached into the bedside drawer for a condom. Lips parted and eyes wide, Stacy watched his every move as he donned protection. The color on her cheeks deepened and spread to her kiss-dampened br**sts, and desire hammered insistently inside him.
He knelt between her legs, finesse and patience long gone, and cupped her buttocks in his hands. “Guide me inside, Stacy.”
She curled her fingers around his length. He slammed his eyelids closed, clenched his teeth and stiffened his spine against the exquisite agony of her touch. She steered him toward her entrance and, muscles rigid and trembling with the effort to go slowly, Franco eased into her tight core one excruciating inch at a time. Restraint made his lungs burn and sweat bead on his skin.
When she lifted her h*ps to rush him the rest of the way in his control snapped. Franco surged deep, withdrew and plunged again and again and again. He fell forward, catching his weight on arms braced on the pillow beside her head. Stacy’s back bowed, her arms encircled him, and her br**sts teased his chest. The scrape of her nails on his back stimulated him past sanity. He gazed into her eyes and saw desire and surprise as her breath quickened and her body arched.
Her muffled cry as she cli**xed again combined with the contracting of her inner muscles to hurdle him over the edge. His roar echoed off the walls as desire pulsed from him.
He collapsed to his elbows, satisfied and yet at the same time unsettled. Gasping for breath, he searched for the cause of his disquiet. And then understanding descended like a guillotine. Quick. Sharp. Cold.
He had let sex with Stacy become personal. A mistake he’d learned to avoid long ago.
It could not—would not—happen again.
Even before her pulse slowed, Stacy had regrets. What had she done? She’d had sex for money. And she’d enjoyed it.
What did that say about her?
Nothing complimentary, that’s for sure.
She closed her eyes tightly and tried to distance herself from the lean, hard body of the man above her. Inside her. But she couldn’t block out the comfortable weight of him pressing her into the mattress, his scent or the aroma of sex.
Franco rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed with his back curved and his elbows on his knees. Her sweat-dampened skin instantly chilled without the heating blanket of his body, but he was sitting on the covers. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she crossed her ankles and hugged her arms over her br**sts.
He rose and his pale backside mesmerized her. As much as she hated herself at the moment, the ashes inside her sparked to life at the sight of corded muscles rippling beneath the sleek, tanned skin as he shoved his fingers through his hair. The movement drew her gaze to the breadth of his shoulders. Had she made those scratches? Embarrassment flamed her face.
“Would you like to shower?” he asked in a flat, unreadable voice, without turning.
She blinked and looked away. “No. Thank you.”
She wanted a shower. But not here. Not now. What if he decided to join her? He’d bought her. Did that mean she’d forfeited the right to say no? She hadn’t yet come to terms with the pleasure he’d wrung from her tonight, so she wasn’t ready for another intimate encounter. She had to keep this affair impersonal, because opening up to more than that would make her vulnerable.
But there had been nothing impersonal in what they’d just shared. At least not on her part.
Sex for money. She clutched the thought close—like a talisman. As ugly as it sounded, it was safer than trusting her heart to a man like Franco Constantine. A man with more money and probably more power than her father.
The moment he disappeared into the bathroom Stacy vaulted from the bed and snatched up her clothing. Her hands trembled so badly it took three tries to fasten her bra. In her haste she pulled her panties on wrong-side out, but she didn’t dare take time to remove them and put them on again. She wanted to be dressed before Franco returned. Dressed and ready to leave.
She stumbled over her shoes—she couldn’t even remember removing them—and shoved her feet inside, and then snatched up her dress and dragged it over her head. The zipper stuck in the middle of her back. Frustrated tears stung her eyes as she tugged in vain. She bit her lip, blinked furiously and willed them away.
Gentle hands nudged hers aside. Stacy nearly jumped out of her pumps. She hadn’t heard Franco return. His knuckles brushed against her spine, raising goose bumps as he fiddled with the zipper, freed the fabric and pulled up the tab.
Stacy stiffened her resolve and met his gaze in the mirror. His broader nak*d form framed hers. Her hair was a mess and her lips were swollen, but she didn’t care. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
His jaw shifted. All signs of passion had vanished from his face, leaving his features hard and drawn. “I’ll drive you.”
“I’ll wait in the living room.” She bolted.
“Stacy.” His voice halted her on the threshold.
Reluctantly, she turned. Her breath caught at the sight of Franco in all his nak*d glory standing with one knee cocked and his torso slightly angled in her direction. The man had a body worthy of the beefcake calendar someone had given Candace at her bridal shower. His chest was wide and covered with dark curls, the muscles clearly defined, but not bulky like a body builder’s. A line of hair led to a denser, darker crop surrounding a masculine package any centerfold would be proud to claim, and his legs were long and strong.