“I … No.” Her body already felt giddy, her thoughts light and fuzzy. She didn’t want to add anything to her system that might encourage the feelings.
“Dance with me,” he said, touching her hand, the sensation of his skin against hers lighting a fire that burned from her fingertips to her chest, settling around her heart. “And don’t tell me you can’t dance, because I’m sure a woman of your … status will have had dance lessons from the time she learned to walk.”
“I don’t dance like this,” she said, flicking a glance back at the dance floor.
“This is how I dance,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her to him. “And since I’m your future husband, you should learn to dance with me, don’t you think?”
“We’re going to tango at our wedding?” she asked, a short laugh escaping her lips as she imagined the seductive dance with the super-traditional Pickett estate serving as a backdrop.
“It would give people something to talk about.”
“We already are something to talk about, Lazaro.”
“I suppose we are,” he said, dark eyes glittering in the dim light of the club. He looked different here. More dangerous. The polish of sophistication he’d cultivated seemed to have worn thin in the past few hours. This was the man she’d known twelve years ago.
Rough around the edges. Utterly deadly to her senses.
“Dance with me,” he said again. Not a question, a demand. One she couldn’t refuse.
She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart thundering so loudly she was certain people around her would be able to hear it, even over the steady beat of the music. But here, no one looked at them, not even at Lazaro. Every couple was totally enthralled with each other, with the movements of their partner.
Lazaro wrapped one arm around her waist and brought her up against his chest, his other hand clasping hers. “Follow my lead.”
She knew she didn’t look like the elegant women dancing around her, but with Lazaro leading, his movements strong and sure, she felt like one of them. She could feel his heart beating hard against her chest, strong and steady, and her steps began to match his, her body moving in rhythm with the beat of his heart.
The music closed in around them, making her feel as if they were alone, everyone else fading into murky, shadowy impressions. Nothing else mattered but Lazaro, the weight of his hand on her waist, the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her.
The strains of the violin wound through Vanessa’s body, filled her, joined the arousal that had been building inside her since the moment she’d walked back into Lazaro’s life, making her feel too full. But also more alive than she’d ever felt before.
Lazaro slid his hand down to the curve of her hip, down lower, edging beneath the daring split in the skirt of her dress. His hand connected with the very top of her stocking, the place where nylon ended and bare flesh began. He curled his fingers in and lifted her leg, curving it around his. It was part of the dance, nothing more sensual than anyone else was doing. And yet it made her feel dizzy with desire, held captive to it, waiting to see what he would do next. Where he would touch her next.
He pulled her closer to him and the hard length of his erection pressed against her stomach. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, bit down on her lip, trying to keep back the sound of pleasure that was trying to escape.
This was real. Sexual. Raw. It stirred primal hunger in her, a sense of feminine power.
He moved his hand from her thigh, back to her hip, his grip tightening. He pulled into his body and she melted against him. It was all part of the dance.
And yet it wasn’t.
He pressed his face against hers, the stubble that had grown in since that morning abrading her cheek, the slight prickle of pain combining with her mounting arousal, making her feel as if she was drowning in sensation.
“Come with me,” he whispered, his voice rough.
He was leading. She was following. This felt like part of the dance too.
And yet it wasn’t.
He brought her into a small alcove just off the dance floor, partly secluded with swaths of fabric that cascaded from the ceiling to the floor.
“Lazaro …” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when he was looking at her as though she was the only thing he could see.
He leaned in slightly and braced himself on the wall behind her, his hand resting by her head, his other arm wrapped around her waist. She was effectively trapped, and she didn’t mind at all.
She tilted her head slightly, hoping that he would take the hint and kiss her. Logic and self-preservation had no place in what was happening between them now. This was about feeling, desire, the kind of passion she’d tasted once twelve years ago and had been starving for every night since then.
He kissed her and she forgot everything—everything but the graze of rough stubble on her cheeks, the velvet slide of his tongue, the firm warmth of his lips. There was nothing else.
She kissed him back with everything she had, all of the pent-up desire that had lain dormant in her for so long. Desire for him.
He cupped her cheek for a moment before sliding his hand through her hair, weaving his fingers into the thick curls. He held her like that, anchored to him, his kiss giving and demanding at the same time. Too much and not enough.
She arched against him, needing to be closer to him, as close to him as she could possibly get. She needed his touch. His hands. Needed him.
He tilted his head and kissed the tender skin beneath her jaw, the curve of her neck, her shoulder. She shivered and he continued down, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. He lifted his hand and cupped her breast, teased her hardened nipple until she was panting, desperate, dying of the want that had taken over her body.
She gripped his shoulders, needing something to hold her to earth. He shifted his hand lower, palming her bottom, coupling it with a kiss to her collarbone. And then he was traveling down again, the tip of his tongue on the curve of her breast, exposed by the low neckline of her gown.
She opened her eyes for a moment and saw a flash of movement through the partly closed curtains. A reminder. Just enough to bring her back to reality.
“Lazaro, stop. We have to stop,” she said, her tongue thick and clumsy, unable to form words effectively.
“No, querida,” he whispered, kissing her throat. “Not yet.”
“But … what … what will people think?”
Lazaro froze, all of the heat, the molten lust that had been roaring through his veins turning into ice.
What will people think?
He tightened his hold on her for a moment and then released her. “Don’t worry, no one here will think anything, Vanessa. No one here knows that you are the Pickett heiress and I’m your housekeeper’s bastard son.” He spat the words from his mouth, vile words that reflected the clash of emotions raging inside him.
She shook her head and took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Lazaro …”
“How will you bear the humiliation of being married to a man like me?” He stepped away from her, his stomach tight with disgust. “Although my money is good enough for you. My ring—” he reached out and took her hand, lifting it so that the diamond caught the light “—seems to be good enough for you.”
“Don’t say that. That’s not fair. I …”
“Don’t say what, Vanessa? Don’t tell you the truth? I’m good enough to marry, as long as I’m bailing you out and giving you a ring that ought to come with its own security detail? Good enough to screw around with in your father’s guesthouse as long as no one sees you slumming it with the boy who cuts the grass?”
“Lazaro …”
“You need me,” he said, his voice sounding like a growl, shocking even him. “Admit it.”
“I …”
Pain tore through him, made him want retribution. “Say it.”
“Or what? You’ll walk away? You’ll forget that you need me?” She pulled away from
him. “Because no matter how much you pretend to disdain me, my father, society, you want your place at the top. And you need me to get it.”
Angry brown eyes clashed with his, a tear, not one of sadness but of pure rage, spilled down her cheek. “I want to go now,” she said, her voice low.
He inclined his head. “Of course, princesa,” he said, the term not meant as one of endearment.
She turned, walking ahead of him, pushing the door open.
It was warmer outside than it was in the club, the night air heavy and clinging, weighing him down, along with what felt like a rock in his gut. She was acting as though she’d been deeply wronged—offended by his touch, most likely. Because he was so beneath her. At least in public.
He curled his hands into fists, holding them so tight the tendons in his wrists ached.
The penthouse was only a couple of blocks away and Vanessa maintained her stony silence the entire way there. Once they were inside the lobby she kept a few paces in front of him, clearly determined not to look at him or acknowledge his presence.
Anger roared to life in him, replacing the unsettling guilt that had momentarily crept in. She wouldn’t have her way. Not now. He wasn’t a boy anymore, at the mercy of her father’s henchman. And she was no longer the princess in a tower, no longer so far above him she could dismiss him at will. She couldn’t just walk away from him.
“You will have to get over your aversion to being seen with me in public, mi amor,” he said.
She stopped mid-stride and turned to face him, her dark eyes shimmering with heat. “Do I also have to get over my aversion to being groped in public? Does it somehow offend you that I want to maintain some level of public decency?”
“You maintain a high level of private decency as well, since you do not allow me in your bed.”
“You take it pretty personally when a woman says no to you. I remember that well.”
“No, what I take personally is a woman thinking I’m good enough to tease, but not good enough to take to her bed.”
She took a step toward him, her lips tightened into a line.
“Is that what you think that was? Me teasing you?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking. If I was thinking I would never have let you touch me.”
“You think that’s the basis for a happy marriage?”
“I think maybe the basis for a happy marriage is not pursuing the union for business purposes, but then, I’m not really an expert.”
“That is a shame, as you have agreed to marry for the benefit of your company. And, as we’ve discussed, no one has forced you into this. And I will not be made a fool of. Not twice. Not by the same woman.”
“You think I made a fool of you, Lazaro?” Her voice was barely raised above a whisper, the force of her emotions making her words tremble. “You weren’t the one pressed up against the wall in a public place and … and you have the gall to be angry at me?”
He took a step toward her, softening his voice. “Is that what bothers you the most, Vanessa Pickett, that I make you lose all of that respectability that’s so important to you and your family?”
“No, what bothers me is that you think nothing of … of … humiliating me like that in public. Treating me like a thing, your possession that you can put your hands on whenever you want to.”
“Is that it? My touch humiliates you?”
Vanessa took a step toward him, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her delicate hands curled into fists. Arousal and lust warred with anger for prime position inside him. His body still wanted her, was still craving her after that small taste he’d gotten back at the club.
It shamed him, how badly he wanted a woman who saw him as she did. And yet, he could not stop himself. He had been craving her for twelve years. There was nothing that could destroy the desire. Not years of separation, not other lovers, not even the anger that was rolling through him like a tidal wave.
He curved his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, his hand drifting down until it touched the rounded curve of her bottom. “I don’t believe that. I think what you really hate, Vanessa, is that no matter what, no matter how much you wish you didn’t, no matter how ashamed you are of it, you want me.”
Her expression was tight, mutinous, her dark eyes blazing with heat and rage. She put her hands on his chest, curled her fingers around the fabric of his shirt and stretched up on her toes, her breasts brushing against him. She kissed him, her mouth hungry on his, the explosion between them making the kiss at the club seem tame, harmless.
Desire was a living entity between them, dark and dangerous, driving them, pushing them. It was like hurtling toward a cliff, knowing they would both go over the edge if they didn’t stop. And yet, knowing that, neither of them stopped.
Lazaro doubted if he could.
She slipped her tongue between his lips, tasting him, teasing him, and a flood of pure lust spread through him, overtaking him. He slid his hand down and cupped her bottom, drew her hard up against his erection.
Vanessa’s stomach contracted when she felt the evidence of his arousal. He still wanted her. And even though she was angry at him, she wanted him. Maybe even more because of that anger, all of her emotions mixing, the anger in her a lit match against flammable desire. She wanted him more than she wanted her next breath, and it didn’t make any sense to her.
Sex, in her mind, had always been about love and roses and perfect moments. This was as far from a perfect moment as she’d ever imagined, and yet she wanted him. All of him. Every last muscular inch.
She slid her hand sideways and wedged her fingers into the gap of his buttoned-up shirt. He was all hot, hard flesh. She traced a line along his skin, the faint scrape of chest hair against her palm sending a shiver of excitement through her.
On the dance floor, she’d felt as if a part of herself had been unlocked, releasing a desire for more of life than she’d been living. It had been a taste of freedom, and now she was starving for it.
She always thought things through. She planned and rationalized and made sure she was making the right decisions for everyone involved, the right decision for her family name.
But now she wanted Lazaro. And it wasn’t about the company, or the marriage or anything beyond the desire to find pleasure in the man who aroused her beyond words.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said, her voice breathy and unfamiliar, her words echoing in the empty lobby.
He looked down at her, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Every hard line of his body was locked and tense, and she could feel his heart raging beneath her palm. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
The knowledge sent a shot of pure giddiness through her, a kind of power she’d never fully understood before.
“I don’t like to be teased,” he said, his voice rough, his accent more pronounced.
“I’m not teasing.” She held his gaze, tried to keep her hands, her legs, from trembling. Her voice at least was steady. She was deadly serious.
“Tell me what you want.” He lowered his head, his lips hovering above hers.
“You,” she whispered, the word torn from her.
“More,” he ground out. “Tell me more.”
Her heart thundered hard, her cheeks hot. “I want …” She swallowed. This wasn’t the time to be timid. There was no room for lies, for self-protection. “I want you. Your hands, your mouth, your …” A shudder of desire racked her body. “I want to make love with you. Tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
FINALLY. Tonight she would be his. At last he would take the edge off of the burning desire that had plagued his sleep since the day he’d first seen Vanessa Pickett.
He growled low in his throat and pulled her to him, kissing her, tasting her, his body on fire with the need to push her up against the wall and take her then and there. It would be so easy to slide that dress up over her hips and have her that way, so easy and so tempting.
He pulled away from her and p
ushed the button on the wall to bring the elevator down. He wanted her, desperately. But he knew she didn’t want a public display. And it mattered. Because when she’d spoken of humiliation, it had been genuine.
His stomach was a tight ball of pain. Her humiliation might simply be because it was him and not some purebred show boy her father had selected for her.
But then, Vanessa’s relationships had never been news- or gossip-worthy, and he had a feeling she was simply private. The intense desire to protect that part of her, to protect her, shocked him.
Even if her humiliation was centered around being caught with him, he found he didn’t want to make her feel that way.
The lift doors opened and he took her hand and led her inside, hitting the button immediately, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary.
She looked at him, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips bright and swollen from kissing him. He cared about her not being humiliated because he wanted her filled with nothing but desire. He wanted her mind blank of everything but the need for him to be inside her, because when he was touching her, that was how he felt, and he wanted her to feel the same.
This moment wasn’t about revenge. It was about satisfying a need that had gnawed at him for the past twelve years.
As soon as the elevator doors opened into the vast living area of the penthouse he took her in his arms again, and she came willingly, her soft, delicate hands sliding over his chest, his back. Her lips were hot and soft against his neck.
Vanessa didn’t think. She just felt. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. She was determined not to let it matter.
She just wanted to feel. She wanted Lazaro. And she was going to have him. There were so many things in life she’d denied herself, so many things she’d wanted that she’d walked away from because of propriety. Lazaro was one of them.
Not now.
This was her moment. All hers. It was only about desire and want and satisfying the ache inside her, filling the cavernous void that had seemed to grow with each passing year.
She’d spent so long drifting. Walking down a path simply because she’d gone too far to turn back. But she didn’t really feel alive. She felt heartburn and angst and stress. But there had to be more than that.
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