Exotic Nights: The Virgin’s SecretThe Devil’s HeartPleasured in the Playboy’s Penthouse

by Abby Green

  Marcos looked concerned. “But you have not eaten. Surely that will help.”

  “I’m not very hungry after all.”

  Francesca didn’t wait for a reply as she turned away. She simply couldn’t look at the man and child any longer, at how natural they looked together. Marcos was meant to be a father, but she was not the woman who could give that to him.

  And that knowledge hurt far more now than it would have only a few days ago.

  Francesca couldn’t sleep. She’d spent the evening in her room, watching the small television, flipping through magazines, and trying to read a book. She’d been starving after a few hours, but just when she was ready to leave her room in search of food, a girl arrived with a tray. Sent by Señor Navarre, she’d said. Francesca had thanked her and taken the tray to her bed, where she finished everything on the plate and tried not to think about the fact that Marcos had been considerate enough to send her food.

  Now, Francesca climbed from bed and pushed back the curtains. The waxing moon was in the gibbous phase, not quite full yet, slanting down over the vineyard and illuminating the rows. She dragged on a pair of jeans, a light sweater, and her tennis shoes. It was late, but a walk in the brisk air would do her a world of good right now.

  The night was quiet as she emerged from the darkened house. A light burned in one window. Someone else couldn’t sleep, or maybe they were afraid of the dark. She wondered about Armando, about his mother Ana Luis. Perhaps the little boy couldn’t sleep, and Ana was trying to soothe him. He was truly an adorable child. He had the dark curls that she imagined a child of Marcos’s might have. A pang of regret shafted through her at the thought.

  Francesca walked down the manicured lawn and crossed the edge of the vineyard. The rows were straight, narrow, but not as filled with vegetation as they would be once the season progressed. The leaves were new, the vines still growing from the hardened, twisted stumps in the ground. It always amazed her to see a grapevine, to see how the roots were so gnarled and looked almost dead. But every year, faithfully, vines shot forth onto the wired rows meant to hold them. Without fail, beauty grew from the twisted, ugly stumps.

  She walked deeper into the vineyard, emerging at a spot where the rows crossed into another direction. A lone tree stood at the center of the clearing. Another gnarled beast, she decided, recognizing it for an olive tree. But why a single tree in the center of the vineyard?

  Something moved at the mouth of the row across from her. Her heart shot into her throat and she turned as if to run back toward the house.

  “Who’s there?” a voice said.

  Relief cascaded through her. And heat. Always, always the heat. “It’s me,” she said, “Francesca.”

  She could make out the white of his shirt, the darkness of his jeans as he moved toward her.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “You?”

  He stopped in front of her. Scraped a hand through his hair. “The same.”

  He smelled good, like spice and citrus and outdoors. The warmth of his body reached out and enveloped her. Comforted her.

  “Do you often walk at night?” she asked.

  “Not in Buenos Aires. But here, yes. I like the quiet stillness of the vineyard.”

  Her thoughts exactly. “Why is this tree here? It seems rather lonely.”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied, turning his head toward the olive tree. “It was always here. It is very old, I believe. We have a grove, but this tree stands alone.”

  “Maybe it’s a special tree.”

  “Perhaps.” He took a step closer. “And how is your head? Are you feeling better?”

  “A bit, thank you,” she said. “Did Armando finish his dinner?”

  She could see the flash of his teeth in the moonlight. “Sí, he ate everything. And then he had a small slice of cake.”

  “You were very good with him.”

  He shrugged. “He is a child. It’s not hard to please them really.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t married and had tons of kids by now,” she said. “I’d have thought that would be one of your priorities.”

  “And what made you think that?”

  “The Navarre Dynasty, the Corazón del Diablo. Who will you leave all this to?”

  “There is Magdalena and her children. The Foundation.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “So you don’t want children then?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He took another step toward her. “What is all this about, Francesca?”

  She shrugged, pushing her hands into her jeans pockets. “Just curious, that’s all.”

  “I’m curious about something, too. I’m curious about why your engagement didn’t work out.”

  “Robert decided marriage wasn’t for him.” She shrugged again. “C’est la vie.”

  “And you have not been with a man since. I find this extraordinary.”

  “It’s not, really. I’ve been busy, and I haven’t been interested enough in anyone to take the next step.”

  He hooked a finger in her jeans pocket, tugging her closer. “You seem interested in me.”

  “We’re married,” she said, her breath catching as desire shot through her limbs. “And it’s part of your damn contract.”

  “So you would make love with me because of the contract?”

  “I didn’t think I had a choice.”

  A finger twirled in her hair. “You always have a choice, Francesca. But I think you will choose me.”

  “You are far too confident in yourself.” But her blood was humming and her body was beginning to ache with need.

  “No, but I am confident in this feeling between us. There is something …”

  His head dipped, his lips ghosting over hers.

  “Something?” she asked a touch breathlessly.

  His arms went around her, pulling her in close as she automatically put her own around his neck. “There is something about you, something I very much want to explore …”

  “But last night—”

  “Last night was wrong. Tonight—tonight is right.”

  She didn’t ask why it was right. Last night had been different. And, she realized, it wasn’t worth traveling old territory when what mattered was here and now. She ached to soothe him, to take away his pain and his nightmares, but she didn’t know how to do it.

  All she knew was that she was ready for this. Amazingly, unbelievably—she wanted him. Without fear or regret. There would be consequences, she knew that, but she was so ready to push past her fear and insecurity and experience this with him. With the man she’d once loved more than any other.

  With the man she could love again.

  Francesca shuddered as their lips met. What was she getting herself into? But, oh God, how could she resist?

  His mouth was magical, his kiss insistent and confident. Her limbs softened, her body turning liquid. She was jelly in his arms.

  He pulled back. “Unless you wish to make love al fresco, we need to return to the house.”

  “I don’t care, Marcos,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the warm skin of his neck. He smelled so good, so vibrant and alive.

  “I might not either, except that we have no blankets—and the night is chilly.”

  She acknowledged that could be a problem. That and she didn’t know what kind of bugs crawled around in vineyards at night. “Then I’ll race you back,” she said before sprinting into the night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MARCOS LET HER win the run to the house. She hesitated when she reached the threshold, but he grabbed her hand and led her toward her room. The one thing he never did was spend the entire night with his lovers. Usually, he took them to hotels or met them at their place, but he rarely took them home to his. And when he did, he bundled them off before daybreak.

  He did not sleep with anyone. Ever.

  Francesca was the first woman to catch him in the midst of his nightmares,
but still he would not share his sleep with her. He would make love to her—was dying to do so, really—but he would return to his own room when they’d exhausted each other too much for more love making.

  When they reached her room, she seemed to grow suddenly shy. She moved away quickly, before he could take her in his arms again, and busied herself with tidying up a stack of magazines on the bedside table.

  “You are having second thoughts?” he asked, because he was never willing to dance around the truth.

  “N-no, not at all,” she said with a toss of her glorious hair. She looked defiant. Like a scared little kitten trying to be brave.

  Marcos smiled. “Ah, mi gatita,” he said softly. “There is nothing to be frightened of. I will be gentle with you.”

  “Who said I was afraid? Really, Marcos, you think too much of yourself.”

  He laughed. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and cast it off. The blood pounded in his veins, urging him to take her now, but he would not do so. He intended to use the utmost control, to take it slow and thorough. To make up for eight years of wanting. Surprisingly, the wanting was as much his as it was hers. He hadn’t considered consummating their relationship back then, but since he’d seen her again, he regretted not having done so. An odd feeling, to be sure, but there was no use questioning it.

  He crossed to her, while she watched with wide eyes, and wound his hands in her mane of hair.

  “So much hair,” he said, “so beautiful. I do not know why you never wore it this way before.”

  Her gaze dropped. He could see the pulse beat in her throat. And in that moment, he found her more attractive than he could ever remember finding any woman. Francesca had that killer combination of wide-eyed innocence and a deep sensuality she seemed unaware she possessed. He wondered, only for a moment, if this was another act, a metamorphosis of her persona eight years ago.

  But, no, he didn’t believe that. The woman who’d fought him for the sake of an old man she loved did not need to resort to playing games now. What would be the point anyway? They were here, in this room, and he was going to strip her slowly and make love to her for as long as he was able.

  And, Dios, he was going to enjoy it.

  Francesca felt like she was viewing the scene from somewhere up above. Surely Marcos Navarre was not standing before her shirtless and tugging her toward him by gently winding her hair around his fist. Surely his eyes weren’t ablaze with heat for her? The bulge in his jeans was not because of her.

  But there was no one else in the room.

  She slipped her arms around his naked waist, the heat of his skin sizzling into her like a brand. Then she tilted her head up and closed the distance between their mouths before he could do it. She was afraid that if she didn’t, she would wake and discover this had only been a dream.

  The kiss was far gentler than she’d thought it would be, gentler than the kiss in the vineyard had been. It was as if he was trying too hard to be careful with her.

  “Marcos,” she said against his lips, “I’m not going to break. Kiss me.”

  “I am kissing you,” he murmured.

  “Really kiss me. Like you mean it.”

  “Oh, I mean it.”

  She gasped as he cupped her face in both hands, his mouth coming down on hers hotly. If she thought they’d shared a passionate kiss before now, she was mistaken. This kiss was so much more, so full of heat and passion and longing that she didn’t know how they’d ever make it to the bed before they went up in flames.

  His hands left her face, slipped beneath her sweater and pushed it upward. They broke the kiss long enough for him to rip it over her head, and then they were kissing again. Francesca reached for the fastening of his jeans while he unsnapped her bra and tugged it off her arms.

  She wrapped her arms around him again, and then she was pressed against him, naked chest to naked chest. The sensation was exquisite, so full of heat and sensation that she wanted to moan with the pleasure of it.

  But then Marcos swept her into his arms, never breaking the kiss, and she clung to him with heady anticipation. A moment later, he laid her on the bed, following her down. It felt wicked to be here like this, him on top of her, both still clad in jeans, their bodies grinding together through the barrier of fabric.

  She was on fire. Absolutely on fire. Arcs of electricity shot through her core, tingling into her limbs. Marcos broke the kiss and sat up as he started to remove her jeans.

  “We need to turn off the light,” she blurted.

  He stopped what he was doing. “I want to see you.

  All of you.”

  “No—Marcos, I can’t.”

  His brows drew down. “Why not? Because you think I will disapprove of something? Dios, you are a naïve woman.”

  She crossed her arms over her bare chest and bit her lip. “I’m self-conscious, that’s all.”

  “I know this. And I intend to prove to you how beautiful you are to me.” He stripped her jeans and panties in a smooth motion, then stood and shoved his own pants down his hips. His penis sprang free, glorious, erect—and, wow, more than she’d expected. “Do I look as if I’m turned off by your body, mi gatita?”

  Francesca shook her head, a hot feeling bubbling up inside her at the sight of him. He was truly magnificent. And she was a very lucky woman right this moment.

  Marcos stretched out over top of her, his weight pressing her into the bed. Dizzily, she thought it must be the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced—because she wanted him so badly, had wanted him for years. And she was about to have him. The anticipation was excruciating, amazing …

  Marcos slid down her body. “I’ve been wanting to do this …”

  He cupped her breasts, pushing them together so that he could suckle each one in turn. He used his tongue and teeth, licking and nipping her ever so lightly while she squirmed beneath him, the pleasure so exquisite she thought would surely expire of it before much longer.

  “Marcos—oh …”

  “You are delicious, Francesca. Everything a man could want …” he said against her damp skin.

  His mouth made a hot path to her belly button, and then he was moving lower, pressing a kiss to her hip, her abdomen.

  Francesca gasped as he moved lower. She would never survive it. Never.

  “Marcos, don’t—”

  He said something in Spanish then, something hot and dark that melted the words in her throat, melted her fear. And then he was parting her thighs, gazing at her.

  She wanted to pant with the anticipation of it. It’d been so long, so damn long since she’d felt pleasure.

  Marcos parted her with his thumbs, and then his mouth was there, licking and sucking that part of her that had been neglected for so many years. Francesca didn’t have even a moment to build up to her release; she shattered immediately, the world turning into a bright white burst of feeling that wrung a sharp cry from her before it let her go.

  “Madre de Dios,” Marcos breathed. “You are incredibly sexy, Francesca. Never doubt this.”

  And then he was taking her over the edge again with his lips and tongue, before moving up her body and kissing her while she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He groaned low in his throat, halting his forward motion. “I had intended to go slower, but I find I cannot wait. You must tell me if it’s too much, if I hurt you.”

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said, threading her hand through his hair and arching up until her breasts were touching his chest. How much she’d wanted to do this with him so many years ago, before she even understood what it really entailed. To let him be the first—and only—man in her life.

  “You might be tender after so long.”

  “I really don’t care. I want you, Marcos.” How freeing to say those words, openly, and know he felt the same. At least in this.

  She tugged his head down, fusing her mouth to his. Marcos must have surrendered to the inevitable, because he slid into her body in one long glide that took her breat
h away.

  Francesca tilted her hips up, then gasped at the lightning bolt of sensation streaking through her. Marcos tore his mouth from hers.

  “Don’t move,” he said harshly, his eyes glazing. “For God’s sake, don’t move.”

  She did it again, her breath snagging in her chest, her body sizzling. “But it feels amazing …”

  So amazing she wanted to cry with the wonder of it.

  His jaw was granite. “Sí, but this will be over far too soon if you don’t stop moving.”

  She caressed his cheek, joy welling inside her, making her giddy. “Oh, Marcos, why didn’t you tell me you had premature issues?”

  He swore. And then he laughed, though she knew he tried not to. “Why do you amuse me even now? Is this not serious to you?”

  “Very.”

  “And to me,” he growled. Then he flexed his hips. A shiver began at the top of her head and rolled to her toes. It was so unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. All thought of teasing him flew from her head. Raw need was a clarion blast in her soul.

  “Marcos—”

  When he rolled his hips forward again, she couldn’t remember what she’d been about to say. Couldn’t think. Could only feel.

  “Oh yes, mi gatita,” he said, somehow still capable of thought and speech, “it is very serious indeed.”

  When he withdrew and surged forward again, Francesca was lost to everything but what their bodies did. The way they rose and fell together, their breaths mingling, tongues tangling, the rhythm of their thrusts becoming more and more frenzied. It was as if they fought each other, and yet it wasn’t a fight at all. It was a tango, a beautiful dance that required each partner to give everything to the other in pursuit of satisfaction.

  The air in the room was charged, zinging with electricity, and she felt as if she were drawing all of it into her body, concentrating it in her core until it would inevitably burst forth and incinerate her in the process.

  It seemed to last forever and not long enough. She had no warning before she was flung into space, gasping and shuddering, her body dissolving into nothing ness. She heard Marcos’s groan of satisfaction, felt the power of his final thrust, the tremors in his body as he found his release.