“Good. We’ll not stand out then,” Fran said, still focused on the logistics of getting one of the most famous men in the city out of sight. When the door opened inward on the room, however, she pulled up short.
“What’s wrong?” Ari asked, stepping in beside her.
“Nothing—nothing.” She stared, startled to the point of not saying anything more. The room was…well, it was something out of a fairy tale. And she’d stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.
It was rudimentary, yes—a swept wooden floor with a bright red rug, iron bed with bleached white covers, gray walls with white trim. The bathroom was down the hallway, but there was small table with a carafe of water and two glasses beside the main window which was tall and standing open, looking out over the street.
“Hardly roughing it,” Ari observed wryly, and Fran laughed, pivoting around the tiny space.
“It’s perfect,” she said, beaming up at him. “Exactly right. We can stay here for hours and no one will see.”
“Good,” Ari said. He held up the bag containing their food. “Hungry?”
“Not even remotely.”
“Then wine it is.” She followed him to the table as with quick, efficient movements he laid everything out. The water cups were immediately transformed into wine glasses, and he poured two generous servings, then offered a glass to Fran.
She accepted it, suddenly a little shy, as he held up his glass. “Thank you, Francesca,” he said, and there was that tone in his voice again that kept making her nervous.
“For what?”
“For this room, for this day. For you.”
It was exactly the kind of thing he’d been saying since he’d become Conti Goba, and she didn’t know how much of his sweet gentility was Ari and how much was an act. Then again, he wasn’t the only one acting here. She wasn’t the elegantly calm Francesca Simmons, either, but the ballsy, desperate Frannie Lambert, dashing along fast enough to keep ahead of everyone else. She needed to keep her center and not forget who she really was.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “You would have been fine coming to the city all on your own, though. Other than nearly dying on the open sea. For that, you definitely needed me along.” She tried to infuse her voice with a teasing lilt, but she could hear the tremor it. I said, keep your center. But the way Ari was looking at her now, her center was dissolving into a warm puddle of need.
That…couldn’t be good.
Apparently oblivious to her distress, Ari fished in his pocket and pulled out the cloth packet of his identity card. They’d agreed not to study it closely until they had time to view it behind closed doors, and as he produced it Francesca exhaled in relief, glad for the distraction.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s see what sort of man you are, Conti Goba.”
Ari set his glass on the table and unfolded the cloth, letting it fall away. He opened up the small booklet, nudging it toward her. “Those men, they chose well,” he said. “I’m quite a fine fellow of thirty years—which I can pass for with this beard—born and currently living in Makila. That’s, what, about fifty miles inland,” he mused, rattling off the information as if it wasn’t important.
Fran stared at him, unwilling to stop the flow of his thoughts, though inside she cheered. His random geography lesson was yet another indicator that his world was beginning to flow in around him, taking on form and function.
“Father Josef, mother Maria…what do you think?”
He held up the picture beside his face, and Fran had to laugh.
“It’s—close,” she managed, staring at the small black and white photo of a swarthy-faced man who could have passed for Ari, yes…after a bar fight and a weekend in jail. “You’ll need to grow your hair longer to really pull it off.”
He grimaced. “I shouldn’t have cut it after I left Turkey. I could have been this man’s cousin. Which reminds me…” he threw the identity folder down on the table and focused on her.
“First, to Conti,” Fran said hurriedly, lifting her glass. “May his life prove as interesting as his picture.” She winked at him. “He looks like quite a troublemaker.”
Ari picked up his glass again and touched it to hers, but his eyes had gone from curious to sensual in the space of a moment, and her own worry morphed back to desire with startling speed.
“You will have to watch out for Conti,” he said. “He has a weakness for cheap wine and fine American women.”
“I’ve heard that about him,” Fran said as she tipped the glass to her lips. Cheap or not, the sweet red liquid went down easily, and Ari joined her, tossing back his drink as well. Then he leaned forward intently as she lowered her glass.
She knew what was coming, welcomed it. Anything to get Ari to focus on something other than asking questions. Questions might cause her to have to spin some tales she’d have to keep track of, but there was nothing make-believe about the way Ari made her feel. And surely she could have that, for a little while longer.
Ari seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“It’s a vice poor Conti can’t control,” he said. Then he shifted the last inch to close the space between them and pressed his lips to hers.
Fran didn’t know how her glass found the table or how Ari moved so quickly, but a moment later she was being lifted up, Ari pressing her against the wall as her hands cradled his face, the roughness of his beard scraping her palms, adding to the sensory overload swamping her. He reached down and cupped his own hands around her backside and lifted her up against the wall, and she encircled his hips with her legs, reveling in the strength of him as he braced her weight.
“Francesca,” he murmured roughly and his mouth left hers, trailing kisses up the side of her face to her ear. He repeated her name over and over again, like a benediction, and she groaned as his teeth grazed her earlobe on his way to her neck. She knotted her hands in his shirt and pulled the fabric tight, bringing him up short as he drew away from her face and stared at her.
His gaze was so filled with longing it took her breath away, and Fran didn’t doubt he wanted this, wanted her. She also couldn’t deny how much she wanted him. He wasn’t her patient, he wasn’t her charge. The doctors were clear that he was healthy. But could she—should she continue down this path with him? Shouldn’t she be the responsible one?
“A—ahhh,” she caught herself, hiccupping over the name she almost called him. And then the moment of her resistance was lost as Ari arced his body backward, and she felt every inch of his arousal as it pressed against the most intimate part of her.
Ari, of course, surprised her again.
“You are worried about me, aren’t you?” he asked, one hand flat against her back, bracing her against him as he shifted away from the wall. He easily strode the few steps it took to reach the bed and stood there, staring down at her. “I can see it in your eyes. So much caution, so much fear. But in this, you don’t need to worry. I’m not sick, Francesca.”
Before she could speak he leaned down, easing her lightly to the bed and stretching himself over her, his left hip sliding to the side as his right leg bent, trapping her in the frame of his body. He dropped a light kiss on her shoulder, where her shifting tank bared her skin, and she shivered at the pent up energy she could feel even at such a brief touch.
“But your memory—” she tried again, only to have Ari roll over her, his body pinning her to the soft mattress, his hands braced to either side of her head.
“My memory will return when it is ready to return,” he said. “Until it does, making new memories will have to suffice. Like this one.”
Ryker bent over Francesca’s beautiful face, knowing in that moment that if he never remembered another moment of his former life, it would be a tradeoff worth having because she was in his arms, in his bed. There would be time later for rational thought. For now, he wanted to think with nothing more than his body and his heart.
For now, they could live solely in the present.
He met her
gaze as her lips slowly teased into a smile. “If you’re sure?” she asked, and the soft tremor in her voice turned him inside out.
“I’ll stop and rest if I get tired,” he said. He leaned forward then and brushed his lips down her forehead, across the tip of her nose, and then lightly, so lightly against her perfect mouth. “So far I think I will manage.”
Her lips pursed together to stifle a giggle, but Ryker kept going. He found the pulse jumping at the base of her neck and kissed that too, reveling in the way it kicked up its pace, then traced a line of kisses down the collar of Francesca’s delicate tank top. She was right, their clothing was too finely-made for the likes of two shiftless twenty-somethings out for a day in the capital city, but no one had looked twice at them. Everyone had seen what they’d expected to see.
Now, Ryker wanted to see more.
Francesca’s tank was the type that buttoned down the front. Moving himself over to one side, Ryker reached for it, batting away her hands when she realized what he wanted.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of undressing a woman,” he said roughly, and Francesca’s hands stilled, her large eyes fixed on him as he worked the long line of pearlized buttons free. He spread the fabric wide and took in her smooth skin beneath. Her breasts, snugly wrapped in a bra the same color as the shirt, rose and fell beneath his gaze, and her stomach trembled when he drifted his hand across it. He traced his fingers up to the front clasp of her bra, and smiled wryly at her.
“This is almost too easy.”
“I didn’t want to overtax you,” she said, and he laughed again, amazed at the unfettered joy that being with her brought him. Then he sprang the clasp on her bra and smoothed that material away as well, the need in him spiking high at the sight of her full, stiff-peaked breasts. But slowly, so slowly that it was almost a torture to him, he drew his fingers up and over the swell of one of those breasts, zeroing in on the tip as it pebbled beneath his fingers. Francesca’s breath caught as he grazed the tight nipple once, then twice.
“You must tell me what you like,” he murmured as he leaned into her again, his mouth following where his fingers led. He tasted the soft heat of her skin while her heart clamored beneath his lips, his own mouth going dry as he kissed her right breast, his hand closing of its own volition around her left.
“That,” she managed in a strangled cry as his lips closed around her nipple. “That,” as he suckled harder, her back arching off the bed. The intensity of her reaction galvanized him, and he slid his hand down her belly, his fingers catching on the waistband of her pants. He slipped the button easily as she hissed a soft breath between her teeth, and then he felt the slide of the silk beneath his fingers, and it was all he could do not to rip the clothes from her body.
“R-Ryker,” Francesca managed, and the soft desire in her voice wound him up further. He leaned back so he could see more of her. Her gaze remained fixed on his face as he smoothed his hand over her belly, edging his fingers down again, unable to stay away from the way her body flowed in such smooth and perfect curves.
“I want to see all of you,” he murmured, and she when she didn’t say no, he glanced up to meet her eyes.
It was there again—the caution, lurking below the need he could see reflected back at him, a need surely as strong as his own. “All of you,” he repeated, like a mantra, and she nodded once, then a second time, her lips creasing into a nervous smile.
She didn’t need to tell him again. Ryker hooked his thumbs into either side of her pants, slicking them over her hips and all the way down, not trusting himself to focus on anything except removing her clothes until the very last moment. As he pulled the clothes free of her feet she slid back on the bed, toward the headboard, working off her bra and tank and throwing them aside. Then, suddenly, she was adorned by nothing but her long dark hair, spilling over her shoulders, half covering her breasts. She wasn’t self-conscious, he realized. Not about her body—nor should she be. She was perfectly formed, broad shoulders, a gently curving hourglass torso, rounded hips and long legs that even now bent as she sat higher on the bed.
The next words out of her mouth, though, had him blinking in confusion. “I don’t think I like the way you do things in Garronia.”
“What?” He tore his gaze away from her body, and she gestured to him.
“You’ve spent your time taking my clothes off, but what about giving me something to look at?”
The color was higher in her cheeks, so she wasn’t as brazen as her words made her out to be, but Ryker laughed. “I can see how that isn’t very fair,” he rumbled, “but I would ask for a special dispensation to kiss you first.”
Her smile was sweet, but a little confused. “You haven’t done that already?” she teased.
“Not like this.”
Francesca breathed out a hum of surprise as he crawled back on the bed, one hand sliding up her ankle to hold her in place when she would have brought her legs together. He angled between her legs, and kissed the inside of her calf. Her entire leg jumped with the touch, and he chuckled, her nervousness adding to the intense pleasure at exploring her in such a new and unfamiliar way.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, moving up her leg to the inside of her knee, stretching her wider as he noted her fists knotting up the sheets. She was affected as much as he was, he realized, though there was no way a body this exquisite could have been denied the touch of a man as long as he’d been barred from touching a woman. Still, when he reached her thigh it quivered, and Francesca’s laugh was shaky as his mouth edged yet higher, his breath warming her skin a moment before he replaced its touch with his lips.
“Ryker,” she managed, but her voice caught as he reached his destination, and he leaned the final inch, drawing his tongue along the most intimate part of her. Whatever she said next was lost in a sigh as her body seemed to become boneless beneath his touch, and he reached up until his fingers connected with hers.
Instead of knotting the sheets any longer, she gripped his hand, and that encouragement was all he needed. He drew his mouth along her quivering sex and explored each fold and peak, mapping the intimate territory so that he might return again and again.
Which he fully planned to.
When his tongue brushed over the most sensitive nub Francesca drew in a sharp breath, going rigid beneath him. “Okay, my turn,” she pleaded, her free hand coming up to brace itself against his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure you’re breaking some sort of international treaty here and I demand equal time.”
“You’ll get it,” he said, but he didn’t shift position, and as he spoke her body arched beneath him again, his words a rumble against her as she quivered. “But not before I do—this.”
Chapter Nine
Fran couldn’t quell the roar of need from thundering through her body, a train that had no intention of stopping. The touch of Ari’s mouth drove her impossibly close to climax—only then he’d shift again, moving ever so slightly off the most sensitive bundle of nerves, so that she was let hanging on a cliff by her fingernails, not quite able to let go.
Worse, she was pretty sure he was doing it on purpose, winding her up so tight just to let her unravel again, stretching out her release.
“You’re killing me,” she moaned. Without consciously realizing she was doing it, she drew her hands together and buried them in his thick hair, tightening her hold enough to resist when he shifted off a third time. His laughter reverberated against her and she quivered, a sensual tuning fork struck exactly the right way, but he didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to say anything. With a sigh she felt all the way to her toes he tilted forward a final time and slid his tongue in exactly—the right—way—
She shattered.
Fran was never one to do things by halves, but the fact she didn’t scream loud enough to peel the paint off the walls was perhaps her greatest feat of self-restraint. Loosening her hold on Ari’s head she flailed for a pillow, jackknifing her body away from him as
she buried her face in the soft coolness of the freshly-laundered pillowcase and gasping as her body was racked with convulsions. No sooner had she retreated, however, then the man who’d blown up her world reached for her, wrapping her in his arms and muttering nonsense in a foreign language while she tried to remember what the hell her name was, let alone his.
“Shh—shhh,” he murmured as she clung to the pillow and he clung to her. He’d removed his shirt and trousers, she realized vaguely, the warmth of his legs and arms now completely surrounding her, the strength of his broad chest against her back. It was so right, so perfect that she could sense the tears welling in her eyes, and she fought them back ruthlessly as she snapped back to awareness of who she was, where she was, and who she was with.
Fran turned in Ari’s arms and gazed up at him, his gaze intent as he stared down at her, searching her expression. “Good?” he asked when she didn’t say anything.
She smiled. “Very good.” She untangled her hand from the pillow and flattened it against his chest, pushing him back. He allowed her to roll him over to his back but his hands stayed gripped on her, and she sprawled over his body as he stretched out across the rumpled sheets.
Her eyes snapped to his as she realized he’d removed more than his trousers. “I thought I was going to get equal time,” she grumbled, coming up to her knees on either side of his hips. The movement ground her against his shaft and his gaze flared hotter as he stared up at her.
“I’d thought this would be more efficient,” he said tightly.
“It seems that way,” she smiled and widened her legs slightly, seating her more firmly against him.
Ari clothed looked like a slightly shaggy, heavily tanned version of the man she’d seen in countless royal photos. Roguishly handsome, quick to grin, with sparkling eyes to offset the almost painful beauty of his features. In those photos his cheekbones and chin had been sculpted, his lips perfectly formed, his gaze piercing in what she supposed was a princely way.
Crowned: Gowns & Crowns, Book 4 Page 8