Screw it. If they wanted to experience fame by some tenuous thread of association—a Hey, I saw Raphael Jones and the American chick he’s banging kind of thing— then let them. As Heather had pointed out, tomorrow something new would be trending on Twitter. Who knows, maybe Miley Cyrus and Liam Hemsworth would be engaged again?
At the passenger door of his dusty, mud-caked ute, Raph released my fingers and waved his hand about in an elaborate flourish. “Your chariot, my lady.”
He tugged on the handle and pulled the door open, revealing the same chaos of its interior that I’d encountered yesterday morning.
New Red Bull cans scattered the passenger-side floor, along with a crumpled McDonald’s bag I assumed must have contained yesterday’s lunch or dinner. I cocked an eyebrow at him, my lips twitching.
He let out a rueful chuckle and shrugged. “What can I say?”
I laughed and made a move to deposit myself on the passenger seat.
But stopped when I saw the books no doubt dumped on it at some point in the last twenty-four hours.
Heart thumping fast, I stared at the titles.
The Parkinson’s Disease Treatment Book.
Parkinson’s Disease: Top Tips to Optimize Function.
Understanding Parkinson’s Disease: A guide for Family and Loved Ones of Sufferers.
Parkinson’s Disease for Dummies.
Living with Someone with Parkinson’s.
“Fuck.”
At Raph’s low mutter, I turned from the books and studied him, silent. Inside, I was a churning, conflicted, angry, sad, ecstatic, confused mess. It was one thing to commit yourself to a four-day adventure with a guy you really, really, really liked. A guy who turned you on more than it was probably socially acceptable to admit. It was another to discover said guy was researching the disease that would ultimately end your life. It told me he was interested in every part of who I was, not just the healthy parts, the squishy, warm parts that fit together so well with his warm, not-so-squishy parts. It told me he was thinking about my life, my future.
It changed the playing field somehow.
“I only…” he began, frustration etching his face before he dropped his stare to the incriminating books on the passenger seat. A rough breath left him. He raked a hand though his hair. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but just let me read about it, okay?”
He looked back at me. The frustration was still on his face, joined by a beseeching hope. “I just…it’s what I do when I don’t understand something. I read about it.”
Lowering my stare to the books again, I drew a deep breath. I truly had no idea how I felt about that. Hell, I’d only just decided how I felt about him, and here he was, doing this.
My gaze slid over the book sitting on the top of the askew pile, its brightly colored cover gaudy and depressing. I let out a snort, its title tickling a funny bone I didn’t think I had anymore.
Turning back to Raph, I arched my eyebrow. “Living with Someone with Parkinson’s? Really? You got plans we haven’t discussed yet? I mean, I know we’ve made out and all, but I’m not sure I’m ready to move in with—”
He shut me up with a rough, laughing kiss. He swept his tongue into my mouth, grabbed my butt and, with a chuckle, he yanked me to his body and ground his hips to mine.
Instantly and immediately, I was horny. Horny and happy. Deliriously happy. Who knew?
At the sound of approaching voices, Raph broke our kiss. I did groan in protest, I’m afraid.
“We’ll continue this later,” he murmured with a grin before nudging his head toward the waiting interior of his ute. “But for now, you need to get your arse in there, American girl. Before Horn finds me.”
“Oh, you being naughty?” I asked as I removed the books—Parkinson’s Disease for Dummies? Seriously?—from the seat and lowered myself into the car.
“Not yet.” Raph hung his forearms on the top of the vehicle and leaned into the interior, his eyes dancing with wicked mirth. “But I plan to later.”
He winked and, as heat flooded my cheeks, he closed the door.
Twenty chat-filled minutes later, we arrived at our destination. Pulling his ute into the valet parking section, Raph released his seat belt and gave me a wide smile. “Ready?”
I looked out the window, the obviously luxurious hotel on the other side taking me by surprise. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
He laughed. “Yep.”
Without further explanation, he climbed from the car, handed his keys to the hovering valet and walked around to my side. He extended a hand to me as I began to climb out.
I gave it a narrowed-eyed stare. I didn’t know if he was just being chivalrous, but the significance of the books on my condition now piled on the ute’s floor still played with my state of mind.
Raph rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell, woman.” With a laugh, he snared my wrist and yanked me completely out of his car, catching my lips with a quick kiss as I bumped into his tall, hard body.
Before I could comprehend the wonderful sensation of his playfulness, his lips left mine. “Let’s go,” he said, once more taking my hand in his.
We walked into the hotel, and for a brief second, the sheer opulence of the place stole my breath. “I really don’t think this is the right place,” I whispered.
Raph nudged me with his shoulder. “Shush. Just enjoy yourself, will you? I pulled a lot of strings to set this up.”
My eyebrows shot up and I gaped up at him. “Really?”
He laughed. “Nope. I just made a phone call. Sometimes it helps to be a celebrity.”
Lucky for Raph, a well-dressed man approached us just as I was about to poke him in the ribs with my elbow.
“Mr. Jones,” the man I’m guessing was the concierge said, holding out his hand to Raph. “The dining room you requested is ready. If you will follow me?”
He turned and proceeded to walk toward a bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby.
I cast Raph a curious sideways look.
Raph, of course, just winked and followed the man in the suit.
Body thrumming, mouth dry—yes, I was excited—I followed Raph.
The three of us rode the elevator to the sixth floor. When a soft chime filled the small space, announcing our arrival, our suited companion swiped a keycard through a lock and the door slid opened.
My mouth did the same.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks,” I heard Raph say a second before he placed his warm, firm hand on the small of my back and strode from the elevator.
Astonished, I stared at the beautiful private dining room we’d entered and the stunning view of Sydney Harbor and the Opera House beyond its floor-to-ceiling windows. “Wow,” I breathed. “I really think we’re in the wrong place.”
Raph threaded his fingers through mine and led me to the small round table situated beside the window. “I didn’t want to share you with anyone,” he said as he pulled out an ornate chair and urged me to sit.
Overwhelmed with amazement and euphoric delight, I gazed up at him. “What if I’d said no to lunch?”
He shrugged, his stare holding mine. “Then Heather would be getting the surprise of her life.”
I burst out laughing.
He grinned, obviously proud of himself, and then pulled out his own chair and sat.
A second later, a silent, immaculately dressed man appeared at our side. White napkins were gently placed across our laps, water glasses were filled and menus were offered. All without a word.
Damn near quivering from excitement, I studied the items printed in bronze script on the matte gold paper.
“There’re no prices,” I whispered, peeking at Raph around the side of the menu.
“I know. How dangerous.”
With a roll of my eyes, I let out an exasperated sigh and returned my attention to the menu.
To be honest, I didn’t understand or recognize ninety percent of what was written.
What the hell is jus? Mousselin? Agri-doux?
It didn’t matter. I was on a high like I’d never been before and it had nothing to do with the fancy setting and ridiculous menu and everything to do with the guy sitting opposite me and the adventure I was sharing with him. I could have been standing in line at a Subway and I’d still feel the same.
I felt wonderful.
Alive.
Happy.
Picking the fourth item from the top with random abandon—grilled Northern Territory crocodile with caramelized apricots, apricot agri-doux, glazed couscous, ginger-infused puree, asparagus tips and red-wine jus—I lowered my menu and fixed Raph with a level gaze. “Speaking of dangerous,” I said, watching him study his menu, “where is your bodyguard?”
He pulled a face, disgruntled dislike clear in the tension around his mouth and nose. “I’ve given him the day off. In fact, if I had my way, he’d be gone for good. He doesn’t know where we are and my phone is off.”
“So you are being naughty?” I pointed out, delighted. I didn’t like Horn. Just in case you didn’t know that little fact by now.
Raph laughed, the sound low and relaxed and so goddamn yummy. “I told you, being naughty comes later.”
My sex throbbed and pulsed and generally reacted like an impatient freaking sex-fiend’s at his words. And the open hunger in his eyes as he raised his head and looked at me.
Oh boy.
I wanted to say something pithy and flirty but our waiter arrived before I could. Which was probably a good thing, given I had no clue what pithy and sexy thing to say. Take me right here on the table, Raph? Probably not, even if it was what I was thinking.
Boy, was I thinking it.
The next fifteen minutes were spent talking movies, American life versus Australian life, farm life versus city life. The topics were inconsequential. The real conversation was taking place with our eyes. Yes, I know that sounds corny, but it was true. While words like Iron Man and Katnis and drought and rush-hour traffic passed our lips, our eyes spoke a completely different conversation.
I was damn near squirming on my seat by the time our food arrived, the junction of my thighs thick with want and impatient need, my nipples hard with the same.
We ate. The food diffused the crushing sexual tension for a while. Long enough for us to laugh about our meals, comment on their elaborate presentations and finally share a few forkfuls of each other’s dishes.
That really was where we went wrong. The first time I watched Raph’s lips close over the tines of my fork, my belly clenched. Why is watching someone eating from your fork so goddamn arousing? Is it a trust thing? A sharing thing?
Whatever it is, watching Raph slip crocodile from the end of my fork made me want to whimper.
When he offered me a taste of his lunch—roasted quail with some fancy stuff neither of us could translate—I couldn’t help but shiver with anticipation as I leaned slightly across the table and parted my lips.
Our eyes meet. His nostrils flared. His hand close, he slowly placed the tip of his fork with its small cut of quail speared on it into my mouth.
Onto my tongue.
Sublime flavors caressed my taste buds, more delicious than anything I’d eaten. But it wasn’t the food in my mouth that turned my breath to a ragged moan.
It was the way Raph looked at me.
The open, urgent desire in his eyes.
I swallowed the quail, my pulse a pounding beat in my neck, my hands shaking from impatient, nervous need and excitement.
“Th-that’s delicious,” I rasped, tracing my finger over my bottom lip. I really needed to rein in my lust. I was going to embarrass myself soon.
Raph regarded me, silent.
My belly coiled.
Christ, I could barely draw breath.
“Maci…” he said.
The arrival of our waiter prevented him from finishing.
“Dessert?” the man queried.
I shook my head, rising instead to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to visit the bathroom.”
I didn’t miss the devilish light in Raph’s eyes as our waiter inclined his head. “Of course, ma’am.”
If I wasn’t so hyper on sexual need, I’d have laughed. Ma’am. That was a first.
I hurried to the bathroom. I didn’t need to pee. I did need to calm myself.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I drew five deep breaths, held each one and let them out in slow, steady streams through my lips.
I reminded myself we were at a restaurant. True, it was a private dining room without anyone to watch us, but still, it wasn’t like we were going to start making out like rabbits right there.
Of course, then I remembered we did have a tradition of making out like rabbits in public restrooms and the fluttering need in the junction of my thighs grew damp.
God help me, if Raph walked through the door into the ladies’ bathroom, I’d probably come before the door could swing closed behind him.
Yes, I was that horny.
Raph didn’t stride through the door, however, and by the time I finished washing my hands and staring hard at myself in the mirror—a good five minutes later—I’d regained some semblance of control over my feverish libido.
I would walk back out there, smile with relaxed good-humor, settle back into my seat and sip ice water as we continued our conversations about movies, TV shows, ask him what he thought of The Walking Dead. Did he think they’ll ever say the word zombies? That’s what I was going to do.
Shaking out my hair, loosening up my shoulders and wriggling my slightly trembling fingers, I pulled open the door and walked back into our private dining room.
The table had been cleared, replaced with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket and two champagne flutes.
Raph stood at the window, one arm resting on the glass above his head, his other hand deep in his pocket, his back to me.
I paused for a moment, sliding a long, lingering gaze over his body. His ass was exquisite in his jeans, his shoulders broad and strong and muscular. As far as adventures go, he was sublime.
“Are you going to just stare at me or do you think you might want to come over here?”
I jumped a little at his question.
“Busted,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear as I walked over to where he stood. “You okay with me reducing you to a piece of meat I can drool—”
The word over didn’t get a chance to pass my lips.
The second I drew close to his side, Raph spun, fisted a hand in the hair at my nape and crushed my lips with his.
He slammed me against the glass, hips to hips, his cock thick and hard as it rubbed my belly through our clothes.
I whimpered, totally undone by the concentrated pleasure rushing through me.
Holy fuck.
He lashed my tongue with his, his hands roaming my shoulders, my breasts, my hips, before catching my wrists and pinning them against the window above my head.
Again, I say holy fuck.
I whimpered. Ground the curve of my sex to the rigid pole of his erection. He growled into my mouth and deepened the kiss. His plundering tongue sent hot licks of liquid electricity straight to my core, as did his firm grip on my wrists. I was his prisoner, caught between him, the window and our explosive desire—and I never wanted to escape.
He made love to my mouth until I could barely stand. With every swipe of his tongue, with every nip of his teeth, I grew more enslaved by the potency of his kiss. Pleasure pooled in the pit of my belly, radiated out through my limbs. By the time he released my wrists and smoothed his hands down my arms to cup my breasts, I could barely breathe, let alone remain on my feet.
When he dragged his lips over my chin and down my throat, kneading my breasts the whole time, I couldn’t control my raw “Oh yeah.” I tangled my fists in his hair, pushing my hips forward. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him inside me. Now. Right now.
In response to my husky cry, Raph pinche
d my nipples through the cotton of my shirt.
A shudder racked my body, deep and bone melting. I arching into his touch, on fire. Aching for more. “Yeah,” I repeated, the word nothing more than a whimpered groan.
With his own raw sound of pleasure, he buried his head into the side of my neck and sucked on my skin.
I gasped, the painful pressure making my sex squeeze with wicked hunger. I rubbed the curve of my sex to the hard ridge of his erection, wanting to feel it bruise my skin.
He moaned, his hands on my breasts growing fierce. “I want to be inside you, American girl. Tell me you want that too,” he ordered, his breath hot on my neck.
“I want you inside me, Raph,” I declared, incapable of anything else. “Here. Against the window. But what if…people see…down on the street…”
“The glass is tinted,” he rasped against my skin. “No one can see in from the outside.”
I let out a low chuckle. “Then strip me naked and—”
He captured my lips with his even as he released each button on my shirt with feverish haste.
My gasp filled the room, loud and hoarse. And then Raph was releasing the front clasp of my bra and sliding the lace cups from my flesh.
The cool air of the private dining room kissed my newly exposed skin, sending a shiver through me. My nipples puckered into tighter points. My lips parted.
“Oh, Maci,” Raph murmured, skimming his thumbs over the swells of my breasts, his nostrils flaring. “You are so beautiful.”
I turned my head to the side, his compliment twisting me in shy knots. “I twitch too much to be beautiful,” I whispered, my throat thick.
“Look at me, American girl.”
Raph’s low command rumbled between us. He pressed a finger to my chin, drawing my face back to his.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said, tracing his thumb along the line of my bottom lip. “And if I hear you putting yourself down again, I will be forced to spank you.”
I burst out laughing at his unexpected tease.
He laughed too, the sound devilish and wonderful.
Smiling up at him, I smoothed my hands over the firm expanse of his chest, his throat, to the thick strands of his hair at the back of his head. “In that case,” I said, “I’m a shaky, twitchy, ticky, trembly—”
Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always) Page 17