The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

by Bella Frances

  Marco tried to puzzle out what his friend was talking about, but then his eyes slid to Stacey again. She still sat back in her chair, looking as if she was watching some dull repeat on television. One hand was on her lap, the other idly reached out for her glass of water. She took a sip, replaced it, appeared to listen to whatever Preston was droning on about and then lifted her menu, as if she had surpassed her boredom threshold entirely.

  She acted like that around mostly everyone he recalled. And it infuriated the hell out of them. With him she was unguarded, open and a whole lot of woman. He doubted Preston could handle even a tenth of the real Stacey Jackson.

  As Preston droned on Marco watched her, fascinated by the exquisite lines of her face that made up her profile. By the thick sweep of hair that she’d tucked behind one ear with a flower and the perfect ear, jaw and neck he could never tire of looking at.

  ‘Yes, the place has changed. Definitely,’ he heard her say.

  He looked up. Preston was leaning forward on his elbows, gazing intently. What the hell was he looking at? Marco swivelled round to see Stacey twirling a strand of her hair as she leaned forward to lift her wine goblet. Could he see a shadow of cleavage from that angle? Marco looked back to Preston, but he was now addressing the waitress.

  ‘You planning on sitting with your mouth like that all night?’ Dante chuckled quietly as he put his own glass down on the table.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought this was a business dinner. I’m sure that was what you said. Only I’m wondering when your business acumen is going to ship in. Looks like it’s stuck in your pants somewhere.’

  ‘Changed in what way, Stacey?’

  Marco dismissed Dante with a frown and retuned his attention to the other conversation.

  ‘Well, the Meadows, of course. That hideous fence that’s wrapped right around the front of it. I saw it from across the lake this morning.’

  Preston laughed.

  ‘I don’t know what you find so funny, Preston. The one thing this town’s got going for it is its history. And that real estate’s a prime example—if we don’t preserve that, what happens? Regardless of who owns it, there should be greater care taken over what it’s used for. It’s right next to a national park. What’s next? Knock down the lighthouse and put up a high-rise?’

  She took a sip of wine and turning her attention to the waitress circling the table, placed her order. And all the while Preston watched her. And all the while Marco watched him.

  ‘Well, now, Stacey, I’m sorry you think that. What do you think the people of Montauk should be doing to make a living, then?’

  ‘I don’t see any problem in them doing what they used to do. Keeping the integrity of the place. Atlantic City it ain’t—and nor should it be.’

  ‘You have to agree that Stacey has a point,’ said Dante.

  Marco looked around.

  ‘But Preston is right too—the place has to keep pace with what people want. That way folks can make a living without upsetting what made the place great to start with.’

  ‘I’d hardly call what you’re doing “making a living”, Preston,’ said Stacey.

  ‘But that’s exactly what I am doing, missy.’

  ‘Missy?’ drawled Stacey, raising her eyebrows. ‘Did we slip back into the nineteenth century when I wasn’t looking?’

  The awkward moment was punctuated by two large platters of oysters appearing in the centre of the table and a bustle of plates and glasses. There was a dozen on each, opened and lying on crystals of ice, flanked by lemon and smelling like a sea breeze.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure—I really didn’t mean to offend you, Stacey—’

  ‘You didn’t,’ cut in Marco. ‘Offend her. That’s Stacey’s idea of a joke.’

  Marco bit down on his frustration. He could feel the whole deal sliding into a black hole. He knew it. He’d known this whole idea was a disaster. He had to cut it short. He turned to Stacey to make a ‘cut’ sign. But she was staring at him as if she wanted to kill him. Didn’t she see what was happening? What the hell was she playing at?

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind at all. Won’t you have an oyster, Stacey?’ asked Preston, lifting the platter in her direction.

  ‘She doesn’t like them,’ Marco heard himself say.

  Stacey twisted round in her seat and drew his eyes to hers. ‘No, but she does answer for herself.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.’

  Without a pause she lifted her napkin and tossed it onto the table. Then she stood. Preston stood too, followed by Dante and then Marco.

  ‘Why don’t I go and powder my—mood while you tuck in to your seafood? And do go on—sit yourselves down. The feminists didn’t burn their bras for nothing, you know.’

  And then she took herself and her attitude and swayed and swished her way off to the ladies’ room.

  Dante was the first to sit.

  ‘It’s great to meet a woman with character. She’d get along great with Lucie—that’s for sure,’ he said.

  ‘She’s amazing,’ said Preston.

  Marco tried and failed to unbunch his fists.

  ‘The oysters are terrific,’ said Dante.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ said Marco.

  He tossed his own napkin down and followed the trail of eyes through the tables and out into the foyer.

  At the ladies’ room he stopped and waited. He put his hand on the door and then pulled it back. He paced up and down. An elderly couple came towards him—friends of his parents. He tried to smile, then stood back to let them past. They stopped, wanted to chat.

  The door opened.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said curtly, and he reached for Stacey. He grabbed her hand.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded as he tugged her along the corridor behind him. She dug her heels in and wouldn’t move any further, so he stopped, spun around. Pinned her there.

  ‘Having two minutes of your time.’ He braced his hands on the wall, either side of her.

  ‘You can have two seconds.’

  ‘You told me you could handle this—that I could trust you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She frowned. ‘And...?’

  ‘And,’ he repeated, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice, ‘you’re totally out of control in there. You’re playing this all wrong, and I’m going to end up with a cluster dump of a deal on my hands with no way back.’

  ‘I’m playing this all wrong?’ She stepped forward, into his space, put her hands on her hips. ‘What are you talking about? He can’t get enough of me—he loves how I handle him.’

  ‘You’re not handling him—you’re insulting him!’

  ‘You’re insulting me. You really think I don’t get the concept? You’ve only been going on and on about it for the past, like, forty-eight hours. Do you really think I’m so dumb that I would blow this deal on purpose?’

  ‘Not on purpose, but you’re going to—the way you’re talking. And acting.’

  ‘Acting like what?’

  ‘Acting like the Big I Am. His teenage crush come to life.’

  ‘Oh, get over yourself. Why don’t you sit back and relax for once? Have a little faith in somebody other than the Amazing Marco Borsatto.’

  A crowd of women came down the corridor, tripping along on high heels and giggles, their eyes on stalks at the sight of them sharing what must look like an intimate moment.

  She shook her head and went to push past him.

  She was going back in there to wrap Preston up in her feminine wiles. It could go one way or the other. And he couldn’t risk the other.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she hissed.

  He didn’t budge. He felt her body brush against him, hot and soft. The same body that Preston Chisholm was going to drool over while she mangled this deal until it was dead in the water.

  He put his hand on her waist and spun her against his side, facing the opposite direction.

  ‘Let’s do t
his in private.’

  ‘What the...?’

  His office was straight ahead—he began to stride.

  ‘You and I need some time alone.’

  ‘I’m on a date,’ she said, pushing herself away from him.

  He gripped her tightly. ‘You’re my date. And you’re out of line. This ends now.’

  ‘Get off!’ she said, but he gripped her tighter still, until her heels left the ground and he was carrying her, clamped to his side.

  On they went, past the pool, its ghostly blue water eerily still, luminous, deserted. A gym class was finishing in one of the studios. People spilled out, guzzling water from bottles, smiling and laughing. He rounded the corner to where a mobile display unit splashed pictures of Montauk’s outdoor pursuits—riding, swimming, fishing, pink-cheeked faces beaming with the joy of all that fresh air. His face was set in a tight, tense mask.

  Stacey spat her fury in angry whispers. He yanked her tighter and strode on.

  On down the hallway, past the physio rooms and the therapists’ suites. Everyone was gone. Everything was silent—except for his breath and her curses, and the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and the feel of her clasped hard against his body.

  ‘In here.’

  He stopped at the door that led to his office, flung it open and spun them both inside.

  ‘You’ve gone too far this time Stacey. Far too far.’

  She stood facing him, hands at her sides, staring at him, her chest heaving with deep breaths.

  ‘I’ll decide where I go and how far and who with and everything else—not you! And you won’t judge me or answer for me—got it?’

  Her eyes sparkled in the gloom of the room. Her face glowed and her teeth gleamed.

  ‘Your problem is nobody ever disciplined you. Nobody ever took you in hand and showed you who was boss.’

  Her hands went to her hips and she threw back her head. ‘You think you’re the one? You think you’re going to “discipline” me now? Is that it?’

  Suddenly he could think of nothing other than that.

  He took a pace towards her.

  ‘That is it. I’m going to take you in hand and teach you some respect. Teach you some manners.’

  She laughed, but there was no mirth in it. There was challenge. There was promise.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘You crossed the line. I trusted you to behave and you crossed the line.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it? Put me over your knee? Spank me?’

  She stared at him and every single nerve in his body vaulted to life. Blood roared in his ears. His cock throbbed and grew rock-hard.

  ‘I’m going to do what I should have done a long, long time ago.’

  His voice wasn’t his own. He’d lost the last shard of control. He was in thrall to the passion that was raging through his body. He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her hard against his body.

  ‘You like to be subdued, don’t you? Hmm? Last night at the vineyard you couldn’t get enough. You wanted more then, didn’t you? And that’s why you’re flirting so hard tonight. That’s why you’re wearing the lingerie. You want it so badly, Stacey. It’s all you ever wanted.’

  She gasped and he put his mouth on hers.

  He felt the softness of her lips and the fight in her spirit and it urged him on harder. He tasted her energy, her wit, her beauty, her passion. He held her steady as she tried to shift about and he laved every last inch of her mouth. His tongue rolled around inside her mouth, plundered every moist corner.

  ‘Marco!’ she cried, but he buried it with his tongue until she groaned her pleasure.

  His hands grabbed her shoulders, ran down her arms to her ribs and then sealed around her breasts. He moulded and massaged and ground her nipples with his thumbs. She was screaming into his mouth but he would not give her an inch of relief.

  ‘I think you’re beginning to understand,’ he said as he stepped back and looked around. He was having her here. Now.

  With a swipe of his arm he cleared his desk of the few artefacts that sat there. They crashed to the floor. He leaned back on it.

  He hauled her close, then immediately thrust her back to stand in front of him. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress awry. He put one hand on her waist, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

  ‘Lift the dress. Right up.’

  ‘You can’t order me around—’

  ‘Now!’ he barked.

  And in the fraction of a second that stretched before them he saw the years, the emotions, the kindness, the loss and the pain. He saw his beautiful friend, his teenage sweetheart. But most of all he saw the trust. Her eyes were glazed with lust and excitement. Her mouth was open and wanting. He knew and she knew that she would never, ever fall into line for anyone else.

  But she did for him.

  She stood with her legs open, put her hands on the skirt of her dress and began to tug it up. His eyes dropped. She inched it up. Stopped. His eyes flashed back to hers. She was challenging him.

  ‘I didn’t tell you to stop, Stacey.’

  Her chest heaved and he watched her draw in a deep breath. Her tongue snaked out between her lips. Slowly she began to raise the dress again.

  ‘You’re going to be in even more trouble if you disobey me, Stacey.’

  She bit her lip, looked up at him through the lopsided swish of her hair, where the flower had loosened.

  ‘I’m. So. So. Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t look it,’ he said back.

  He’d never felt lust like this in his life. He sat on the edge of his desk—the pressure of his cock was immense.

  She edged the dress up again, right to the thick edge of her stockings. Bare flesh on either side... He stifled a groan. She kept going until a shadow began to appear between her legs, and then the soft swell of the panties that covered her most private place.

  ‘Right up. Past your panties.’

  The twin tracks of a suspender belt snaked under the edges of her panties. Everything was cream, satin, drawing his eyes and his hands.

  ‘That’s more like it. Now, hold your dress up and turn around.’

  For a moment her eyes telegraphed a challenge. And he answered her back—she could trust him. She had to trust him. There was only them.

  So she closed her lids and turned for him, showing him the perfect backside that he had dreamed of and loved for all these years.

  ‘Now, come over here. Right now.’ His voice was hoarse.

  She moved—away from him. Quick as a flash he grabbed her hand and tugged her back. Her laughter swirled through the air.

  ‘Over my knee, Stacey.’

  And he laid her across his knee.

  Her skirt had dropped and he heaved it back up. His blood flowed like fire through his body. She wanted this—and he wanted it even more. He tugged her panties down in one smooth move. They stuck over her butt cheeks but with another tug he got them down to her thighs—and then brought his hand down on her bare flesh.

  ‘Now you know who’s the boss around here, hmm?’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Yes...’

  He held her dress up and stared down at the most erotic sight he had ever seen. And then he brought his hand down harder.

  ‘Yes,’ she cried. ‘Again!’

  ‘You don’t decide what happens here, Stacey. I do.’

  But he left his hand on her, and then he slid his fingers forward and through the soft, soaked flesh between her legs. She was velvet to his touch and he found her bud in seconds. She grasped at the desk, his legs, the air as he kept up the pressure, hard and fast, rubbing her back and forth.

  She screamed his name as seconds later he brought her to orgasm.

  There under his hand she quivered and groaned, and sobbed and sighed his name.

  He heaved her up to her feet and unfastened his zipper. He shoved his trousers to the floor, kicked off his shoes and stepped clear. Her greedy little hands heaved at his cock, stroking it an
d tugging at it.

  ‘Get rid of these,’ he said, yanking at her panties.

  And she did—she thrust them off and then hooked her legs around him.

  ‘God, you drive me out of control. I am out of control.’

  He had to find a wall, or a floor—the desk. He turned and laid her down. She slid back and yelped, and he grabbed her hips and pulled her so that he could bury himself to the hilt. He positioned himself and thrust up inside her.

  He pushed into this woman. Stacey. He held her body in his hands and buried himself as deep and slow as he could. And then he moved faster and faster. He felt his orgasm build and then break, and he thrust his fill over and over and over, until he had nothing left to give her.

  Seconds filled the space—moments of time before they’d have to come to terms with what had just happened. His head began to clear and his heart slowed. He looked down. He had never seen anything so lovely. She lay before him on the desk, her hair spread out in a halo, the flower—gone. Her dress was bunched up at her ribs and she was clad only in her stockings. Wild-eyed, wide-mouthed, she lay there as she had in all his dreams.

  He slid his hands under her shoulders and lifted her up.

  She put her hands round his neck and hung on.

  ‘Do you think they’ve missed us?’ she whispered. ‘How long have we been away?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, his mind tumbling back to the dinner table—Preston and Dante, staring at one another over two platters of chilled oysters. Himself losing his head—storming out after Stacey. Preston checking his watch. Dante schmoozing with small talk—smoothing over the awkwardness of this, the so-called deal of his life.

  And this—what they had just done.

  He crushed his eyes closed for a moment. He had absolutely lost his mind.

  He reached up his hand and smoothed her hair. He fixed her dress as best he could as she slid down his body. She picked up her panties and stepped into them. He put his clothes back on. Silently.

  He wasn’t stupid. That hadn’t been just some quickie in the closet. That had been deep. There was something going on here that he didn’t even want to think about. He’d done some interesting stuff before. Some girls liked to play—most girls didn’t. But those navy eyes, when she’d looked up at him—they’d been seeking something out—he didn’t even want to know what. He really didn’t.