by Jianne Carlo
One finger trapped his mouth. “Uh-uh, Rolan Anthony Paxton. Much as I enjoyed the last time we did this, I’m dressed up, and it’s not often someone else cooks for me. So, no kissing ’cause you know what it leads to.”
Kissing the soft fingertip against his mouth, he nodded, flipped open the car door, and set her down on uneven cobblestones. Capturing one hand, Rolan escorted her up the steps and through a narrow doorway.
“It’s perfect,” Sarita whispered and clutched a palm to her chest.
“Yes,” he said, staring at her entrancing profile. “It is.”
“I’ve never seen so many Alpine dolls. I’m sure most of them are antique. Look at the detailed lederhosen on that doll.” She flicked a finger to the left. “The one on the fireplace mantel. The owners must be Swiss.”
Sheer willpower allowed him to tear his gaze away from her glowing skin, the bubbling excitement which radiated with each word she uttered. Her elegant fingers clutched his forearm when she spotted another interesting artifact.
Rectangular, with curved alcoves in each corner, the dining room’s ambiance reflected an old-fashioned living room replete with antique-framed black-and-white photographs of family members at weddings, christenings, and Christmas feasts. Lace cream curtains at bay windows fluttered and danced in the convection air currents created by a blazing fire and a paddle fan hanging from the apex of the wooden ceiling,
Their hostess, a fortyish woman dressed Alpine style complete with a black netted cap, led them to a burnished table to the left of the stone fireplace. The smell of pine filled the room and a soft murmur of violins competed with the crackling and snapping flames.
“Wait a second, honey,” he requested and rearranged the upholstered chairs at opposite ends so they were adjacent. Pulling the chair away from the table, he bowed and said, “Your chair, my lady.”
“My hero.”
Sarita ordered appetizers and entrees for both of them, but he chose the beverages, beginning with the Cristal champagne she seemed to favor. Conversation flowed and both of them relaxed. Though they touched on more somber topics, each seemed determined to avoid the problematic future. Time both flew and remained captured, as if this capsule of a night would continue forever.
When she scooted off to the bathroom, he spoke with the hostess and arranged dessert. A group of five occupied another table about ten feet away and the only other patrons, an older couple, had a corner table at the far end of the restaurant.
The jolt of pride surging through his veins when she strolled back to their table took him by surprise. Dropping the napkin onto the table, he stood, waited for Sarita to sit, and pushed her chair closer to the table.
Sometime during the intimate dinner, Rolan realized he needed to touch her, stroke her forearm, brush a thumb along the curve of her shoulder, or nibble on her lips. When he broke down, cradled her face, and planted a hot wet kiss on her mouth, she didn’t protest.
“We need to get home soon, Sarita honey. I’m not going to last long,” he mumbled against her lips.
“I can skip dessert.”
“No way.” He dropped a kiss on her silky forehead and signaled the hostess with a wave of his hand.
The aroma of rich chocolate preceded the arrival of a dark soufflé, which brimmed over white porcelain. Murmuring something, their heavyset hostess-cum-waitress laid the dish in the middle of the table and poured a generous portion of Grand Marnier over the crusty top.
“How did you know this was my favorite?” She inhaled, and waved the air above the confection. “Orange and chocolate…the only combination that can match it is almond and chocolate. I think this is the most perfect evening I’ve ever had, Rolan. Thank you. I feel like Cinderella.”
Trying to keep things light, he quipped, “Does that make me Prince Charming?”
Shadows dappled over Sarita’s features obscuring her expression. “Guess so.”
“Here,” he said, and gave her the serving spoon. “You know how to do this.”
Rolan held his breath and the classical music playing in the background faded away.
Using the spoon to cut a small circle in the middle of the confection’s seal brown surface, she picked up his plate and scooped a large portion of the rich fluffy custard onto the glistening china dish.
Taking the saucer from her hand, he set it down in front of him, not taking his eyes off her face for a second.
“Now you.”
Her head jerked up and both eyebrows lifted.
“Go on,” he urged.
Returning to her task, she dipped the spoon into the soufflé’s center and something clinked. She squinted and moved the spoon around.
“There’s something in here. Rolan, don’t touch that soufflé. I can’t believe this. Everything was perfect so far. But, if they dropped something in here, we’ll probably have food poisoning later.”
When she lifted the spoon, a pink diamond heart sprinkled with brown flecks winked in the candlelight. The brilliant jewel dangled from a fine platinum chain. She froze in place. “Rolan?”
Tipping her chin to him with one finger, he said, “It’s a wedding present. I know you don’t like rings, but I noticed you wear that silver cross and I thought you might like this.”
For long moments, Sarita wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I’ve nothing for you,” she whispered, and a lone tear trickled past a trembling lower lip.
“You gave me back my son. And you agreed to give us a chance. This necklace can’t compare with that.”
Locking onto his eyes, her mouth curved into a smile so dazzling it blindsided him.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.”
The veins at Rolan’s right temple throbbed and he knuckled the spot, averting his eyes. Catching the hostess’ gaze he motioned her over, pried the necklace off the serving spoon, and dropped it into a napkin.
“Would you wash this off for us?” he asked.
“Certainly, Monsieur.”
Rolan had the urge to loosen his tie and undo a collar button, which proved ridiculous as he wore a black cashmere sweater. All at once, the enormity of the events of the past few days corded a band around his chest. Father, faithful husband, the yawning future after retirement, they all contributed to the claustrophobia welling in his gullet. Could he pull it off? The urge to cut and plunge back into familiar roles grew so powerful, Rolan had to grip the edge of his chair to stop himself from bounding to his feet.
For the first time that evening, the silence between them became heavy and claustrophobic instead of easy and companionable. He choked down the soufflé and it tasted worse than cardboard, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Madame, Monsieur,” their hostess murmured and displayed the necklace lying on a black napkin in the center of a white plate.
He glanced at the diamond heart, the pink facets trapping the dancing candle flame, its platinum links radiant and shimmering. All at once, he wished the last three days had never happened, that he didn’t have the responsibilities of coping with a wife and a ten-year-old son, and that Jimmy Rizzo, the shark, wasn’t circling him waiting for the first hint of blood.
“Can you fasten it for me?”
“Sure,” he answered and picked up the ends of the necklace.
Sarita gathered long sunset curls in one hand, shifted in the chair, and bared her nape, head tilted down. A sudden anxiety attack had him fumbling with the metal, fingers brushing her warm flesh, inhaling the lemony scent of her hair, and it took long minutes to complete the task.
She swung around, held the pendant up with a thumb and asked, “How does it look?”
“Terrific.” He hoped the doubt didn’t show on his face or in his voice.
“I’m going to ladies’ room so I can see it properly.”
When she walked away from the table, Rolan signaled for the bill. By the time Sarita returned, everything had been sorted out. Not wanting to linger any longer he stood, cupped her elbow
, and led the way to the entrance. They didn’t speak again until after he’d negotiated out of the driveway and onto the mountain road. She surprised him with a wistful announcement.
“That’s the kind of place I’d like to run one day. A small intimate bistro set in one of those old Victorian houses with a wraparound porch. I’ve been saving for it.”
He clamped his lips together and considered his words cautiously. “You do realize you don’t need to work anymore. I make more than enough money for the two of us.” He didn’t relish the idea of her working nights, not being there when he came home from practice.
The car raced up the steep incline leading to the mountain’s summit, and its powerful engines broke the silence of the night when he changed gears. The fog dissipated and stars appeared in small clusters as a light breeze cleared the clouds blanketing them.
“It’s taken me ten years to get to the point where I am financially dependent upon no one, Rolan, and I don’t ever intend to give that up.”
“I’ll set up a trust for you, all completely yours. I’ll have no say over it, how you invest, how you spend. I’ll do the same for Tony. You’ll never have to worry about money again,” he said, cut to her, and stifled a groan. Her mouth had that tight little purse.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d feel like a bought woman. You can set up the trust for Tony, but I’ll earn my own money.”
Irritation had him gripping the soft leather lining the steering wheel so hard that the material squeaked in protest. Every single woman he knew would jump at the offer he’d just made, but no, not Sarita. Deciding to table this discussion for much later, like in three or four years, he changed tactics toward delaying her decision.
“I bet there are more Victorian houses in Massachusetts than you’d find in most cities. You may want to consider Salem, where I live. I’ve one of those New England-style houses.”
“You live in Salem? As in the witch hunt Salem?” She shifted to face him, her eyes dancing, lips curving. “Rolan Anthony Paxton, I didn’t think you had it in you. I figured you’d live in some luxurious condo on the penthouse floor.”
“Ah, Sarita honey, I’m strictly a small town boy at heart, always will be. I lived in the city for the first couple of years after they drafted me. I enjoyed it at first, but I got tired of all the attention and wanted some privacy. One day a few friends and I drove up to go to a brunch in Salem. I liked the place. The population’s around forty thousand, not too big, not too small. It’s overrun with tourists in the summer, but it suits me fine most of the time.”
“It sounds lovely. Are you near the ocean?”
The tension in his neck and shoulders eased and he relaxed, grateful their earlier camaraderie had been restored.
“About an acre of the property fronts the Atlantic, most of it cliffs, but there are steps carved into one face leading down to a rocky cove. Not the best swimming, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Our son’s going to be in seventh heaven. I think the only thing he loves as much as football is the water.”
“He must have inherited that because I love the water. I’ve a small boat, sleeps four. Nothing opulent like the Glory, but it’s great for overnight trips.”
He switched off the ignition, captured her hand, and kissed the back of it, old courtier style. “Would you like to learn to sail?”
“I’d love it. Doc used to take Anthony and I to the beach a couple of times in the summer, before his eyesight started failing, I took swimming lessons with Tony at the Y, even got my lifeguard certificate. So did our son. He’s a fish in the water.”
“You’ve done a great job raising him. I’m looking forward to us parenting together.” He bussed her hand one last time. “Come on ‑‑ that mirror on the canopy has had me fantasizing all night long.”
As soon as the door to the castle clicked shut, he unzipped the back of her dress.
“Rolan,” she squealed and clamped her arms to her sides. “Can’t you wait until we get to the bedroom?”
“Does it matter? We’re the only ones here. Strip for me. I want to see you dressed only in that diamond and those shoes.”
Cheeks staining pink, she hooked one finger under a sleeve and jiggled it to her elbow, revealing a firm rounded breast tipped with a hard rosy point. Her actions seemed to happen in slow motion, not so his cock, which bounded into a military salute, rigid, aching, and straining against the cotton of his pants.
She ducked her chin, an impish grin teasing those pouty lips, did a little stripper’s grind, and let the chocolate material slip to the black marble floor.
“Better?” One titian eyebrow rose. She clamped small hands on curved hips, taking up a wide-legged stance in those three inch stilettos, and stood there wearing nothing but a devilish grin and a winking pink diamond heart on a platinum chain. “First one to hit the bed gets control of the manacles.”
Before Sarita finished uttering the challenge, she’d twirled and started running.
Shock immobilized Rolan for mere moments and then he broke into a loud guffaw. Her ass mesmerized him as she took the stairs two at a time. Arms akimbo, he waited until she reached the mid-step landing and then bounded after her, eating up the distance between them. He tackled her in the doorway, sweeping her up against his chest.
“No fair,” she said and giggled, a dainty feminine sound. She pushed small palms against his sweater. “Next time I get more of a head start.”
“I have manacle control and there’s that mirror to explore.” His eyebrows lifted up and down in rapid succession, she gurgled, a bubbling joyous sound. It hit him at that instant that he had fun in bed with Sarita, enjoyed her company, and loved talking with her. Searching his mind, he couldn’t remember feeling that way about any of the women he’d bedded during the last ten years.
“And you have manacle control,” she sighed, and her warm breath caressed his throat.
He collapsed onto the bed, dragging her down on top of him.
“You have the finest ass in the world, woman. Look at that,” he said, angling his chin to the mirror.
She twisted to the side and their gazes met in the reflected image. “You have on too many clothes.”
“So I do. Tell you what ‑‑ I’ll trade the manacles if you’ll be my harem girl tonight.”
“And what are the duties of a harem girl?”
“To please her master. You can begin by undressing me, sex slave.”
“Yes Master,” she quipped and nipped his lobe.
The hard smack to her backside made her squirm, but she licked the side of his neck.
“Undress me.” he said, cradling his head in his palms.
Scooting down his legs, Sarita pried the heel of one soft moccasin loose.
“Uh-uh, slave girl, turn around, straddle my thighs, and then take off my shoes. Remember to kiss your Master’s feet when you’re done.”
For a second, he thought she’d refuse, but instead she sent furtive glances over one shoulder, turned, and did as he ordered.
“Spread your legs a little wider, slave.”
She complied.
“I can’t decide where to look, the mirror or real life. In the mirror, I can’t see your folds and I have a wonderful view of your ass, the two dimples above it. If I look straight ahead I can see those pretty pink lips, catch a glimpse of that little hood as you bend forward. Never, ever forget your pussy belongs to me.”
“Like I said before, Mr. ‘Ice’ Paxton, it works both ways.” She kissed the tip of his toe, his right instep, shot him a saucy smile, and straddled his waist.
The reflection showed deft hands unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly, and tugging the material down his hips. He linked his fingers together and gritted his teeth when those small palms cupped him as his arousal jerked free from the black linen. Licking her lips, she swooped and licked the weeping crown.
From zero to infinity in seconds.
No woman had ever got him to fever point so quickly. She
looked at his cock the way she had the soufflé, as if it were her favorite confection and she couldn’t get enough.
His right palm connected with her left buttock. She bent lower, tilting her ass closer to his reach, and suckled the whole head into one hot mouth, tongue circling right, left, right again. It took all his concentration to connect with the left globe.
“Slow down, slave. Your Master commands you.”
Sidling her knees to his ribcage, Sarita turned her attention to his testicles and she sipped along the circumference of first one, then the other. Senses overwhelmed by multiple visions, he gulped down oxygen, his eyes flickering to the mirror above, the swaying globes in front of him punctuated by folds glistening with moisture, the glimpses of her mouth on his prick. Her small palms held him tight at the base of his cock.
“Closer slave, I need to taste your cream.”
“No.” She deep throated him and he bucked into her mouth.
“Jesus.”
Gripping her hips, he pulled her back and buried his face in her folds, inhaling, slurping, in a frenzy to get every inch tasted, cleaned, stamped, and owned. Rolan splayed one hand across her pelvis, thumb stroking inside her sheath, palm grinding a hard circle. His tongue alternated with the pulsing thumb, the pace increasing in time to her mouth going down to the root of his penis, clamped hands following that sucking cavern up to the head.
“Nuff,” he growled, bit the underside of one bottom cheek, curled one hand around her waist, and flipped their positions.
“Legs.” Grasping both ankles he hooked each over a shoulder and drove.
“Oh God, oh I love that.”
“So tight, honey, so tight. Lube?” He held still, knowing one thrust would start an implosion.
“Don’t stop. Rolan, please?”
“Jesus.”
No thinking then, no words, the caveman in control. Driven, focused on touchdown, lift off, release. Hips pumping, her sexy purrs reached his ears and the sound ignited some primordial instinct. His mind hibernating, Rolan plundered her searing haven, and his plunging lifted her hips off the mattress.