Manacled in Monaco

by Jianne Carlo

  “Oh. Oooh. Rolan. Oh God.” She couldn’t absorb all the sensations at first, the feel of his tongue too delicious for anything but mindless rapture. Soon, her hands tugged him forward, urging him to the one spot he avoided. As he flicked here, there, the light licking made her yearn for more pressure.

  “You taste like paradise, spicy, salty, with a little sweetness right here.” His low baritone sent vibrations along the path his mouth traced and his tongue dipped inside, rimming her. “And you’re creaming, drenching my nose, filling my mouth. But I’m greedy. I want more, every drop you’re capable of.”

  “Rolan,” she purred, and pulled his head closer. “Oh God.”

  And he found her nubbin and gnawed on it, sawing the polished pearl between his teeth, drinking in the salty dew, coating every feature on his face with it, wearing it like armor, the armor of lust. And she bent to his mouth, angling every which way to get him to that aching button. One foot trembled, and when he licked a long languorous trail up her center, fell off the edge.

  His teeth grazed her nubbin, tongue laved her burning pearl. He edged one shoulder under her fallen leg, opening her more, nipping love bites up one thigh, tracing the path of one pink fold, burrowing inside, and thrusting, in, out. Her hips rose to his rhythm, following his tongue, the white-hot source of pleasure.

  Sarita ploughed both hands into his thick hair, and gripped his head. “Rolan, please.”

  “Soon, soon,” he said, his tongue trailing a lazy circle around the circumference of her center, and then dipped inside while his fingers circled her nubbin, flicking it at it once, twice.

  She arched, trembling inside as a spasm hit her. “Oh, oh, God. Now. Do it again.”

  “Jesus, we’re getting way too close and I need you oiled.”

  “You stopped,” she moaned out the complaint, and lifted one eyelid.

  He had a brown bottle of oil open against her navel and let the liquid stream down her belly. One hand cupped her mound and spread the slick liquid as it trickled down her folds.

  “Lift your hips a little. I want to tip some in.” Touching the bottle’s neck at her entrance, he tipped and warm liquid swirled in.

  “It’s hot,” she said, eyes widening as sensations overwhelmed her senses.

  “It will get plenty hotter once I’m inside.” He lifted her off the ledge, turned around, and leaned against the bathtub. Reversing their positions so she straddled his thighs, he ordered, his voice gruff, “Cup your hands together.”

  “Huh?” But, she complied.

  And he poured a goodly amount of oil into her palms.

  “Oil me, Sarita, and pay special attention to the crown. Once that’s inside we should be okay.”

  The feel of the shiny reddened head surprised her. “It’s like satin.”

  She curled both hands around the thick length of him and experimented, sliding the foreskin down, then up over the top until only a hint of the satin showed.

  “Did you do that?” She asked when his cock twitched against her hand.

  “Involuntary reaction. Harder, Sarita, and a little faster,” he said, his voice strained, eyes barely slotted open, and he covered her hands, showing her the pace he wanted.

  “I want to do it,” she grumbled. And took over, brushing his hand away, using both hands, stroking fast, then slow, slow, then quickening the pace, all the while watching his face. “You like that, I can tell.”

  Liquid seeped from the opening on the top of his cock, and fascinated, Sarita traced her little finger along the seam.

  He moaned.

  Her eyes jerked up to his. Her mouth curved as she met glazed emerald eyes, saw the flare of his nostrils and the struggle for control as his jaw worked.

  “Jesus, Sarita. Honey, you have to stop.”

  She loved this, loved making him feel this way, and instead of complying, a fierce curiosity made her bend her head and scoop the drop about to slide down his erection into her mouth. He jerked at the touch and the crown slipped in between her lips, hot, slick, sliding against her front teeth.

  “Enough.”

  The fierce intensity in his voice made her glance at him, at pupils so dilated his eyes appeared charcoal, at a mouth drawn tight.

  Gripping both shoulders, Rolan set her upright.

  “You’re going to be on top for this one. Here.” Placing one hand under each thigh, he lifted her above him. “Put your hand on my stomach, and then lower onto my prick. Go slow, no pain today, honey. None.”

  The tension showed in his face, his last words made her pause, one hand curled around his cock, one palm braced against his taut stomach, and she met his gaze.

  A calloused thumb brushed her mouth and he said, “I can’t touch you, Sarita honey. Not any more, I’ll lose control. Okay?” Another soft caress as his thumb traced the outline of her lips.

  Sarita tensed as a shiver of pleasure and fear had her fingers trembling, curling tighter around his penis. Eyes fastened onto his cock, she let the head rim her, and she smiled up at him, eyes widening at the delectable intrusion. Then her hand slipped, and she came down on him hard, scrambling, frantic hands trying to leverage him out.

  “Too late,” he said and thrust upward while forcing her hips down, filling her to the hilt in one quick movement.

  She moaned and muttered, “I knew this wouldn’t work.” He was so thick, so hot, filling her to a pulling discomfort, not pain, but not pleasure either.

  “No wriggling. Stay still. Let the pain go away.”

  His stern command induced obedience.

  “Easy for you to say,” she retorted, but held herself still, and the discomfort soon faded, replaced by something nebulous, distant, heady.

  “Jesus help me, I want this to last,” he muttered. “If you move, I’ll lose it, Sarita. Please, honey, no, don’t.” A firm hand clasped both hips, his grip almost painful.

  But the urge to shift had her in thrall, and the twinge of pain morphed into a driving ache she knew moving would make better.

  “Next time,” she whispered against his throat, little puffs of cinnamon-scented breath hot across his skin, seduction personified, feeling the stretching work into something delicious. The oil did its job and the friction of their joined bodies added a melting heat inside. She worked a slow circle left, then right, and a giddy delight had her lips curling.

  “Jesus. That’s it.”

  And he blasted into orbit, thrusting so hard, so fast, it became mutual ravishment, a taking and a giving, as he pounded into her, widened her thighs, and flicked at her nubbin, once, twice, and she screamed, “Oh God.”

  Sarita collapsed against his sweaty chest, brain nonfunctioning, heart racing, everything else convulsing, lungs refusing to function. A few minutes ticked by and he flexed inside, and a little aftershock coursed through her. Slightly sore muscles clenched around his prick. She let her hips fall farther apart, and when that wonderful little spot contacted with his pubic curls, she spasmed again.

  Dazed, tingling everywhere, the pads of her fingers, her curling toes, she took a deep breath and willed her brain to function. Minutes elapsed, images filled her head, his face between her thighs, the shape of his cock, his hand tracing the mehndi pattern.

  “Rolan?” His slick skin warmed her cheek and she rubbed the side of her face against his chest, then slid a hand up to his nipple, sketching an idle circle. “You made up for that night.”

  He chuckled, the sound rumbling through her where they were connected.

  A comfortable silence pervaded, broken only by their breathing and the rocking of the yacht.

  “Sarita honey, I don’t suppose you’re on any form of birth control?”

  “Oh no,” she wailed, and shot up, one hand cupped around her mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Rolan shifted, uncertain of his feelings and overwhelmed by a flood of doubt about another unplanned pregnancy.

  “I should have asked you first, but you have this way of making me lose control.”

/>   “Are you saying it’s my fault?” She stabbed a finger at her collarbone, eyes darkening to molten molasses.

  “Of course not. I forgot I depleted my stack of condoms this morning.” And he cursed himself for a fool by bringing that particular memory back to the forefront.

  “Really? How assiduous of you.” No throaty purring in her voice, instead anger laced her tone.

  She pushed off his chest and straddled his hips.

  “Give me a frigging break. It’s not as if I knew you were on board.” She had no right to be upset; she didn’t own him.

  “Why do I get the feeling it wouldn’t have mattered? There’s no way this is going to work between us. I don’t share, Rolan Paxton, and I will not cheapen myself by being one of many.”

  Okay, not anger any more, but rage, pure unadulterated rage narrowed her eyes. He flinched when she slapped palms to hipbones, and snapped her jaw so tight even steam couldn’t make it through those clenched teeth. Then she squeezed her eyes shut as if looking at him proved painful.

  “I don’t usually lose control like that,” he coaxed, lifted onto his elbows, and searched her features. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded, the slightest dip of that dimpled chin.

  “Look at me,” he ordered, needing reassurance. Every stomach muscle tensed.

  Her eyelids flicked open and those amber pupils held a smoky ambivalence, as if she both relished and hated what had happened between them. She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  And something fell away then, something precious and nebulous, and distrust and civilized emotions rushed in to fill the void.

  Hands bracketing her waist, Rolan lifted Sarita off him, set her down on the porcelain, and he stood. One long stride took him to the towel bar; he grabbed two and offered her one.

  She moved like a ballerina, rising in one elegant motion to stand, shoulders squared, chin jutting out. Whatever decision she’d made in those few moments, it didn’t bode well for him. Without deigning to glance his way, she accepted the towel.

  “I know a lot of people in Monaco. There are things we can do to make none of my swimmers take.”

  Her mouth slackened into an O; she glared at him and stamped one tiny foot before wrapping the sheet around her torso.

  And all he wanted was to be out of there, unconnected, the cool composed receiver, the wisecracking thirty-second interviewee, the screw ’em and leave ’em womanizer. And he read the awareness in her honey eyes and a sullen acceptance.

  “This can’t happen again, Rolan. I don’t want a physical relationship with you. All I want is for my son to be happy. I’ve read all about you, about your women, your partying. And I won’t have that rubbing off on Anthony. Either you straighten up around him or you don’t see him. I need to think things through and I won’t have you pressuring me, either through sex or otherwise. Got it?”

  She curled into the towel, every inch of exposed skin disappearing save for her head and shoulders. Gaze fixed to the cabin wall, she added, “Don’t ever touch me again.”

  He left without a backward glance, forgetting they were in his cabin, and scowled when he caught sight of his discarded clothing. Wanting to get away before she reappeared, he shrugged on denims and a plain white T-shirt over his oiled chest. The material clung to his skin, he scowled at the damp spots, and muttered a few expletives.

  Fury making his movements jerky, Rolan slammed out the room and crashed into his son. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders to prevent either of them from taking a tumble.

  “How long have you been listening outside my cabin?”

  “I heard Mom scream. You left the cabin door open.”

  Jesus. Instinctively he glanced over the boy’s head and his mouth turned down; sure enough the safety lock had prevented the door closing.

  “Not now. Earlier, Captain Terry sent me to get you.”

  He studied the youth’s tight-lipped, aggressive stance, hips thrust forward, legs spread, arms akimbo.

  “She’s okay. It was a happy scream.”

  “I’m not an idiot. You two were screwing in there,” the boy retorted and flicked a hand over his shoulder. “I told you before, you may be my dad, but you don’t get to hurt Mom. I called Geoff. He’s coming back soon.”

  “Whoa there, slow down. Why did you call Geoff?”

  “He wants to marry Mom. He’s got a castle, he’s rich, and he’ll take care of Mom. You make her cry and you think you can order me about. Well, you can’t.”

  For a man reputed to be made of ice, an inferno took over his veins and he reverted to football tactics; offense is the best form of defense. “No matter what happens, Anthony Rolan, you’re my son. Even if your mother married Geoff, I’d still have custody rights over you, which means you’ll live part of the year with me. Stop.” He held up a hand. “Don’t say a word until I’m done. Would you prefer to be with your mom and me the whole year round? Or would you prefer spending six months with her and then six months with me?”

  Tony opened his mouth and then closed it, eyes raking Rolan, lips clamped together.

  “Geoff lives in England. They don’t play football there, they play soccer instead.”

  “Soccer?” Eyebrows raised, lips curling into a sneer, Tony snapped, “That’s for sissies.” He wedged his hands in his back pockets.

  Rolan could see the boy’s mind ticking around the points he’d raised, and he went for the gusto using every bribe he could think of. “I live on ten acres of land. My backyard’s a regulation sized football field and I’m richer than Geoff. Where would you be happier, Tony? Where would your mother be happier? In England, separated from you half the year? Or in the good old US of A, all three of us under one roof?”

  The kid’s face proved transparent, every emotion roiling through him reflected in those narrowed verdant eyes, not to mention the belligerent tilt of his chin and the shuffling of his feet. His glance flicked from Rolan to the swinging cabin door and back again. Lines creased Tony’s forehead and his mouth twisted, indecision and fear tightening the boy’s lean shoulder blades together.

  Rolan had five sisters and his protective instincts could make a maternal bear protecting her cub seem like an ineffectual mouse. Resisting the temptation to haul the boy into his arms and promise he’d make everything kosher, Rolan concentrated on the his son’s Achilles’ heel, his mother’s need to be with him.

  “You make her cry,” Tony said, meeting Rolan’s gaze head-on. “I hate it when she cries.”

  “So do I,” Rolan agreed. “I have five sisters and I beat up any guy who made any of ’em cry. When did I make her cry, Tony? Until this morning, I hadn’t seen your mother in ten years. Has she cried today?”

  The boy shifted from one foot to another and ducked his chin. “Uh-uh, but she has that look on her face like she’s going to. Like when one of those country club jerks tried to corner her in the kitchen.”

  Noticing the slight quiver in Tony’s lower lip, Rolan gentled his tone and asked, “What do you mean corner her?”

  “The last one tried to take off her uniform and I hit him with a frying pan.”

  “You did?” That made Rolan’s lips curl and untold pride held him enthralled for brief seconds until the whole situation sunk in. Rage gripped him then; his pupils burned with the image of what Tony had described. “What was the man’s name?”

  “That jerk from the bank, the one who kicked us out of Doc’s cottage after he died.”

  “How long ago was that?” He flexed tense biceps.

  “I guess I was eight,” Tony replied, squinting in calculation. “Two years ago. After that, we lived with Mom’s chef teacher. His house had a big back yard, but he couldn’t throw a football for beans.”

  Rolan heard muffled muttering coming from the cabin and decided distraction proved in order. “Want to go for a spin in my Lamborghini?”

  His son rocked on sneakered heels in obvious vacillation, temptation marking his features with a shuttered scowl. “I should ask
Mom, but she’d probably say no.”

  “I’m your dad and I give you permission. Hustle it, Tony, before she gets out here and reads the riot act to both of us. Your mom has a temper.”

  “Don’t I know it? Not that she’s ever hit me or anything,” he said. “But she gives you this disappointed look and well, I’d prefer it if she just yelled like other moms do.”

  They hit the deck as Austen brought the car around and swung out of the driver’s seat. Flipping the keys into the air, he quipped, “A bit slow on the acceleration. I took her into the mountains to warm her up for you.”

  Nabbing the keys from the high point of the thrown arc, Rolan said, “Funny how you always take half an hour to bring her around. I reckon you spend more time driving her than I do.”

  “Perks, boss, perks. You taking our young lad for a spin? Does Sarita know?”

  “She’s not his only parent. I do have some say.”

  “You think?” Austen lifted a dark eyebrow.

  “He’s my dad,” Tony said and added, “I didn’t know until today.”

  “It’s fairly obvious,” the bosun answered, stroking a forefinger and thumb around his stubbled chin. “You’re the image of your father when he was young and good looking.”

  “Too right,” Rolan concurred. “Hop on in, son. Let’s get out of here before your mother stops us.”

  Hordes of local traffic swarmed around a tram bus filled with curious visitors. Tourism and gambling provided Monaco’s base of revenue, and the tiny monarchy catered to its guests. Tourist depots dotted main avenues, policemen dressed in royal blue uniforms and white gloves directed traffic. Overpriced and overrated, Monte Carlo held allure only for those who could afford to pay through the nose. Then it became paradise on earth, sated any perverted desire, and if you had the dough and gambled, you could be crowned.

  Tony didn’t know all of that. His son seemed enthralled by the perfect setting, the clean as spit streets, the hordes of expensive one-of-a-kind cars crowded into traffic jams, crawling forward on a centimeter-by-centimeter pace.