He passed her his laptop and she flipped through a few lists. Taste was OK. Could do with a little education, but passable. She selected something mainstream, safe, stood back and felt the bass tones fill the space. That was better…
Michael. She turned. He was frowning at his phone. Then he placed it down on the bar and caught her up in another of those stares. What the hell was going on? Demanding dark eyes drilled straight into hers and made her feel exposed, on fire, exhilarated, choked.
‘Everything OK?’
He nodded as he walked towards her. ‘Fine. Just no word yet from Angelica.’ He tipped his glass. ‘Refill?’
‘Peachy.’
She followed him to the bar. Stood watching. Jiggled her hips in time to the Balearic beats. Felt sort of good. House parties had never been her thing, really. Especially tiny house parties. Big crowds, big music, big hangovers. Absolutely. But there was something sweet and soothing about watching him move about his home, pouring drinks and looking so hot.
‘You here a lot?’
He shook his head as he screwed the top back on the rum bottle. ‘Once, maybe twice a month. But that’s only temporary. I plan to move back once Fern gets a place at university here.’
Tara opened her mouth. Closed it. Things were quiet and calm and maybe, just for once in her life, she should keep her opinion to herself. Not her business after all.
‘Cheers,’ he said, and tipped his glass against hers.
She tipped hers right back, avoided looking up at him. But it was as if he knew. How weird was that? He laughed.
‘I’m not giving you my eyes again, mister. You do strange things with them.’
He laughed again. Put his glass down. Stepped a little closer to her. The atmosphere felt heavy.
He reached for her glass. She held it—held onto the cool, the solid, the known quantity.
‘What things?’
‘Things…’
Her voice trailed off, quietly. He closed his fingers round hers on the glass. Fire round ice. And then she limply let him put hers down too.
His hand cupped her cheek. His fingers trailed across her skin. She closed her eyes and quivered as if she had been holding back a tide. And then she gave in. The moment when she could have stopped it had passed.
He slipped his hand to the back of her neck and hauled her up to his body. She pushed her hands to his chest and felt the muscle she had imagined. His mouth found hers and she moaned deeply as he took her, moulding her lips and tasting. Taking his fill.
He stepped her backwards with him, his mouth still fixed on hers. The hand that had cupped her head now touched and traced a path across her collarbone.
‘Your skin taunts me.’
It was all he said before he resumed his assault on her mouth. He trailed down her bare arm, slow, warm and necessary. She made her own trail up—neck to jaw. A scrape of stubble rubbed at her hands and the scent of woody citrus filled her head. His tongue probed and licked and she fought to keep up. His hands were now on her waist, feeling and learning her shape. She knew he was going to cup her heavy breasts and she longed for it.
‘Touch me, please…’ she said, his mouth swallowing her plea.
And he did. He filled his hands with the heavy weight of each breast and he gently massaged. His thumbs brushed over her nipples through the satin material of her dress, and then he rolled them into points of utter agony and pleasure.
He didn’t ask her what she wanted. He just gave her what she needed.
He scooped her up and strode with her into—it had to be his bedroom. Dropped her to her feet and spun her round.
‘Dress. Off.’
He was worse than rude but she sucked it up like nectar and began to push silk-covered buttons through loops, to unzip and shimmy her dress over her hips. Nothing in the world would stop her getting her fill of him—of those warm strong hands smoothing their way over her skin. Even as she stepped out of it he was working magic with his touch—leaving hot trails in the wake of his fingers.
‘You are so damn hot.’
All he said as he took his hands and mouth from her for a moment. She grabbed at his shirt, fingers useless on the buttons. But he stilled her. Stepped back from her. Looked at her standing in a pool of cream silk satin, her nipples straining hard through the gauze of her bra and her knickers shielding the last of her secrets. She felt as if his look was licking the flames of hell across her skin.
It was a party she’d never been invited to before. And she wanted some.
Her eyes drank him in now. Nothing but pure, firm, wide muscle across his chest. She ran her fingers; then her mouth across it, inhaling and tasting and licking. He pulled off his trousers and her mouth opened in wonder. His thick, long erection jutted out and she couldn’t stop herself from dropping to her knees, wrapping her hand and then her mouth around him.
But he heaved her up by the arms and lifted her to the bed. Placed her down and pushed her back. Then his hands wrapped around her panties and he tugged them down and tossed them aside. She sat back on her elbows and watched his face. He took her ankles and opened her legs, then dipped his head and licked the hottest trail of fire up and over her.
She jerked up and he put his arm across her chest. His head shook.
‘Not yet.’
He dipped his head again and lapped and suckled her mercilessly until she began to feel the fire inside her building and spreading. Burning and blooming through her lower body. She looked down, loving the sight of his dark head nestled between her thighs. His mouth tortured and the spasms built until she lost her mind and her orgasm rolled and crashed. She screamed with the release and then lay still, aftershocks jerking suddenly, gently, quietly.
But his mouth, laced with the taste of her, came down swiftly on her lips, kissing and tonguing and building the fire all over again. He grabbed at her wrists and tugged her up the bed. She followed, unhooked her bra and watched, fascinated, as he sheathed himself with a condom. She longed to feel him inside her—just longed for it.
He wasn’t going fast enough and she moved to sit up.
‘Just lie back, Tara. On your back.’
And she fell back to the bed to watch him. And his eyes held hers again as she felt him nudge her open and then slide deep, deep inside. She whimpered—like a puppy—and then moved with his rhythm. All the time his dark eyes sparked and held hers.
What had she been doing those other times? With men who’d needed a road map?
He loomed above her, wide strong shoulders and caramel skin melding with the warm waves of pleasure that were rolling with every hard thrust.
‘This feel good, Tara?’
Those eyes drilled and held and the intensity built.
‘Hmm, honey? Do you feel it now—the attraction?’
She didn’t give a damn that he was proving his point. He could prove it to hell and back if it made her feel like this.
And she grabbed his head down to hers and kissed him quiet. He leaned forward and flipped her round so that she rode him. She tilted her hips and shifted her weight and still she stared into those eyes. Something else was building—something huge and powerful in her chest—and she felt a moment of fear or wonder.
Then he reached up and touched her mouth. And rocked her even as she rode him. And she knew nothing could be this good ever again with anyone else. Her next orgasm surged and rolled through her as he jerked and exploded deep inside. And all the time his eyes held hers and she felt the burning squeeze in her chest return. Too intense. Too strong.
She closed her eyes. Hung her head and calmed.
A moment passed—two at most—then he threw his arms back and blew out a breath. That would be the sign to hop off, then. She braced her arms on the bed and slid slowly off. He still felt big and thick inside her, and it felt so damn
good. But reality was beginning to dawn along with the early autumn sunrise. They had just had sex. He hadn’t looked at her, touched her or soothed her. He hadn’t said a single word. She was just a lay.
Silence.
The window she passed was undressed and looked out onto all her favourite London landmarks. She paused for a moment, imprinting the view on her mind—all the shapes and colours of skyscape and roofline—bridges, towers, clocks and wheels. All with the flush of dawn behind.
He blew out another long breath. ‘You’d better get dressed.’
‘I am.’ She cast a look round to where he was still lying. Michael Cruz—beautiful, arrogant, not her type at all.
‘Don’t sound sore. I only mean that Angelica and her friends are bound to be here in minute, and it would best if we were ready to welcome her to a party rather than a love-in.’
‘I know what you meant. I said I’m going to get dressed. You don’t mind if I have a little clean-up first, though, do you?’
She knew her tone was bitchy, but he was such a swine. That had to be the worst post-coital talk she’d ever experienced. And she’d walked right into it. What was she even doing here? A favour? To a girl she barely knew and her extremely cosmopolitan sister? And, OK, she felt a solidarity with them, was happy to help them get one over on yet another controlling man.
A controlling man with a legendary sexual reputation that she couldn’t even begin to conjure up any immunity to.
Why had she let herself in for this? What had made her think that she had the emotional wherewithal to pull it off? She needed rules and boundaries. She couldn’t dabble like this! She could flirt. She could most definitely tease. But she knew herself well enough to understand that she invested too much when she took it any further. She couldn’t help it that the heart she wore on her sleeve was just really well covered up. And the camouflage of her comments would be all that he would know.
‘Go right ahead. There’s a bathroom—there.’
He flicked his hand and stood up and she tried hard not to be impressed by that body again, but the man was beyond fit. What a shame his personality was so rank.
She felt around on the cool tiles for the light, but he came up behind her, stretched in and flicked it on. ‘Thanks,’ she said, aiming to shut him out.
But he stepped inside and reached out for her. Her skin was rapidly cooling, and she craved the warmth of his body, but she held herself rigid in his arms. He draped a heavy golden arm across her chest and the contrast was striking. Her milky Celtic skin was the perfect foil to his smooth caramel body. And even with her full breasts and hips she still fitted neatly within his outline.
In some perverse way it pleased her—but in the way that counted it annoyed her that she had gone and done what every other idiotic woman with a pulse seemed also to want to do with him.
Her eyes fell to her treasured necklace. Her grandmother’s ring strung on an old gold chain. The little bit of love she fingered every day. Her little bit of sanctuary and strength. She touched it now, waiting for him to leave her.
‘Look, I need privacy if that’s OK.’
He took the thick, snaky strands of her hair that had worked free and tucked them behind her ear. Trailed his finger under her chain questioningly. She said nothing.
‘Sure,’ he said, but he spun her round and cradled her face. Kissed her. Slow and sweet. ‘Whatever you want.’ He gave her one more kiss and then pulled back. Trailed his finger down her shoulder and her arm. ‘Beautiful.’
She watched the door close behind him and made a face. They were all beautiful—every one of the ten thousand women he must have slept with. And she was number ten thousand and one. What kind of fool was she that she couldn’t even resist him?
She looked at the mess that stared back from the mirror—everything wiped off or smudged. She looked like her mother—weak and worried. And she felt sick at that.
* * *
Michael must have used another shower, because he looked like an aftershave advert when she finally got herself out of the bathroom and along to where coffee seemed to be brewing.
‘Still no sign?’ she said, thinking that surely Angelica would be making an appearance soon.
He shook his head and sipped at the coffee. ‘No. Change of plan, apparently. Coffee?’
She shook her head. Who drank caffeine at this time in the morning? She had already filed this night in the ‘delete’ folder and was going to ditch the party at
Jonny’s and head right back to her bed.
‘So what was the change?’
He had his back to her and again she felt her eyes drawn to examine the way he moved, the slide of his muscle under fabric.
‘Seems like everybody had enough of a good time at the club and by the time she got to her apartment she just decided to stay there. I don’t have any missed calls—do you?’
Tara’s mind whirred. What the hell was the right thing to say here? Surely something had happened so that Angelica had never made it over? Something with Fern, perhaps?
‘Dunno. I’ll check in a minute. So…’
‘So you can have coffee, but the car’s waiting when you’re ready.’
He was sitting on a bar stool, the morning paper flicked out and open on the honey wood work surface. He raised the irritatingly small espresso cup to his mouth and she had the overwhelming urge to smack it right out of his self-satisfied hand.
‘For the record, Michael, I reckon I misjudged you. I thought you were merely arrogant. But now I see that I was way off. You managed to single-handedly spoil a night that I’d been looking forward to for weeks. You’re beyond arrogant. You know that?’
‘Interesting. I spoiled your night.’ He spoke to his newspaper. ‘So you’ll be ready to go? I’ll phone down to let the driver know you’re on your way.’
Tara scooped up her bag. And what was left of her pride. Could not get out of there fast enough.
Her heels sank into and caught on the thick pile of the carpet as she made her way to the door. Hot sharp tears pushed against her eyes. How could she have let herself down so badly? What on earth had she been thinking, having sex with a guy like that? No amount of pleasure was worth being made to feel like a hooker—an unwelcome hooker at that. He had totally wiped out every post-orgasm happy hormone and nuked her self-esteem. And, worst of all, she had let him. She should have acted breezy—even if she didn’t feel it. Should have climbed off and swung her bra over her head in celebration. She really shouldn’t be allowing his dismissal of her to hurt her like this. She was Tara Devine. She didn’t give a damn.
Except she did. She so did. And it was so, so sore.
But every day was a school day. After what she’d been through it had to be. And this was small stuff compared to some of her other life lessons. She just wished she’d been better prepared. That she could wear her heart anywhere other than her sleeve.
THREE
‘I’m not buying it, Angelica. Where is she?’
Michael strode through the hallway of Angelica’s chi-chi apartment, his scowl black and irritation bubbling.
‘Good morning, Michael. So we’re in one of those moods? What happened last night? I hope you weren’t this rude to Tara—were you?’
Michael tracked Angelica with his eyes as she glided through the perfectly furnished space. And that wasn’t a question he was prepared to answer either—no one’s business but his.
He looked for evidence of…anything, but the place was immaculate. Though Angelica did look drawn, which was a pretty unusual occurrence. She busied herself in the kitchen.
‘Don’t put coffee on for me—I’ve had too much already.’ He’d thrown it down his neck as he’d tried to force out flashbacks of Tara’s shock at his comments to her.
It had been the night from hell and he knew he’d been manipu
lated—he just didn’t know why. But one thing was certain: the idea of losing control to a woman did not sit well with him. And he’d come very close to that last night. Hadn’t been able to stop himself from taking her. When was the last time he had shown such complete contempt for his own values? He hated that out of control feeling—it was too fresh in his mind, even though it was over twenty years now since he’d truly been in a tailspin.
‘Where is our sister?’
‘Oh, Michael—for heaven’s sake, she’s in her bed! She’s been working all week and she’s only young. Try to remember what it was like and give her a little rope. Hmmm?’ Angelica flicked on the coffee-maker and swept about, producing crockery and cream.
The trouble was he remembered only too clearly what it was like to be young. Not the details, but enough to know that night was day, uppers balanced downers and sex was available everywhere. Enough to realise that it was a carefully choreographed disaster, directed by his management and enjoyed by his fans. And had he not had the cold shower of his mother’s death it might have ended up for him the way it had for too many others.
So when Angelica suggested ‘a little rope’ he would be using it to tie Fernanda down until she was mature enough to cope with it. Different story if she’d been like Angelica—but she was too volatile still. And this interest in the fashion scene was a worry. One that had to be carefully watched. Starting now.
‘Breakfast? Have you eaten?’
‘No, thanks—nothing.’
He walked on into the apartment and up to the spare bedroom, knocked swiftly on the door, cocked an ear and entered. The smell of booze hit him square in the face. He walked to the sleeping mound and stood over her. She was zoned out. Totally. So she had hit a wall last night.
He moved to the window and pulled open the curtains. Then back to the bed.
‘Morning, Fernanda.’
‘She needs to sleep, Michael—leave her be.’
Angelica had come in and was fussing about, lifting clothes and folding them. The room looked like a thrift shop. There was a huge glass of water at the side of the bed and jewellery and clothes trailed everywhere.
Dressed to Thrill Page 4