Manacled in Monaco

by Jianne Carlo

  “We can’t do this,” she mumbled. “It’s not fair to Tony.”

  “You’re right,” he said and slicked two hands through his unruly wheat hair. “We have a son. He has to come first.”

  “Yes. He comes first.”

  He drew a forefinger around her neckline. “Please change.”

  A question, loaded, but not a command.

  “Yes.” Deflated, the wind sucked out of her sails, she stared at the floor and wondered how she could face everyone again.

  “Where’s your cabin?”

  “Next to the kitchen.”

  “Terry’s famous organization. That man is all about efficiency.”

  They didn’t speak another word.

  She made her way to the cabin with Rolan in tow, shut the door on him, and changed into a somber black dress.

  When she came out, he raked her from head to toe and said, “Doesn’t make one iota of difference, I’m as hard as a rock. That little red number will star in my fantasies for a very long time.”

  “Rolan?” She had no idea what question she asked, but something thundered in the air between them.

  “Sarita,” he said, took her hand in the gentlest of movements, and kissed the center of her palm, his tongue leaving a wet heated circle.

  The caress curled her toes, fluttered her belly, did strange things to her center, making her moist and heated, hot, really, really hot. She squeezed her thighs together. “I don’t want this.”

  “Neither do I.”

  One arm snagged her waist and he pulled her against his overheated body, his erection rigid against her stomach. A finger tipped her chin and she couldn’t avoid his gaze.

  “Something’s happening Sarita, and I’m not sure we have much control over it. But we have a son, a responsibility, and he has to come first.”

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “Hell, I am too, but Tony has to be our main focus.”

  She stared at the mosaic wall. “I know. Go back to your guests. I have to finish the salad course and the rest of the meal.”

  With a sidelong trace of her cheek, he murmured his agreement and left. She didn’t have to leave the kitchen to finish the luncheon, so she had Austen serve the meal and kept out of sight, retiring to her cabin as soon as the last guest departed. Bankrupt, emotionally and physically, she swallowed a couple of Tylenol PMs and fell into a deep slumber as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  When she lifted heavy-as-cast-iron lids, Rolan came into focus. At first, she figured her fantasies had run riot, but he became more real as the drugged sleep left her eyes.

  “Rolan?” Sarita knuckled her lids. “Why are you here?”

  Puzzled, wondering if she’d tumbled into another cabin by mistake, she surveyed the small space. Her savored possessions, the pink ribbon from prom night, Tony’s first blue medal for football, and the statues of Lord Krishna and the goddess Lakshmi, came into view. Her space.

  “Marry me,” he said, the words firm and ringing.

  “I’m dreaming.” She rubbed the corners of her eyes harder as if the pressure would evaporate little girl wishes and hopes.

  “It makes sense,” he said, and his harsh tone hit her like a knockout punch. “We can be real parents for Tony.”

  And she wanted to weep. Weep and rail at the unfairness of life. Not a word about them making love ten years ago, not a word about how he felt about her. Instead bland, logical words, which erased that little hint of hope left in her soul, that little bit of her that still believed in happy ever afters. So much for adolescent fantasies. Tony needed a male role model, Roland wanted the responsibility. Sarita surrendered to the inevitable.

  “Fine,” she blurted. “Tell me where and when, and I’ll show up.”

  She hopped out of the bed and disappeared into the head. “I’m having a shower and then we can discuss the details.”

  After slamming the door shut, she stared at it for long moments, before twisting the shower knob to the right. Warm water solved a million problems. She ducked into the stall.

  He was gone when she came out.

  Numbed, despairing, she shrugged on a chintz-patterned cotton sundress, forced her legs into motion, and made her way to the deck.

  Rolan stood there, hips braced against the deck rail, ankles crossed.

  Although it seemed impossible, he’d become more handsome over the years. Six feet one of honed muscle, long legs, lean hips clad in black jeans. He wore a sable T-shirt, which amplified his broad shoulders and contrasted sharply against the platinum streaks in his chin length hair. The color of his eyes had always caused her lungs to stammer, and even though Anthony’s were the exact same emerald shade, it didn’t matter. His intent gaze caught and held hers, and her heart did a wild staccato beat hammering and thudding in her chest. She could eat him up; he looked like a marauding predator.

  Delicious.

  Enticing.

  Tony’s father.

  Captain Terry O’Connor had taken the yacht out for its daily spin and they faced the calm surface of the aquamarine Mediterranean. A brisk sea breeze whipped Rolan’s lion’s mane away from his chiseled jaw. On the short walk from her cabin to the deck, she’d changed her mind about marriage ten times, vacillating between him, Tony, and hard-won independence.

  “I had Austen get me a special license. We can get hitched today.”

  His words tilted the decision.

  “No.” And sadness sank into her very depths. It meant nothing to him, nothing at all. And it had been all she had dreamed about these last ten years, the country club life with Rolan, being the blonde tennis-playing wife, the two-car family, having a husband who adored her.

  It came down to getting hitched.

  Not in her lifetime.

  “I won’t marry you. Tony and I can live with you, try things out. He needs a male role model and I suppose you’ll do. But I’m not signing away anything and I’m not giving you any rights. Tony’s mine. You weren’t there for his birth. You weren’t there for the first ten years of his life. I don’t give a damn about your biological rights and I’ll fight you every step of the way if you decide to take this to court. Got that?”

  “Every word,” he growled. “If we’re agreed that Tony comes first, then finding some sort of balance is in order. He’s a savvy ten year old. He’ll know when we’re quarreling.”

  “Right now, I really don’t give a damn. And I’d like to not see you for a few days, get this bad taste out of my mouth.”

  “You conniving bitch, bad taste is it? Grab this and stomach it.” He hauled her into his arms and punished her, kissing her savagely, with no hint of finesse, plundering her depths, taking her like a pirate ravishing a maiden. Her mouth softened below his, opening to him. He tasted so great, so fine, like aged brandy all smoky and honeyed. She couldn’t resist and molded her body to his, setting her pelvis against his erection.

  Sarita purred a little throaty sound.

  “I remember that sound,” he whispered, his lips moving against hers. “I’ve listened for it for the last ten years. Sarita, if I’d known about Tony, I would have done the right thing. Let’s do it now.”

  He nibbled her lower lip and the memories flared across her pupils. He’d kissed her for what seemed an eternity that night. Lazy, slow tastings, sipping at her mouth as if it contained life’s precious nectar. The star of the football team, the most handsome boy in town kissing her, wanting her.

  She moaned as his teeth sank a gentle pressure on her lip.

  “Again,” he commanded. “Make that sexy noise again.”

  Unable to prevent it, she moaned again.

  “Jesus, I’m losing it.”

  He shoved her dress up, found the ridge of her thong and slithered a hand inside, growling when he found her moist, slick, needy. “Jesus. Purr for me, Sarita honey, purr for me. “

  And she did, a little throaty sound coated deep inside, although she tried to bury it.

  He slid two fingers in and she clen
ched around him, muscles spasming like a hot, tight little vacuum. She arched, spine taut, and mewled sweet sounds of rapture.

  Right there on the deck braced against the rail, she had her first orgasm, convulsing around thick fingers, dress shoved up baring her ass.

  His whole body tightened and he shuddered, and held her smothered tight to him.

  An uncomfortable eternity elapsed, painted with uneasy silence and labored breaths.

  The sun beat down on her back and shoulders, the wind died, and waves slapped against the Glory hull rhythmically, like a drum beating to the humming of the ship’s engine. He gathered her closer, one hand stroking her spine, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

  Sarita sighed and wanted to stay in his arms forever.

  And then he burst into a loud chortle, his lips nuzzling her nape, tickling the skin there.

  Cheeks heating, her neck muscles knotted.

  “That’s the second time. And only you do it to me.”

  “I don’t understand,” she mumbled, her words muffled against his dark shirt.

  “I’ve lost control completely only two times in my life. That night on the football field and a couple of minutes ago. Thank God Terry had the foresight to take us out to sea.”

  She wriggled her hips, all of a sudden aware his fingers were still buried deep inside her.

  “Don’t even think of asking me. Right now, all I want to do is bring you off again. My fingers stay where they are until I catch a second wind.”

  A little aftershock hit her and she drenched his palm.

  “Jesus, I think I’m actually jealous of my fingers. At least my cock is.” He flicked one, then the other, and she tightened and whimpered.

  “Rolan, stop.”

  “Whaat?” He lifted his head and emerald eyes seared hers. “You’re right. We need to take this below deck.”

  His fingers slipped out of her and he adjusted the thong. Tugging the patterned dress down, his palm lingered on the curve of her ass.

  “Stay in front of me until we hit my cabin, Sarita honey. These khaki pants tell no lies.”

  Her cheeks burst into flames when she saw the large wet stain covering his crotch.

  “You didn’t do this that night.”

  “It might have been better if I had. If I’d been more in control, it wouldn’t have hurt as much. I’d been fantasizing about how tight you’d be for four long weeks. And all you could think about was helping me with intro calculus.” He spun her around and swatted her backside. “I think I hear Terry in the command center; let’s take the starboard side down.”

  She stopped in her tracks, too astonished to move. “You were dating the prettiest girl in town. Why would you ever think of me?”

  “I’m an ass man Sarita, and you have the most perfect heart-shaped little butt I’ve ever come across. That last day of detention, you wore this little denim skirt. You dropped your pencil on the ground as I came into the room and bent over to pick it up. And you weren’t wearing panties. I almost came right then and there.”

  “Oh,” she said and a million thoughts crowded her mind. She made him lose control. He said only two times in his life had he lost control. Hope blossomed with those words, drawing her in the way a daisy turns toward the sun, its source of life. He’d have done the right thing? Because of Tony?

  They reached his cabin and she spun around to head to the kitchen, wanting to escape and hunker down for a while, consider everything. Yet she hesitated, one heel raised off the ground, poised for flight.

  “No way, Sarita.” Rolan snagged his arms around her waist, lifted her hair out of the way, and nipped and licked his way up her neck. “For years I’ve dreamed about making it up to you. We’ve already come this far. I can’t let you go, not now.”

  All her muscles sagged and a delicious shiver snailed up her spine.

  Slowly he turned her around, and her breath stuttered at the desire darkening his eyes to an army green. She followed the movement of his lips as they curled at the corners and knew resistance was futile. Even if this only happened once, she craved it, had dreamed about it for ten long lonely years.

  And he twined their hands together, opened the door, and pulled her into his cabin. She hadn’t really noticed the room earlier, too shocked to appreciate the sumptuous curving windows encircling the bed, the azure Mediterranean melting into powder blue sky at the horizon.

  The door clicked behind her. “Rolan, I’m not sure this is wise.”

  “It’s happening.” One finger traced the length of her cheekbone. “I need a shower and you’re sticky, too.” As he spoke, Rolan disposed of his clothing, shedding his shirt and letting it fall to the floor, then footed his soiled pants off with an athletic kick.

  The sight of his large erect cock strangled her breath and did strange things to her insides.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “I never really saw it that night. And if I had, you wouldn’t have touched me.”

  He chuckled, a hearty belly laugh, and slapped both hands on lean hips. “It’ll fit, Sarita. Just a matter of priming you first.”

  “I think I might need a written guarantee,” she muttered and her fingers tingled.

  “Anything you want,” he said and cupped her bottom, bringing her flat against his erection.

  Sarita’s knees buckled when he sipped her mouth, nibbling, licking, surging inside, his tongue sliding waves of pleasure through her. She couldn’t prevent the purr and slanted into him.

  Rolan broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. Their eyes met and he whispered, his hot breath fanning her wet lips, “What is it about you, Sarita honey? Why do you haunt me? I’m this close to losing control again.” He lifted one hand from her ass and measured a centimeter with his thumb and forefinger. The pads of his fingers almost touched each other.

  Her whole body strummed, from scalp to toe tips. Emboldened, she sucked on his lower lip.

  The gentle lover disappeared. His mouth took possession, stamping dominion, tongue thrusting a heated rhythm, his pelvis grinding that rigid arousal against her belly, hands squeezing her rump, fingers kneading her closer.

  “Jesus,” he said, breaking away. “The head, pronto. I can’t wait to bury myself inside you.”

  Once inside the spacious bathroom, he surveyed the area and made a snap decision. “The tub. Let’s get you nice and relaxed.”

  Wasting no time with a few efficient tugs, he shoved the cotton dress off her arms and rolled it into a waist belt of material before dragging it down over her ankles. With a quick flick of one wrist, it landed on the floor, and he knelt down, his breath feathering her pubic hair.

  “I always wondered if these curls would be the same shade as your hair.” Head inches away from the riot of sunset hair, he glided a finger between her folds, slipping the labia apart.

  Sarita held onto the sides of his head as her knees wobbled. She dare not look down, too excited and embarrassed as thick moisture drenched his fingers.

  “The scent of a woman’s excitement is so unique. I can smell you from here, all musky and spicy.” He straightened. “You look so anxious. Don’t be. I promise to make up for that night, to make you see the moon and the stars, to pleasure every inch of you.”

  He fitted his hands around her waist and one thumb traced the hennaed pattern around her belly button. “What’s this?”

  “It’s called mehndi, sort of a temporary tattoo done in henna. Indian women wear it like jewelry mostly for special occasions. I happened upon a salon doing it in Monte Carlo and took advantage of the opportunity.”

  “I can think of one spot where I’d really like it. I could trace the pattern with my tongue.” He followed actions to words, licking one loop around her navel. One thumb separated her folds and his hot pants feathered the moistness pooling there.

  A shudder wracked through her.

  Taking her hand, he stepped into the circular tub and ordered, “Sit right there.” Fitted into square housing of gleaming black marble, t
he space to which he pointed would just hold her bottom.

  All at once apprehensive, she hesitated and asked, “Why?”

  “Sarita, Sarita,” he said, shaking his head and making a tsking sound. “I’m not going to say it again.”

  Satan’s mischief glinted in that jade gaze and the hint of steel in his voice made her plop her bottom onto the cool surface. Still, she eyed him, hands and feet tensed for flight, not to mention other places tightening and pulsing, ready not for fleeing, but for yielding, doing whatever he wanted.

  “Scoot right to the edge, and put one foot here and the other over there.”

  Mortified, when she realized he wanted her spread eagled on the tub surface. “Rolan,” she squeaked. “I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.”

  “Shssh,” he mumbled. “It’ll be okay, just go with the flow for a moment or two. I promise it won’t be embarrassing for long. Here.” His fingers brushed her lids closed. “Keep your eyes shut, let me arrange you, and if you don’t like it within a couple of minutes, we’ll try something different. Okay?”

  As he spoke, Rolan feathered kisses all over her face, distracting her, scattering logical reasoning, and Sarita sighed and arched her neck when he found a sweet spot that made her boneless.

  Using the flat of his palm to tilt her back against the cool marble wall, he fitted actions to his words. “Don’t even think about closing your legs. First, I’m going to get rid of that lovely cream by licking it off, then I’m going to massage a little oil all over and play for a while. Do you have a vibrator?” he asked.

  Surprised and indignant, her eyelids flew open.

  Skin squeaked against porcelain as Rolan kneeled on the tub’s marble and elbowed her legs wider apart.

  “And where would I pick one up in Orangeville, pray tell? The church bazaar?”

  Words died away as he buried his face between her legs and licked a slow, tortuous path around her folds, grazing the flesh there.

  “Jesus. Jesus.” His moan vibrated against her skin, hot air puffed onto secret places, setting them ablaze.

  Moisture pooled and leaked. She closed her eyes again savoring the smell of sex, remembering the sight of him between her thighs. A sweet pain-pleasure, not knowing where his tongue touched down next, fireworks exploding each time he connected.