by Aimee Carson
“Yes, sir,” Charles said. “But before you do you should know that you already sent Ms. Hunt flowers, thanking her for her efforts on behalf of the Samba.”
Surprised at the news, Paulo set the paper down. “How thoughtful of me,” he said dryly. “What kind of flowers did I choose?”
“A delicate blend of orchids and gardenias.” Charles frowned, suddenly looking concerned. “I hope you don’t mind my doing so, sir.”
“No, not at all, Charles. It’s your job to make me look good. And you do it well.”
“Thank you,” he said, his somber air returning. “Have a good evening.”
As Charles left, Paulo raked the hair from his forehead.
Man…he’d spent an incredible night with a stunning, sexy woman and it was his manager who had thought to send her flowers. Not for the sex, of course, but because of the bang-up job she’d done promoting his hotel. So he’d had two good reasons to send Alyssa flowers and he hadn’t. Paulo frowned.
If he wasn’t careful he’d wind up as self-absorbed as his brother.
With a sigh, he looked at his watch. He was supposed to meet Nick at the racetrack in two hours. His frown faded to a grin. But first there was a luscious lady down the hall he needed to see.
The sweet smell of gardenias filled her office, bringing a smile to Alyssa’s face as she ticked off her day’s accomplishments, happy with her progress. She’d updated her priority list, compiled the catering bids for the Mayor’s birthday party, and reviewed her notes on the new audiovisual company.
Transfer of her revised to-do list complete, she disconnected her phone from her laptop just as a knock sounded in the room. Paulo poked his head through the door, a devilish look on his handsome face. And faster than a high-speed internet connection she wanted him again. Her nipples tightened in response. Whoa. What had this man turned her into?
“You busy?” Paulo asked.
Alyssa crossed her arms across her breasts to hide the reaction. “Depends on what you have in mind.”
Paulo stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against the wall, hands behind his back. The look he gave her made her skin tingle. “Oh, I definitely think you’re going to like what I have in mind.” He tipped his head, his eyes lit with mischief. “Are you done with work for the evening?”
She couldn’t control her body’s response to the words. Anticipation hummed, the heated blood in her veins warming her to her toes. Since their night together not ten minutes had passed without a picture of Paulo popping into her head. And in every one of them he was naked.
She really was a degenerate.
“Paulo,” Alyssa said, growing serious as she glanced at the door, “I’m not sure the office is a good idea.”
“Why not?” His voice took on a hint of danger, leaving no doubt what he had in mind. “It’s six o’clock. Everyone in this hall is gone.” Hands still behind his back, he approached her. “I locked the door.” His eyes dropped to her chest and his voice turned to a throaty rumble. “And the walls are thick enough to block all that noise you’ll make.”
Alyssa ignored the blazing heat that flared higher. “And you won’t be making any noise?”
His eyes went dark. “It turns me on just listening to you…” His voice died away, leaving Alyssa breathless, too. “Get ready to make some noise, Ms. Hunt.” Paulo sent her a cocky grin and pulled his hands from behind his back, dropping a newspaper on her desk. “A little light reading for your evening enjoyment.”
Confused, Alyssa reached for the paper. Across the front page was a gorgeous spread of photos of the hotel. Recovery from the abrupt turn of events was slow, but she finally managed to skim through the article, her smile growing as she registered the praise. When she reached the end she read it again, just for fun. Feeling positively giddy, she looked up at Paulo and let out a laugh.
Eyes sparkling with humor, Paulo perched on the edge of her desk. “Charles says people are clamoring to schedule the hotel for their receptions. Things are about to get even busier around here.” His voice wicked with amusement, he went on, “And you thought I came in here for something else.”
Alyssa shot him a scolding look, but it was half-hearted at best. “That’s what you wanted me to think.” Even worse, she was disappointed he’d only been teasing. She had an overwhelming urge to make him squirm in return. Her eyes landed on the gardenias. “Paulo, I meant to thank you…” She didn’t have to work hard for the dreamy quality in her voice. “Sending me these beautiful flowers.” She watched his grin fade, holding back her smile. “I can’t tell you how much they mean to me.”
For a brief moment Paulo looked positively speechless. Alyssa reached for her phone, snapping a photo of him.
“What was the picture for?” He asked, clearly stumped by the sequence of events.
Alyssa let out a small laugh. “To capture the struggle on your face as you worked out how to explain the flowers weren’t from you.”
“How did you know?”
Alyssa pulled the card from the arrangement, releasing the scent of gardenias, and read, “‘Dear Ms. Hunt. Thank you so much for your efforts. Your diligence, efficiency and attention to detail made for a delightful evening. Sincerely, Mr. Domingues.’”
Alyssa arched an eyebrow. “Either Charles sent it…” she lobbed him a look as she tossed the card on her desk “…or you need to work on your moves, Mr. Domingues.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my moves.” He grinned down at her, and his voice dropped. “You want me to show you one of them now?”
Stunned, she bit the tip of her tongue. Yes. She wanted to tell him yes! It was what a modern woman would do. Take charge of her sexuality. Embrace the temptation that was consuming her. Her temperature spiraled higher, and she opened her mouth to answer.
But a randy rendezvous on her desk would be way out of line.
At the last second she chickened out, glancing at the cell phone in her hand. “I still need an hour or so to answer my messages.”
The moment the wimpy words left her lips she wanted them back. A look of challenge flashed in Paulo’s eyes, as if she’d thrown down a gauntlet. And then his gaze turned from milk chocolate to dark.
He took her phone, set it aside, and lifted her chin with his finger. “Maybe I should remind you of what you’re missing.”
Heat infused her limbs, leaving them weightless, and she waited in anticipation as Paulo leaned forward and touched his mouth to hers. Small whisper-kisses. Subtle, feathery kisses. A gentle exploration that was more of a tease than a touch—until he finally opened her mouth with his. Her lips went soft, and her body followed close behind. With a sigh, she leaned into him.
She’d missed this. It had only been three days, but she missed how he made her feel. The delicious slide of tongue on tongue left her craving more.
And more was what she got when Paulo hoisted her onto the edge of the desk. With his mouth still on hers, he pushed her skirt high, and she wiggled her hips to aid his efforts. She didn’t mount a peep of a protest when his hands slid under her blouse to release the front clasp of her bra. He cupped her bare breasts, and his thumbs began to circle her nipples. The tips tingled, grew hard, and her groan was loud against his lips.
He leaned back to watch her face, his breathing heavy. As his hands drove her temperature to critical, he whispered, “Shall I go and come back in an hour?”
Eyelids stretched wide, she stared at him. Not fair. He was teasing her. And how did he manage to get her so hot and bothered while he still had the power to pull back? She frowned. “Listen, mister,” she said with a decided twang. She grabbed his shirt and hauled him closer, pulling him firmly between her legs. “Don’t you dare.”
The brash demand and bawdy action brought a warm flush to her cheeks. Maybe she’d been too aggressive? One night together and she thought she’d learned all she needed to know. Had experienced everything. It was frightening to discover she hadn’t plumbed the full extent of her passion, her sexuality. Ju
st how deep did it go?
And how lewd could she get?
But the grin on Paulo’s face was huge. “That was hot.”
And then he kissed her again, hard, as if inspired, chasing away the doubts. His tongue stroked hers in time with the drag of his thumbs across her nipples. Swallowing her moans, Paulo thrust his hips, his hardness rubbing against her center until Alyssa was so ready for him she let out a cry and dug her nails into the tight muscles of his backside. A wordless plea to end her agony. To be filled. By Paulo. No other man would do. Her response to him was singularly unique. Special.
Paulo pulled back again, his eyes dark with desire. “I don’t have a condom.”
Shocked by the cruel news, she choked back a sob of protest.
Hands on her breasts, his tone was firm, insistent. “What else do you want?”
Her blood turned to sludge in her veins, her heart so loud in her ears it was hard to hear. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” The frank honesty in his face didn’t budge. “So say it.”
Seconds ticked by. “I can’t.” Oh, dear God, why did she always sound so juvenile? At twenty-eight, too. How lame was that?
His hands dropped to her hips, his gaze refusing to give. “Try anyway.”
She opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. Every time she thought of a response memories choked it, the long-ago words whispering in her head: Trashy. Easy. Slut.
But she wanted him so much. And as she stared at his dazzling face the alluring promise in his eyes sent a frisson of excitement up her spine. She was torn with this desire that effortlessly destroyed her cool faster than the old fear could rebuild it. Until she couldn’t take it anymore.
Alyssa slowly leaned back on the desk, lifted her hips, and slid her panties down. If the words were too hard, she would show him. She tossed her underwear aside and spread her legs, begging him with her eyes.
His gaze burned into hers, and he laid a scorching hand on her bare thigh. “That’s a good start.” He didn’t move, and the waiting expectation on his face slayed her all over again.
“Just a start?” she said.
“I want you to trust me enough to tell me what you want.”
Her chest clenched tighter around her heart. “I’m happy with whatever you give.”
“No.” His hand gripped her thigh and he leaned forward, looking down at her with an intensity that was compelling. “That’s not enough.”
Tears of frustration stung her lids. He demanded too much. The impossible.
“I’m afraid I’ll sound vulgar,” she whispered, closing her eyes, terrified at the thought. “Or crude.”
He laid a hand on her cheek and she lifted her lids. “Alyssa.” His voice was soft, his gaze tender. “You couldn’t sound crude if you tried.”
And then Paulo shifted down her body, casting gentle kisses on her skin as he went, murmuring reassurances. When he got to her inner thigh, her legs trembled. Anticipation surged as his lips drew close to where she wanted them, where she needed them to kiss her. But he hovered at the edge, not giving her what she wanted. Her body burned. Ached.
She was one giant nerve-ending, waiting on Paulo.
He opened her with his fingers, his words whispering across her swollen, sensitized skin. “Say it, Alyssa,” he demanded.
“Please.” Her voice broke. “Take me in your mouth.”
His lips closed around her nub and suckled. The wicked touch seared her nerves and Alyssa let out a cry, arching her back. Cradling her buttocks, he brought her closer, and she almost wept with relief.
She was lost in a sea of sensation. Riding high and growing ever higher. Waves of pleasure swelled, and then receded. Each time cresting to new heights, sweeping her along in a treacherous current until she was too raw with need, too exposed to care anymore.
Breathless, she threaded her fingers through his hair and told him what she wanted. More pressure. Or less. Faster, or slower.
The pleasure was eating her alive. Spreading her legs wider, she strained up toward the unrelenting sensation. And her words grew bold, explicit. Until she was demanding the rake of his teeth, or the slick slide of his tongue.
And he obliged. Feeding her fantasy.
Until a final rasp of his tongue drew a loud groan from her lips, sparks bursting behind her lids. She clutched his head, the orgasm washing through her with shimmering waves of fire and light…and the delicious feel of her sex clenching beneath his mouth.
Forty-five minutes later Paulo steered the Ducati into the circular drive at the Samba. Tense didn’t begin to describe how he felt. The word failed to capture the tumultuous battle for supremacy raging in his body.
And just who was in control here? Him or his hormones?
After their tryst in her office—and the hint of a sexually assertive side to Alyssa—he’d muttered a weak excuse and bolted to take a cold shower in one of the hotel rooms, hoping to extinguish the blazing fire. Massive fail. Thinking a ride would help, he’d gone for a spin around the block.
Unfortunately, getting caught doing a hundred in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone wasn’t an option, and the painfully slow putter behind a pack of sightseers had only exacerbated the agony. What he needed was a full-throttle, high-speed race around the track. Because not a tiny dent was made in his need for her.
With a frown, he parked his bike by the front curb of the Samba. What was wrong with him? He’d never had this kind of trouble with a woman before. Letting an affair run roughshod through his life. Clearly, with the emergence of the racier Alyssa, he’d have to try a little harder.
As a stretch BMW pulled up behind him, Paulo dismounted the Ducati. He stepped on the kickstand, ignoring the limo until a familiar figure emerged from inside. The sight shot his mood from agitated to outright antagonistic. His body went rigid. Stunned, he flipped up the visor on his helmet and watched his brother approach. In an Italian suit and leather shoes worn with the intent to impress, he strode toward Paulo like he owned the Samba. Which he didn’t.
Not anymore.
Marcos stopped a few feet away. He’d aged since their last apocalyptic meeting; his short dark hair now had a hint of gray at the temples. The hard face and set of his mouth were just like their dad’s, all the way down to the disapproval in his eyes. But Paulo had never cared what Marcos thought of him, only his father.
The sheer nerve of his brother to show up at this hotel had Paulo seething, teeth grating as he pulled off his helmet. Reining in the familiar fury, he turned his back on Marcos and hung his helmet on a handle. “What are you doing here?”
“If you had returned my message, you would know.”
The curt response drove Paulo’s anger higher, but he’d be drawn and quartered before he’d let Marcos see how much his presence affected him. “I have nothing to say to you.” He headed for the entrance to the hotel. Nearing the doorman, he jerked a thumb in the direction of his motorcycle. “Keep an eye on her, will you, Jerry?”
The elderly man tipped his uniformed cap. “Sure thing, Mr. Domingues.”
Paulo was a few feet up the granite staircase when Marcos’s voice called out.
“Believe it or not, Paulo, this isn’t all about you. This is about Dad’s will.”
The sharp, indignant stab of resentment brought Paulo to a halt. “Dad’s will?” He turned to look down on his brother, annoyed to see he was following him. “That was years ago. He gave you the company. And, sorry, I sold the shares of Domingues International he left me to buy my first hotel.” He shot Marcos a piercing look. “You can’t have those, too.”
Apparently being sole heir had left Marcos feeling a touch guilty—or maybe it was the fact he’d pilfered Paulo’s wife—because his eye twitched at one corner. “Quit being so difficult.”
The irony sent Paulo’s eyebrows skyward. “I’m being difficult?” He knew from a lifetime of experience that, if he didn’t get Marcos to leave they would end up goading one another until it disintegrated into an ugly debate. Pau
lo sent him an empty smile. “If you don’t like my attitude, feel free to go, big brother.”
Paulo pivoted on his heel and nodded as Jerry held open the front door. He crossed the busy lobby and moved down the hallway leading to his office, managing to resist the urge to slam the door behind him as he headed for his desk. The forest-green walls of his office were soothing. But, even better, they didn’t contain his brother.
The sound of the door opening behind him made his insides twist. Damn, the man wasn’t going away. Hoping to keep his hands busy—and maybe control his anger—Paulo picked up his autographed baseball as he rounded his desk. He flopped into his leather chair and leaned back, propping his feet next to his computer and waiting for Marcos to speak.
Frowning, his brother strode into the room. “Don’t walk away from me.”
The arrogance was familiar, but no less infuriating. “My hotel. My rules.” Paulo began tossing the ball lightly in his hand. “I’ll do whatever I want.”
“I see you still dress like a slob.”
“You got something against jeans and a motocross T-shirt?”
Marcos pushed his Armani jacket back, hands on his hips, gold Rolex gleaming in the light. “Never mind your appalling lack of couth, we need to discuss Dad’s will.”
The old resentment flared again, and he was getting tired of its return. Paulo gripped the baseball tight, fighting the need to hurl it at the wall. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Dad left me with a job that I intend to complete. I was put in charge of a trust that comes into effect on the fifth anniversary of his death,” Marcos said, his mouth white, pinched with anger. “Did you even realize how long it’s been?”
“Yeah,” Paulo replied slowly. “I’m well aware of the date.” Even though it was hard to miss a father who barely noticed you were alive, his passing had still hit Paulo hard. Because it had been the end of any hope for a little praise from the man.
And those dark days had been about more than just the loss of his dad.
“Which means yours and Bianca’s wedding anniversary is coming up, too.” Paulo hiked a scornful brow. “Shall I send you two a card? I could draw little red hearts on the envelope if you like.”