A Price Worth Paying?

by Trish Morey

  ‘I said no!’ She shoved hard against his chest and wheeled away but he had hold of her hand and she was at arm’s length again before he snapped her breathlessly back into his embrace.

  ‘You bastard!’ With her hands at his shoulders, she pushed herself away as far as she could, but his arms were wound around her waist, his eyes intent on hers, and she could do nothing as he moved in a circle around her, his body as tight, his movements as purposeful as the dancer they’d seen. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I am dancing. With my wife. Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Yes!’ When it meant his hands were like steel bands around her and his muscled chest like a wall under her hands. She’d seen that chest naked and in all its glory and now her fingers drank in every detail of the feel of him. He was so hard and lean and magnificent and she wanted to be nowhere near him because she didn’t want her hands to tell her these things.

  ‘I can’t dance. Not this.’

  ‘You will find it easier if you put your arms around my neck.’

  Easier? Perhaps, but at least her hands wouldn’t be subjected to the play of muscle under skin. Her grip relaxed, her hands sliding their way around his neck. He growled, a low sound of appreciation that rumbled its way into her bones as he spun her in a circle around him.

  And then he slid one hand up behind his neck and took one of her hands in his own, drawing it down to his mouth to kiss the palm of her hand. She gasped, the sensation of his tongue flicking across the sensitive skin, the look of his eyes so darkly intent on hers, the music made for couples, the feel of his arm wrapped tightly around her waist—it was too much.

  He took one slow step, and then another, drawing her across the sand. Long purposeful steps. Powerful. Dramatic. He guided her back, leading her with his touch and his body before he spun her around and dropped her low over his arm, holding her so securely that even for one so inexperienced she was never in any danger of falling. ‘You see,’ he said, drawing her slowly up again, held tight against his body, setting up a delicious friction in her breasts and her belly and the aching place between her thighs, ‘you can do this.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she said, because she was enjoying it too much, this feel of him hard against her as they moved across the sand.

  ‘That’s what makes it so good,’ he told her, turning her slowly in his embrace. ‘Conflict and desire in one explosive package.’

  ‘Who said anything about desire?’

  He spun her then, her wedding gown spinning out in layers with her, and pulled her back first against his chest, his arms locking her so close she gasped when she felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her behind. Blatant. Shameless.

  Arousing.

  And every muscle inside her contracted in response.

  She should be outraged. She should demand to be let go. But instead heat pooled between her aching thighs, her breasts felt heavy and hard and it was all she could do not to squirm her bottom harder against him.

  ‘Your body does, every time we touch.’

  She shuddered, knowing there was no denying it but not wanting him to take any satisfaction from it. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I like you. It’s purely a physical reaction.’

  Behind her he laughed, the sound rippling through her flesh, his warm breath fanning her ear. ‘Oh, I’m good with old-fashioned lust.’

  And she realised the enormity of what she’d just admitted to, the admission she’d made. ‘No!’ she cried, fighting her way out of the prison of his arms, desperate to flee. He was too confident, too damned smug, too damned right. ‘It doesn’t mean—’

  But once again she was no match for his speed and strength, no match for his determination. He caught both her wrists as she fled, snaring her back, plastering her against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, his face just inches from her own as his fingers curled through her hair.

  ‘It means you want me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I want you.’

  ‘No.’ But this time her voice was more a plea than a protest.

  He smiled then, his eyes locked with hers, his thumb stroking her parted lips. ‘What does it take, I wonder, to make you say yes?’

  ‘Never,’ she breathed, knowing it would do no good, her eyes already locked on the mouth hovering over hers, already contemplating his coming kiss, anticipating it, already tasting him.

  Even so, when his kiss came, when his fingers tangled in her hair and his mouth meshed with hers, still she was unprepared for the maelstrom that followed, the storm that was unleashed inside her. Like a flooded river bursting its banks, her need spilled over, threatening to swamp her under the deluge.

  She clung to him like a drowning person clung to a rock, as sensation ruled her world and threatened to sweep her away on the sensual tide of his taste and hot mouth and how he made her feel.

  Desirable.

  Desired.

  Delicious.

  He feasted on her and she let him, because that gave her licence to feast upon him, to taste his mouth and his salty skin, to relish the texture of his whiskered jaw as it rubbed against her cheek.

  She clung to him because she did not want to let him go, now she had finally unleashed her hands on him and could drink in his perfect body through thirsting, seeking fingers.

  She clung to him because she could not let him go and stop this thing now that it had started, this thing she had denied herself for so achingly, pointlessly long.

  Her lips parted easily under the assault of his feasting mouth and tongue, her hands clinging to him as she opened to his kisses and passion became her master.

  Passion, and the music she could still hear, the drumbeat that called to her on some primitive level and that guaranteed this moment was all important; that promised that this moment was pivotal to her entire existence.

  She believed it as he swept her into his kiss, and swept any remaining logic away in the process. His breath was hot as his mouth slipped from her mouth to her throat and she gasped in the night air. His hands left hot trails on her back and she arched against him, no longer bothering to pretend it wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be.

  He was hot. So hot. And her need turned suddenly combustible, from flood into flame, threatening to consume her with its heated promise.

  And pressed against him, her thigh between his, her belly against his hip, the rigid column of his erection promised more heat. Promised all she needed and more.

  Much more.

  She wanted it. She wanted him to fill her and to feel him deep inside her and that need was premier.

  Despite his blackmail. Despite his smug certainty that it would happen.

  And she learned something about herself then, in the scorching heat of his hot mouth and stroking tongue and seeking, inquisitive hands. She learned that she could tolerate blackmail, forgive arrogance and sweep aside the worst character faults, if this was to be her reward.

  ‘I want you,’ he said, wrenching himself breathlessly from his kiss, one hand curled around her breast, his fingers stroking over her nipple until it was achingly hard, his other hand sliding down to tantalisingly cup the curve of her behind. And his declaration was so raw and honest that even if his touch hadn’t already been electric and set her senses on fire she could not deny it.

  ‘I know,’ she gasped.

  ‘You want me,’ he said, a statement rather than a question, and there was a challenge in his eyes, a challenge for her to give in and admit it and utter the word she could not say.

  She did, but still she shook her head, if you could call the half-hearted movement a shake. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘That’s just the point,’ he growled, low in his throat, hesitating just a moment before sucking her into the whirlpool of his kiss. ‘It doesn’t have to.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT SHOULD MEAN something. She wanted so much to disagree with him, she wanted to argue the case for the affirmative. Excep
t with her body jammed tight up against his and his mouth locked on hers, his seeking tongue like an inferno to her senses, it was hard to think straight. It was hard to remember why it was so important.

  And in the end logic got swept away by the tide of need. Making love with this man wasn’t just a contract condition—an obligation. Making love with Alesander was as inevitable as the constant whoosh of the tide or the falling of the night or the rising of the moon. There was no stopping it. It was always going to happen.

  She was in the lift before she realised they’d somehow crossed the road, barefoot and locked in each other’s arms, lost in sensation. She was consumed with heat and him and a need that threatened to engulf her.

  The lift was slow.

  Alesander was faster.

  He had her backed against the wall, one hand tangled in her hair, the other sweeping aside the layers of her skirt in a bid to reach her heated flesh. She gasped, the touch of his hand on her thigh searing, electric, and her body pulsed and ached and vaguely she thought that if the lift didn’t hurry up he might just take her here and now.

  His hand glided higher, his thumb skimmed her mound and a million nerve endings screamed inside her and she wished he damned well would.

  But before he could the lift doors opened and they tumbled out together across the private lobby. He pulled off his jacket while he fumbled for the key, still locked in their kiss. His tie followed as the door opened and he put his hands to her shoulders and put her away from him, his dark eyes almost black with need, his breathing choppy. ‘I was going to do this slowly,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think I can wait that long.’

  Her simmering blood rejoiced. She didn’t want to wait. She couldn’t. Now that she was on this course, now she had made her choice, she didn’t want time to reflect or analyse or allow logic to intervene. There would be time for reflection later. Maybe even time for regret.

  But that was later.

  Right now she had other priorities.

  ‘I don’t want to wait either.’

  And he growled as he swept her up into his arms and kicked the door closed behind them on his way to his bed.

  If he noticed her weight in his arms, he didn’t show it; he was so strong and powerful as he strode purposefully through the apartment, and she was nervous, her heart pounding, knowing and yet not knowing what was to come. She was no innocent. She’d had sex before and there had been times it had been good. Essentially it was the same act of intimacy. There was nothing new.

  And yet something told her that this time was different.

  Maybe because this time she was with a man, who made Damon seem like a boy in comparison.

  Was it wrong of her to imagine just for a moment that this was real? Would it hurt to pretend, just for a little while, that she was a real bride and that this was a real wedding night?

  His room shared the same magnificent view as the living room, the waters of the bay dark with a foaming white edge, framed by the lights of the city and the mountains that stood guard, and all frosted in silver from a lovers’ moon.

  Her view was better.

  Dark-featured and olive-skinned, he was beautiful, this arrogant Spaniard, his hot mouth ripe for pleasure, his body built for sin.

  He let her down slowly and set her on her bare feet without letting her go. Almost—she wanted to believe—almost, as if he couldn’t bear to. His eyes locked with hers, dark eyes storm-tossed and brimming with need—need for her—and the knowledge was as precious as it was empowering.

  When she was back home in her tiny flat in Melbourne, where San Sebastian and arrogant Spaniards and endless sunshine would be nothing but a distant memory, just knowing she’d had a man like Alesander wanting her would be something to pull out on a cold wintry night to warm her frigid bones.

  His dark eyes burned for her. And she might be nothing to him, she knew, but she was the one with him here now. She was the one he wanted now.

  His hands slipped over her shoulders and down the bare skin of her back. Hot. Seeking. She felt the slide of the zip and her strapless gown loosened around her. It was all she could do not to reach for it as it fell away from her breasts. It was all she could do to let the weight of her skirt drag the gown to the floor without trying to cover herself. Until it was too late to do anything and she stood nervously before him, naked but for a lace garter meant for stockings abandoned somewhere with her shoes upon the sand, and the tiny scrap of silk that was her underwear.

  Breath hissed through his teeth as his eyes raked over her, her nipples hardening at the cool caress of air after being constrained by her tight bodice. Her breasts firming, her nipples peaking more with his heated gaze. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured and she let the word sink in and float down like a leaf to some special place deep inside. He touched the pads of his fingers to her throat and like an echo she could feel her heartbeat in his touch. Their gazes locked as he followed the line of her collarbone to her shoulder. His touch was electric, torturous and yet simultaneously exquisite, too damned good to bear, too damned good to stop.

  And when his knuckles drifted lower, her world waited, breathing hitched, her nipples aching to be touched, as his fingers skimmed the curve of her breast.

  It was ecstasy.

  It was agony.

  ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’ Her protesting voice sounded thin and desperate and trembled like her knees.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Do you know how perfect you are? I am in awe.’

  She closed her eyes to stop the words getting in. In case she believed them. ‘What you are,’ she whispered shakily, ‘is overdressed.’

  He laughed, low and deep, that way he did, and her nipples peaked with pleasure. ‘Don’t they say patience is a virtue?’

  ‘Virtue is overrated.’

  He growled and she felt the jolt at her core. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asked, rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger, teasing it mercilessly before he curled his fingers around her breast and squeezed tight.

  She whimpered, her eyelids fluttering closed, and he took her hand before she knew what was happening. ‘Or is this what you want?’

  She gasped when she realised what he had planned. Gasped again at what she felt, the size of him, the strength, and it was her turn to be awed.

  Awed, and grateful too, because she knew she could not have been so bold and he had given her licence.

  He shrugged off his shirt as she tested his length in her fingers. He was so big. Long. Thick. She felt a growing dampness between her thighs. Inner muscles clenched and unclenched in anticipation.

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she confessed, a germ of fear that he would be too large for her no contest for her willingness to try. She licked her lips, hungry at the prospect, already sliding down his zip to slip her hand inside. She squeezed them gently through his silk underwear, so sheer the fabric hid nothing of him, before gliding the back of her nails up his length. ‘Yes, please.’

  He groaned and grabbed her wrist in a hand made of steel. ‘Then you will have me,’ he said, his voice thick around the edges, ‘but not like this. When I come, I want to be inside you.’

  He wasn’t slow after that. He wasted no time lifting her from the circle of her fallen dress and spinning her onto the cloud-soft bed, laying her down almost reverentially upon the coverlet. His trousers lasted no longer than a second after that. His underwear but a blink.

  She caught her breath. Before her stood a god, broad-shouldered and hard chested and sculpted from flesh that had been fired in the kiln of burning need. A flame still flickered in his dark eyes, while his thick erection swayed proudly before him. Hungry. Seeking.

  Magnificent.

  No mere boy like that other one whose name had suddenly vanished from her mind, but a man, fully—no—perfectly formed.

  And she knew what he was seeking and her mouth went dry as he knelt with one knee on the bed and every drop of moisture in her body headed south.
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  He leaned over her, smoothing the tangle of her hair. ‘Suddenly I’m not the one who’s overdressed,’ he murmured and remedied that inequality with a smooth sweep of his hands that bared her totally to him. She revelled at his swift intake of air, before his mouth fell upon hers, his tongue plundering her mouth while his hands plundered her body, seeking treasure, giving pleasure. Spreading heat.

  Every touch, every kiss, every stroke of skin against skin building the heat, so that she thought she would self-combust.

  ‘Alesander,’ she gasped when his fingers circled that tightly wound bud that seemed right now to be the centre of her existence.

  ‘I know,’ he said, lifting his mouth from her nipple, simultaneously soothing her with his words, only to build on her distress with his clever fingers and heated mouth.

  But he didn’t know. He couldn’t, or surely he would do something. ‘Please!’ she begged, breathless and burning up in a firestorm that threatened to overwhelm her.

  And he left her for a moment, a moment where air rushed in against her heated skin and she could catch her breath. A moment before he was back, his body poised over hers.

  ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said, stroking her sex more purposefully now, the tips of his fingers venturing inside, teasing her, driving her inner muscles wild.

  Oh God, she thought, as momentarily relief evaporated in another heated surge. ‘I want you.’

  He smiled. ‘Then you shall have me.’ He dipped his mouth to hers as their bodies touched in the most intimate of connections.

  He was big. She had known that from her first touch. When his tip nudged her entrance and lingered there, she feared he was too big. She was determined he wouldn’t be. She was determined …

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he ordered, withdrawing from the kiss, ‘and look at me.’

  She blinked her eyes open, confused. ‘Relax,’ he said, dipping his head to kiss her lightly on the mouth. ‘Relax and breathe.’