Manacled in Monaco

by Jianne Carlo

  Emotions washed over the boy’s features, his eyebrows lifted, then slashed together, and finally merged into a straight line. He nodded when Rolan delivered his last command, whirled around, and took off as if he were the lead car in the Grand Prix.

  “Does he ever walk?” Rolan’s lips curved.

  “Not if he can run, even when he first started walking.”

  Pangs of remorse and guilt made his shoulders slump, and he turned around to face Sarita. “Do you have photos, videos, anything?”

  “Doc Cavanaugh’s hobby was photography. I have zillions of pictures of him, a lot in black and white. He did some slides, too. We couldn’t really afford a video camera, but when he started Little League the coaches filmed him.” She shifted, and amended her words. “They videoed the entire team, but they focused on Anthony quite a bit. His first coach gave me an entire tape of him. After that, I offered to pay whoever was coaching for a tape of him alone. Most of them were very kind and did it for free. So, I have a tape for every year from when he was four.”

  Suppressing the now familiar surge of jealousy as he remembered that all the coaches wanted to marry her, a wave of sadness banded his chest. Rolan wanted to howl at the moon and wail about the years he’d missed.

  As if she knew what he was thinking, Sarita continued, “He was a big baby, eight pounds five ounces, completely bald, and he came out hollering.”

  A beatific smile curved her lips and those amber eyes held a faraway taint to them as if she painted the pictures in her mind. “I fell in love with him the minute I saw him. Doc loved him, too. He thought of him as a grandson. It was Doc who bought his Little League uniforms.” Their gaze interlinked. “He grew more and more like you every day. I never could understand how he could have your mannerisms, your gestures, yet he’d never seen you.”

  A clogged throat prevented speech and he couldn’t help pulling her into his arms. “Sarita honey, come have a drink with me and tell me more about our son. Please?”

  The please did it. Until he uttered that word, she had no intentions of spending time with him. Her tight jaw relaxed and the corners of her mouth lifted.

  “Only for a few minutes. You still have to give me a breakdown so I can plan a menu for the cocktail party tonight.”

  “Okay,” he said and inhaled the slight citrus scent of her hair. Lifting one palm to his mouth, he tongued a moist circle on her flesh while drowning in her eyes for a long moment.

  Then he twined their fingers together and they walked down the narrow corridor, hips bumping. She regaled him with stories of Tony. His first step holding onto Doc’s Labrador’s tail, his first word, “Outside,” and the day she came home to find Doc trying to get him out of the old oak tree in the back yard. Roland winced when she recounted his first injury ‑‑ a broken baby tooth ‑‑ he’d hit the edge of the Y’s diving board while attempting a somersault.

  She never noticed that he’d taken her back to the cabin. He poured two glasses of wine, sat in one of the two plump chairs, and hauled her onto his lap. Aroused, but happy to listen to her melodic voice and the history of his son’s development, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so content.

  Rolan heard more than Sarita intended.

  The bank manager Tony had mentioned, the jerk he had hit with the frying pan, was the husband of Rolan’s old flame Shannon Cartwright. Shannon divorced her husband shortly after that incident. She then wed a multimillionaire international land developer, one of her father’s business colleagues, and left Orangeville with a magisterial send off. But not before spreading vindictive rumors about Sarita and Tony practicing bizarre Hindu rituals, and thereby ensuring their social isolation.

  Austen interrupted their intimate tête-à-tête when he knocked on the open door and strolled into the room.

  “Yes?” Rolan raised an eyebrow.

  “Suresh sent back the Lamborghini with a message. Due to bad weather, the jet the team’s on is going to be three hours late. He suggests we put off the party tonight and reschedule for tomorrow.”

  While Austen delivered his message, Sarita tried to squirm out of Rolan’s lap, but he tightened his arm around her waist. “That works out perfectly. Send a message back letting Suresh know it’s in the works.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Austen tipped his usual salute and disappeared down the corridor.

  For a few seconds silence reigned.

  Sarita pushed her hands against his chest and lifted her head. “I still need to get dinner for you and the rest of the staff.”

  Rolan shook his head. “Uh-uh. You’ve been on the go since early a.m. Tonight, you take off. I promised Tony that I’d show him the sights of Monte Carlo. Come with us. Let’s have our first outing as a family together. What’d you say?” He tipped her chin up and saw the immediate refusal forming on her lips. “When was the last time you did anything spontaneous with Tony? We can take a drive down to Nice. The coastline is spectacular, and there is this little village, Eze, which is amazing. There’s a ruined castle and an intact medieval village with phenomenal Mediterranean views.”

  “Come on, Mom. It’ll be fun. We never have fun anymore.” The blurted words came from Tony, who had silently crept into the cabin.

  “Son, don’t creep up on us like that. Knock, even if the door’s open.”

  “Mom says I don’t have to knock if the door’s open.” Tony’s lower lip jutted forward.

  “Stop arguing with me and help me persuade your mother to come with us,” Rolan ordered.

  Sarita let out an audible sigh and glanced from one to the other. “All right, I give in. Anthony, change into jeans without holes, and clean sneakers, please, not those. Take a hoodie with you. It gets cold in the evenings. Now, if you two will excuse me, I’m going to change. I’ll meet you on deck in ten minutes.”

  Both father and son waited until she disappeared down the hallway, and then they spoke at the same time.

  “Nice timing, Tony.”

  “I want a bacon cheeseburger when we go out ‑‑ with fries.”

  He couldn’t prevent the loud chortle. “Behave yourself, no arguing with me, and you have a deal.”

  “All right,” the boy mumbled, shuffling his feet.

  Within the allotted time, Tony, Roland, and Sarita assembled on deck. Since the Lamborghini was a two-seater, Rolan opted to rent a Mercedes SUV, and Austen brought the vehicle to the dock. He flipped the keys into the air, but before Rolan could catch them, Tony jumped up and intercepted the pass.

  Father and son exchanged broad grins, and Rolan cuffed Tony’s shoulder. “Good one. You could play wide receiver if you wanted.”

  “Nah, I like quarterback. I like calling the plays.”

  The SUV traversed the winding coastal road, climbing abrupt inclines and hugging the hills through tight U-turn bends. Sarita said little and Rolan cut to her more as their journey progressed. She seemed content to look at the passing scenery, gazing at the houses built into the hill faces, the wide swaths of fuchsia and purple bougainvillea interspersed along the steep stairs leading to the residences, and the hordes of tourists milling about.

  Tony chattered on about football, and they discussed the various teams and different players he admired. Rolan promised to introduce him to Eli Manning, and the boy gushed his thanks. It galled to realize that his son’s hero was not him, but Eli. A tentative camaraderie developed by the time they reached Eze. Tony hopped out of the SUV and stood, rocking on his heels, as he waited for his parents.

  Rolan didn’t know when he’d had a better time, holding hands with Sarita, feeding off Tony’s boundless exuberance and energy. Eating ice cream cones, they wandered through Le Jardin Exotique and admired the breathtaking, panoramic Mediterranean view.

  Every time Sarita stopped to marvel about an exotic cactus flower, he snagged her waist, or nuzzled her neck. At first, she protested, but soon Sarita leaned into his embrace. By the time they resumed the road to Nice, she reached out for him, laying a small palm on his forearm to p
oint out some point of interest.

  Before he knew it, they drove onto the crowded La Promenade des Anglais, which fronted a white pebbly beach and the sea. Realizing silence had reigned for a minute or so, Rolan slanted a look over his shoulder to discover Tony slumped against the car door, mouth slightly open, eyes firmly shut.

  “How can he go from talking a mile a minute to fast asleep in seconds?”

  “It’s just the way he is,” Sarita replied.

  “Why don’t we spend the night in Nice? Tony’s dead tired and it’s a good two-hour drive back. There’s a great hotel right on this strip. We can get a suite, order in room service, watch some TV.” Rolan had to stifle a snort. TV was the last thing on his mind. The sun set as he spoke and the descending shadows hid her expression.

  “What about Austen and everyone else? I have breakfast in the morning.”

  “I’ll have Austen arrange breakfast at one of the hotels. We’ll get up early and I’ll have you back to the Glory by ten. How’s that?” His calculating mind had already arranged a two-bedroom suite with a sitting area in between. Ever since Tony interrupted them in the kitchen, he’d had to brake his prick. Every touch of her skin, all the little seduction moves throughout the day had cost him in the form of a constant aching erection. Her tight little sheath had become a lighthouse, necessary for survival.

  “Only if you promise to tell me about the team and what you want tomorrow night. That way I can start planning the menu.”

  “Done, Sarita honey. The Palais de la Mediterranee is just ahead. We’ll stop there.” He turned left, rounded the path to the hotel lobby, and turned the ignition off.

  “Rolan, I, we don’t have any other clothes.”

  He placed a finger on her lips. “Shssh. Don’t wake Tony up. I’ll handle the clothes issue. Okay?”

  “But…”

  “No buts.”

  A footman already had the door open, one hand held out. Sarita’s head bobbed between Rolan and the uniformed man who waited patiently. She sighed, but let the hotel employee help her out of the SUV.

  Bent on erasing any other evasive reasons Sarita could formulate, he lifted Tony out of the vehicle and marched into the lobby. A regular at the Palais when he was in Nice, Rolan’s shoulder blades edged apart when he recognized the concierge on duty. Lady luck rode his shoulders today.

  Before Sarita knew what hit her, they were ensconced in a luxurious two-bedroom suite with private dining and sitting areas, two doors between them and a sleeping Tony. Having five sisters came in handy and Rolan knew exactly what would settle any of her lingering doubts.

  While she checked on their son, he started the water flowing into the huge circular bath sunk into a marble floor. The tub could easily accommodate the two of them, but that would be for later. He found a bottle labeled “lavender” and poured some of the liquid into the swirling water.

  “Rolan? Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  She arrived in the doorway, head cocked to one side, an endearing mannerism Tony aped unknowingly. “What are you doing?”

  “Running you a bath,” he said, and his mouth curved at the surprised look on her face. “You have a soak. I’ll arrange a change of clothes and order room service. There’s a bathrobe over there.” He pointed at a plush white terry cloth robe folded on a low table next to matching bedroom slippers.

  “But…” she said.

  He wasn’t a wide receiver for nothing, speed his forte. By her side in a flash, he brushed their lips together and murmured, “No buts, remember?”

  Giving her luscious backside a swat, he sauntered out of the room, pausing to turn down the lights at the door. In the master, he discovered an iPod attached to a speaker system. After scrolling through the selection, he settled on romantic music from their high school days. Lauryn Hill’s throaty voice crooned, “I heard he sang a good song.”

  After a quick call to the concierge, Rolan nipped down to the boutique, picked out a selection of clothes for all of them, lingering on Sarita’s garments. When he returned to the suite, Mariah Carey was in the middle of, “Always Be my Baby.”

  His heart faltered, and he paused halfway into the bathroom. Oxygen evaporated. All at once enchanted, he gazed at the picture-perfect image before him.

  Siren locks piled on top of her head, wispy damp curls sticking to her cheeks, Sarita slept, head pillowed on a white cushion, one knee peeking out of thick foam. A stray moonbeam, burning through a skylight, lit her face, dusting her bronzed skin with an iridescent shimmer.

  Something clutched at his chest, warring with the inferno of lust threatening to blindside his planned romantic seduction. Shedding clothes in a flurry of movements, he tried all the tricks he used on the football field that had earned him the nickname “Ice Paxton.” Deep breaths, tensing and relaxing a specific muscle for a count of ten, he hooked his shirt off, and minimal control had been restored.

  Inside.

  He needed to be inside her now.

  “Rolan?”

  When he opened his eyes, Sarita knelt in the bathtub, one hand on the rim, those caramel eyes widening as she took in his jutting arousal, clenched fists, and compressed lips.

  “Is something wrong?”

  A shake of the head proved all he could manage.

  She scrambled out of the tub, lifting one leg onto the marble, baring foam dripping across pink folds. The sight of sunset pubic hair damp and darkened to a mahogany shade elicited a groan.

  “Jesus.”

  Rolan lost it. He stalked forward, scooped her into his arms, buried his face in her neck, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Sarita honey.”

  He laid her on the soft, white sheepskin rug adjacent to the tub, and the moon caressed her lovingly through the skylight, bathing her in a faerie luminosity. Nudging her thighs apart with his knees, he settled there at her core, poised for entry, holding, holding.

  “Kiss me, Rolan, I love it ‑‑”

  His mouth silenced her words, the firestorm they started raging through his blood, cutting off rational thought. Primordial male took over and he swarmed into her mouth, tongue thrusting, tangling with hers, hands gripping those slender hips.

  She purred that low throaty growl.

  And his bare edge of control vanished.

  Rolan cupped her bottom, lifted her off the carpet, and plunged, one fierce thrust filling her to the hilt, feeling her muscles resisting, fastening around his cock, squeezing, making him thicken even more. Panting, he held still and managed to croak, “Okay?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, and her hot breath fluttered the hair on his chest, while the mint of it teased at his nostrils.

  Not capable of more words, his hands stroked, kneaded, finding every inch of her flesh, reacting when she purred, and repeating the caress. Frenzied, he ate at her lips, not able to get enough, wanting every inch, every whimper. All the while, he thrust into her tightness, the heat, the clamping muscles driving him to the brink. Mouths fused, he splayed one palm over her flat belly and edged it down until his thumb met her nubbin.

  He groaned, she purred, the sounds vibrating through each other’s mouth, and his balls retracted. Just before the inferno carried him over the edge, he pinched the folds around her dewy button.

  A hard quick twist.

  Her internal muscles spasmed around him, clenching, clenching, and he let out a shout and ejaculated, semen pulsing in spurts. She rode through it and he could feel another explosion starting. Spent but still rigid, he pumped, using his hands to separate her folds, angling to her hidden nub, searching for her G-spot and finding it.

  “I can’t,” she moaned.

  “You will,” he ordered and pinched again.

  He watched her climax, studying the way she bit down hard on that plump bottom lip, eyes half lidded, the amber in them a thin halo, the slight sheen of perspiration dotting her forehead, and his cock grew rigid. Jesus. Little aftershocks milked his prick and he surrendered, thrusting again.

 
; Sarita’s eyelids fluttered and she whispered, “Didn’t you?”

  “Not enough. Are you sore? Hurting?” He barely managed the question, as she’d wrapped her legs around his hips and the angle drove him deeper.

  “No,” she said, and grabbed the side of his head with both hands, pulling his mouth down to hers.

  Her little tongue licked at his lips; she sucked a trail over his mouth, nibbling, exploring. When she did a tentative foray into his mouth, he coaxed her tongue farther, retreating as she grew bolder. The need to thrust, to take her again in a hard pounding, a conqueror’s ravishment, almost won, but he wanted, needed to screw Sarita all night long. Once, twice, wouldn’t do.

  He broke the kiss and withdrew from her tight pussy.

  “What’s wrong?” Her voice almost a wail.

  Rolan’s lips curved. “Bed, Sarita honey. Let’s take this to bed. I need to lube you up.”

  “Huh?” Forehead wrinkling, propped on her elbows, she stared at him, eyes glazed.

  Scooping her into his arms, he marched to the bed, plopped her down on it, and scrambled through the two bags from the boutique until he found the tube. Lying beside her on the cotton sheets, he flipped open the lid and said, “Hold out your hands.”

  “Oh,” she said, “Like this morning.”

  Lips curling, she cupped her hands and he squeezed the lube into her palms. “But, this time, Rolan Anthony Paxton, I get to play.”

  One small palm pushed at his chest and he obligingly rolled onto his back. She straddled his thighs and focused her gaze on his cock. Both hands curled around him, one taking the foreskin to the base, the other cupping the crown. She coated his cock liberally with the gel and his prick wept for her, a steady stream of precum. She bent her head and licked him, like she had the ice cream cone in Eze.

  Grabbing fistfuls of Egyptian cotton sheets, Rolan used every trick he knew to retain some semblance of control. He liked edgy sex, wanted to take her there right here and now, but couldn’t. It was too soon. He didn’t want to scare her. Small steps, small steps.