Nacho Figueras Presents

by Jessica Whitman

  * * *

  Noni ached all over. Now that the fear and adrenaline had drained out of her, now that they were all safe back home, she felt so exhausted that she could barely make it to her room.

  She turned to Enzo before going through the door. “You’re going to stay with me tonight, right?”

  Enzo nodded. “I don’t think I could make it back to my place even if I tried.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  She turned on the lamps by her bed, bathing the room in a soft golden light. It was only then that she really looked at Enzo’s face. There was a bruise beneath his right eye and a cut on his cheekbone.

  She reached up to touch his face and he flinched, so she stood on her tiptoes and slowly and carefully kissed his injuries instead.

  His breath hissed and his eyes went dark. “Noni,” he rasped.

  She gave him a long, slow kiss on the mouth, savoring the sweet taste of him. She broke the kiss and leaned her cheek against his broad chest, feeling the warmth rush back through her limbs in an aching tingle, replacing the icy, numb sensation she’d felt all night.

  “Let’s take a bath,” she whispered.

  Her bathroom had a deep porcelain claw-foot tub, and she turned it on in a gush and left it to fill with the nearly scalding water.

  She started to take her shirt off and paused, realizing with a start that she was still in her party clothes. The birthday party seemed days past, even weeks.

  Enzo caught her hands and helped her pull her shirt off and then slide down her pants, exposing the black satin bra and bikini briefs underneath. He stepped behind her to unhook her bra and rained gentle kisses down her neck as he helped her remove it. She turned to him, just in her panties now, and pressed herself against him, laughing to realize that he was still in his good suit and that it was completely ruined. Dirty, torn, and stained with blood.

  “Oh no, my favorite suit,” she said, and giggled at the absurdity of it all.

  He shrugged philosophically, his amber eyes dancing. “It’s probably time to buy another one.”

  She helped him out of his clothes next, going slow because she could see that he was sore. First the jacket, then slowly unbuttoning his shirt, then slipping her hands into the waistband of his pants to untuck the T-shirt underneath, pulling it over his head, and trailing her fingers down his bare chest.

  He took a sharp intake of breath. “Ah, querida, what you do to me.”

  She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and kissed him, not holding back this time, delighting in the feel of her breasts pressed to his warm, bare skin, of the way his strong arms twined themselves around her waist and pulled her ever closer.

  She felt him pulse and she ground her hips against him with a groan, then stepped back to help him remove his pants and boxer shorts, savoring the way he sprang out, heavy, hard, and ready for her.

  She knelt, lightly scratching her fingernails down his back and legs, taking him in her mouth, loving the way he tasted, feeling such joy as he groaned and twisted his hands into her hair, letting her lick and suck until he gently pushed her away.

  “Come back up here,” he said. “That feels much too good.”

  She laughed and slowly stood, rubbing her almost naked body up against his until they were face-to-face again.

  He kissed her until she was dizzy, plying her mouth with his tongue, running his hands all over her body, hooking her underwear with the tips of his fingers and dragging them down her legs with excruciating patience.

  Then he cupped his hands around her rear and lifted her onto the vanity counter. She shivered as he placed her down on the cool surface.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “Marble,” she answered, laughing.

  She shivered in an altogether different sort of way as he gently moved her legs apart, kneeling in front of her and kissing his way up her inner thighs, one at a time, teasing her as he lightly caressed her curls with his fingertips. He sat back up for a moment, watching her face as he brushed his fingers over her and then let them go deeper, searching out the burning center of her and circling it with an almost casual expertise, all the while locking his eyes on her face as she writhed and moaned beneath his touch.

  He bent his head back down to her. Just giving her the lightest of kisses at first, making her arch and burn for more. Then he grasped her thighs in his hands and pushed her legs even farther apart before parting her with one quick slash from his tongue and making her cry out in surprised pleasure.

  He lapped at her slowly, taking his time. Trembling sensations coursed through her body, making her feel as if she were floating on currents of silky pleasure. She wrapped her hands in his hair and watched him, marveling at how he made her feel both wholly in her body and yet somehow outside it. She swore she could see a faint golden light—a radiance—that seemed to illuminate them both.

  He lifted his head for a moment, staring into her eyes. “I will never get enough of you, querida,” he said fiercely before bowing his head back down and parting her once more.

  She started to tremble all over as he went deeper, licking and sucking, reaching up to cup her breasts in his hands, lightly pinching and flicking her nipples between his fingers as he continued to pleasure her with his mouth. She could feel herself falling over the brink now, the trembling turning into a buzzing, electrical flow and the light between them bursting into a radiant flame. He kept licking and sucking as he reached down and slid first one and then a second finger inside her, stretching her until she could feel him all through her body, and she tumbled over the edge with a sharp and wild cry. She felt like she was shattering into pieces even as he pulled her ever closer. She felt as if her body was built of nothing but shooting stars and billowing waves of joy. She peaked again and again under his strong fingers and agile tongue, until she was sobbing her bliss and begging for him to fill her in a different way.

  And so he stood and placed her, still pulsing, back on the floor, turning her away from him and cradling her body within his own, slipping on a condom before sliding into her with slow, excruciating control, filling her deeper and deeper, his breath going ragged and uneven. His body trembling around hers with the effort of curbing his need. She felt her breath run short as she begin to peak again, every small movement sending her closer and closer to the edge, until he reached around and cupped one breast in his hand, teasing her nipple between his fingers, and slid his other hand down through her curls and into the very pulsing center of her, circling and rubbing. And then, just as she thought she could take no more, he pulled back and then thrust himself into her, no longer holding back but sheathing his full length deep inside her, and then out again and then back, losing all control as he took her over and over, sending her falling, falling over the edge. Because she could feel nothing else but this man she loved, nothing but his body, his soul, and his heart, all of which she knew, in that exquisite moment, to be hers and hers alone.

  * * *

  They floated together in the warm bath afterward, her body resting against his, heedless of the overfilled tub and the way the water lapped over the sides and onto the floor in little waves and drips.

  The room smelled of roses and lilies, the sweet scents drifting up on the breeze. There was a soft glow from the garden below, the tattered remnants of Noni’s first birthday party, fairy lights and lanterns, the candles long since burned out, but the fireflies still blinking their electric message of desire, swirling in graceful clusters in the warm summer air.

  One luminous insect broke from the pack and rode the current of the breeze up and through their window, drifting over them and pulsing gold and then green in the hushed darkness of the room. They silently watched it hover, and it seemed to them a flickering, floating talisman of their luck. A reminder that, indeed, some people might search a lifetime for what lay between them…for what they held in their hands.

  Epilogue

  The bride and groom rode to their wedding. The bride rode sidesaddle on her fav
orite black mare and the groom on his beloved white stallion.

  The groom dressed in a black cutaway morning suit, complete with a gray ascot, silk kerchief, and dove-gray gloves. He chose to forgo the traditional top hat at his bride’s request.

  The bride wore thick cream silk, with long lace sleeves and a bateau neckline. There was a subtle hint of the palest pink swirled through her heavy, elegant floor-length gown. At her throat and slim wrists glimmered clusters of large pink diamonds mixed with the tiniest of rubies and seed pearls. Her satin heels were likewise adorned with small bejeweled clips.

  She carried her favorite flowers, blowsy red garden roses, in such a state of full bloom that she dripped petals as she walked down the aisle, which was fine since the twin two-year-old flower girls, while very cute, did a haphazard job at best of spreading their bounty.

  The bride decided against a veil or any attendants other than the comically distractible flower girls. She walked herself down the aisle, thank you very much. At her advanced age, she was more than capable of giving herself away.

  It was autumn in the garden, and there was a bite in the air, but the guests were, for the most part, cozily wrapped in cashmere and velvets and quite comfortable. The bride loathed summer weddings and would, she had previously announced, not risk the slightest chance of perspiring at her own ceremony.

  The vows were of the traditional sort and not overlong but spoken in both Spanish and English. The groom, it had to be admitted, had a terrible Spanish accent and could scarcely be understood, but his bride knew that he had tried his hardest and gave him points for effort, nonetheless.

  Some of the guests cried. Mainly on the bride’s side. Her children were especially prone, though her sons did their manly best to be discreet.

  The kiss between the bride and groom was shockingly amorous, and several guests found themselves quite warm, despite the brisk autumn breeze.

  The reception was held in the same garden as the ceremony. A large, open tent was provided in case of rain, but the weather stayed dry as was predicted.

  The decorative flowers were roses straight from the bride’s gardens. Pink, cream and red. Some of the guests later argued over who would get to take the dizzyingly fragrant centerpieces home.

  The food was, of course, spectacular, with a sumptuous buffet provided instead of a sit-down dinner, because the bride felt that food too perfectly plated was, perhaps, a bit bourgeoisie.

  The cake was a towering affair. A traditional English fruitcake, iced with an achingly sweet white frosting, exactly as the groom had requested. The cake had been made three months in advance in order for it to “mature,” as it needed to be lovingly fed many a teaspoonful of rum every day before it was deemed fit to be consumed.

  The children were given fairy cakes of an ordinary vanilla and vanilla sort, though more than one dared try a bite of the rum cake with rather unpleasant results.

  The two horses were allowed to stay for the party, tied to a fence post and peacefully grazing on the lawn. There were also multiple dogs at the ceremony. And, at one point, an errant billy goat.

  The toasts were given by the bride’s sons and granddaughter. They were heartfelt, moving, and in the case of her younger son, perhaps just the tiniest bit ribald.

  The band was a multipiece jazz orchestra, as requested by the groom. The first dance was a tango, which was performed with such lusty enthusiasm and grace by the newly married couple that most of the same guests got warm all over again.

  The other guests joined in the dancing, and there was particular attention paid to the chemistry between the bride’s grown granddaughter, who moved on the floor like the professional dancer that she was, and the young handsome African American polo player who, it was whispered, had come from very rough beginnings.

  The alcohol was top shelf; the bar was, of course, wide open; and the champagne was Veuve Clicquot, 1998, La Grande Dame Rosé.

  The autumn trees had done as was expected of them—providing an astonishingly colorful canopy that arched over the wedding party and beyond, peaking in their beauty and hue exactly on the day that they were supposed to.

  “Well, of course the trees cooperated,” Antonia Black-Rivas was heard murmuring to her adoring husband, Enzo, as they whirled blissfully around the dance floor. “Because not even a tree would be so foolish as to deny Pilar Del Campo-Henderson exactly what she asked for on her wedding day.”

  At an international polo tournament in Florida, country vet Georgia Fellowes encounters some of the most gorgeous thoroughbreds—and men—she’s ever seen. Alejandro Del Campo desperately wants to win the season’s biggest polo tournament—and also the heart of Georgia. But first he’ll have to convince her to look beyond the player…and see the man.

  Please see the next page for an excerpt from

  Nacho Figueras Presents:

  High Season

  Chapter One

  No!” Georgia laughed. “I have exactly zero interest in polo.”

  “Only because you haven’t seen it played,” said Billy. “It’s actually amazing. The way they fight it out on the field, all snarled together, slamming up against each other, a sweaty, dangerous tangle of heaving chests and pumping legs…”

  Georgia shook her head at Billy’s handsome, teasing face on the Skype screen. “I can’t tell if you’re describing the ponies or the players.”

  Billy quirked an eyebrow. “Well, both, actually. Anyway, Peaches, please. For me. One week in Wellington. It will be so much fun! We’ll do it right. And, okay, full disclosure, I’ve met someone, and I desperately need your opinion.”

  “Of course you do,” said Georgia. Ever since they met at Cornell, there had been a never-ending series of inappropriate men Billy desperately needed her opinion on. “What’s his name?”

  “Beau.”

  “No. Seriously?”

  “I know. It’s a Virginia thing. He rides to hounds. Don’t you love how that sounds? I think he might be The One.”

  She laughed. “Because he rides to hounds?”

  “No, because he’s cute, and sweet, and a little bit rich, and he does this thing with his tongue that makes my—”

  Georgia threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, spare me the details.”

  “Honest, Georgie, this is not just about me. You’d love this place. It’s sunshine and high fashion, perfect beaches, gorgeous people, million-dollar ponies, oh, and the wildest and most decadent parties you can imagine!”

  “Yes, well, I sunburn on sight,” she said, “and as for fashion, I believe that you once told me that I dress like last season’s bag lady. Even the idea of a Palm Beach party makes me break out in hives, and besides”—she glanced out the window at the snowy, moonlit, upstate New York farm—“I have horses that need me here.”

  Since graduating with her degree in veterinary medicine, Georgia had been helping her dad on the farm and assisting in the village animal hospital. It wasn’t exactly a challenge—basically she was handing out tick medicine and checking for worms, with the occasional trip to a stable in the case of a colic false alarm—but she knew she was lucky to have found work that let her be where she was needed.

  The farm consisted of a dilapidated stone cottage and a sagging barn set on ten acres of meadow at the edge of the Catskills. The place was so ancient that it was practically open to the elements, and cost a fortune to heat. Without her help, Georgia knew her dad would sell, and she couldn’t stand the idea of losing their home.

  There were definitely days when Georgia wondered if she’d parked all her ambition the moment she had arrived back home, but her father had gone into debt to finance her education, and helping him now was payback. If she sometimes found herself daydreaming about missed opportunities and other, perhaps bigger, lives, she quickly shook it off. She loved the farm and she loved her father, and they both needed her. That was enough.

  Billy rolled his dark brown eyes in frustration, visibly filtering a retort about what he obviously considered to be Georgi
a’s sad-ass life. “Georgia. All respect. But there are horses, and then there are horses. The team that Beau is down here with are, like, among the top ten polo players in the world.”

  “Are there even ten people who play?”

  Billy sighed in exasperation. “There are tens of thousands, probably. And you are absolutely missing the point. It’s a sexy, savage game, and I’m telling you, you will love it. Plus, it’s totally trending.”

  “Right,” Georgia said. “Among the one percent.”

  “Don’t be snarky just because you’re stuck in the snowy wasteland not getting any. Please, Peaches. I really like this guy. And I think he really likes me. But you know how bad I am at this. Every time I fall for someone, he ends up sleeping with my cousin, or emptying my bank account…”

  “Or stealing your car,” snorted Georgia.

  “Oh God, I can’t believe that actually happened twice,” he groaned, “but you see! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I need your unbiased opinion. You’re the only one I can trust.”

  “Billy, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  “Georgia, who was there for you when you found out that skinny hipster you called a boyfriend was secretly banging that waitress with the uni-boob?”

  Georgia rolled her eyes and sighed. “You were.”

  “And who sat up with you all night drinking cheap wine and watching Downton Abbey until you felt better?”

  She shifted reluctantly in her seat. “You did.”

  “And so, who is going to get her narrow ass down to Florida and make sure her BFF isn’t making another colossal romantic mistake?”

  Georgia gave a groan of defeat. “All right,” she said. “Four days. That’s it.”

  “Yay!” Billy cheered. “You’re going to love it! Cocktails. Scandal. Strappy dresses. Trust me. It will be everything you need. I’ll text directions.”

  Georgia snapped her laptop shut and fed the woodstove. As she climbed the stairs to bed, her shadow was animated by the flare of the fire.