Manacled in Monaco (10 page)

An out of sync wave washed over them and the sea outlined their exhausted bodies. Water lapped her thighs. An occasional sea breeze cooled her flesh. The Mediterranean rippled musical swishes, the sound hypnotic, sleep inducing.

Chapter Six

The
Glory
had returned to its Monte Carlo berth when Tony woke Sarita the following morning.

“Mom, Mom,” he said. “Wake up.”

“I’m awake, Anthony. Come give me a hug.” She sat up and patted the mattress.

Tony scooted onto the bed, embraced her for fleeting seconds and kissed her cheek.

She combed his tangled hair. “Are you okay with all of this, son?”

“Yeah, Mom. I like having a dad. And I like it that we won’t have to worry about money anymore.” He ducked away from her fingers, picked up a silk cushion, and pummeled it into a small ball.

“What is it, Anthony.” She tipped his chin. “I know that look. Spit it out.”

“Can I have a brother?” he blurted, his cheeks reddening. “Or a sister? I don’t mind either.”

She yearned to haul him into her arms for a squishing cuddle. Over the last three months, her son had begun to shy away from physical affection, especially close embraces. Having read every how-to-cope book on male adolescence, Sarita had anticipated this stage, but it proved difficult to accept. He’d been such an affectionate child, and she loved the sweet hugs, holding his hand.

“Would you like that? A brother or sister?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I would. A lot.”

“How about we let Rolan get used to the idea of being your father, and then we’ll tackle him on it?”

“Okay. That’s a good strategy.” He bounded off the bed. “I’m gonna wake Dad.”

Before she could utter a protest, Tony sprinted through the doorway.

After showering and changing, Sarita sorted out breakfast for the crew and guests. Austen did waiter duty and arranged the buffet on deck. She munched on fruit while gathering all the ingredients for lunch.

Arms snaked around her waist and she leaned back against Rolan’s chest.

“Morning, Sarita honey.” He nuzzled her neck. “I love the way you smell.”

She turned in his arms and tangled her fingers in his hair. “I’m partial to the way you smell, too. I’ve even begun to like the smell of a cigar and the taste of it.”

“Mmm, the taste of it?”

“You smoked a different one last night and you tasted spicier.”

“Tell me how this one tastes,” he said.

Rolan’s mouth tasted of smoke and coffee and him. Their tongues danced a tango, each step languid, unhurried.

“Aw, Mom, Dad. Do you have to do that all the time?”

He broke the kiss and forehead leaning on hers, turned to their son. “Get used to it, buddy. What’s up?”

“Madame Yvonne’s here. She says Mom has to be on deck in ten minutes.”

“It’s the fittings.” Sarita sighed. She untied her apron and dropped it onto the counter.

Hurricane Yvonne ruled the day. They left the
Glory
in a limousine and headed to the boutique where she’d found The Dress. It took hours before the Frenchwoman decided perfection had been achieved, and then they were back in the limo, destination unknown.

Turned out, Rolan had rented them rooms in a nearby hotel, as the Hotel de Paris had no vacancies. Madame rushed Sarita through a series of appointments.

Four hours later, bemused, bullied, and bothered, Sarita Khan surveyed the mirror. All at once, she felt like Cinderella after the fairy godmother’s spells. Madame Yvonne belied her Audrey Hepburn appearance and morphed into Jane Fonda as the mother-in-law from hell.

The woman called in reinforcements and before she knew what had happened, Sarita had been Brazilianized. It hurt like the dickens, removing hair from there. Plucked, oiled, and made up like a harem girl, all she needed was the requisite veil.

She hardly ever wore makeup, and her kohl-rimmed eyes blinked back at her, setting something smoldering between her thighs. Horny, she was horny. God help her. Ten years of never thinking about sex, of wondering what all the fuss was about, then Rolan slid those fingers inside and she’d jettisoned into space.

Orgasm.

Hell, orgasm.

She ran for the bathroom and tried to tissue away the moistness creaming her folds.

Tony.

The bond between Tony and Rolan had formed so fast, become so solid in the space of a couple of days, an ache had started in her chest, a lance of pain and happiness. Her son needed a father, and from the looks of it, Rolan seemed determined to be the perfect dad. She crushed a Kleenex to the corner of her eye to prevent a tear from ruining Madame Yvonne’s perfect makeup job. Dad, Tony called him Dad at every opportunity.

Would she lose her place in Tony’s life?

A clicking sound preceded Rolan’s entrance through the doorway. Their eyes met in the dresser’s mirror.

“Butterflies?” he asked, while striding up behind her. His hands cupped her bare shoulders. “I’m feeling them too. Figured if we shared them, maybe they’d go away.”

One thumb danced a lazy circle on her shoulder blade.

“Wait till you see Tony in his tux. He’s one terrific kid, Sarita honey. You did a great job. Thank you.”

He brushed his lips against her temple. She wanted to lean back into him, absorb his strength, let him take the burden for a while, but squared her shoulders instead.

“You know where I came from, Rolan. I don’t have your country club background, I’m not sure I can fit into your life.” She gritted her teeth and continued. “You, you’re famous. I’m no one. A short order cook in a diner. What happens when you become bored with me and Tony?”

“He’s my son. I could never become bored with him. Do you know the one thing that stands out? He said, now I can go to father and son night at school. Jesus, I felt like such a prick. You two haven’t had it easy, have you? Not in Orangeville. I’d forgotten about small town prejudice.”

“It won’t go away, Rolan. They’ll all know the real reason you married me, and they’ll never let me forget it.”

“And what’s the real reason I’m marrying you? Since you seem to have everything pegged, answer that question.”

“Joint custody.”

“And yesterday? Last night? Those hot sex scenes in the bathroom? On the deck? Where do all of those fit into your tidy little mind?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes then and studied the strappy white sandals, her newly pedicured feet, and the scarlet toenails. It all seemed like a vulgar joke.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve never felt like that before. I mean, that first time ten years ago, it was sort of a blur. And then I had too much to worry about to concentrate on it.”

“Sarita honey,” he tipped her chin up, and cupped her jaw. “Are you telling me you’ve never? Not since that night?”

Her whole face heated, and she wanted nothing more than to vanish into oblivion. “I had to drop out of high school, then my mother died and I got fired. Sex was the last thing I thought about.”

“Then your wedding night will be very special, I promise.”

“I think it might be best if we didn’t get married. I’m not very sophisticated, Rolan. If you sleep with me, I’ll expect you not to sleep with anyone else.” She angled her jaw out of his reach. “In fact, I just might turn into Lorena Bobbitt if you did.”

He grinned a slow devilish beam and nipped her shoulder, a short sharp bite.

“We have a deal, little lady. You Bobbitt me if I break the rules. What happens if you do?”

She snorted. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m not the straying kind.”

“You’d never had an orgasm before the last couple of days either. Take it from one who’s experienced more than his share, they’re addictive.”

That one she believed.

“And that little red number you wore for lunch gets banished to the bedroom.”

“Who says?” She folded her arms.

“I do. And in a few minutes, you’re promising to love and obey.”

“It’s the year 2008, Rolan, not the Stone Age. I will omit that word.”

“Get one thing straight, Sarita. I am your husband and you will not wear that dress, or any other like it, in public.”

“Really?” One eyebrow arched. “And what happens if I do?”

“You get spanked.”

She snorted.

“Actually, I’ve already fantasized about spanking that pert little backside. Want to get married with a little tar on your ass?”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” She never expected what followed.

For an answer, he swept his hands under her knees, scooped her into his arms, stalked over to the bed, and sat down. Holding her gaze, he edged her long ivory gown over naked thighs until he reached a pink and blue flowered garter belt. “I bet Yvonne had to bully you into wearing this. Did she?”

Dazed and somewhat apprehensive, she nodded.

“I gave her strict instructions about your undergarments. No underwear, right?”

Almost in a drunken stupor, she nodded again.

“And are you very very wet here?”

He knew the answer to that as he stroked a long, thick finger into her center.

“And you’re ready, Sarita honey, really ready.” He flipped her onto the bed, straddled her thighs, and spanked her. It happened so fast she didn’t absorb it for a few seconds.

A single stinging connection, hand to bare ass.

“Ten should do it. I want you thinking of me every minute of the ceremony, knowing I’m going to do this again before I give you a wedding night you’re never going to forget.”

Another spank. A brush of his lips on her bottom.

Spank. Her cheeks flamed.

He licked his way up the center of her ass, his tongue delving deep into the crevice.

Slap, two palms. This time his mouth firmed in the hollow of her back, nibbling, nipping.

By the tenth spank, Sarita’s mind had stopped functioning and her ass arched into his palms, begging for more.

He pulled down her satin wedding dress and the cool material burned her flesh. With the utmost gentleness, he turned her onto her side. Taking one palm between his, he slid her hand inside his pants and curled her fingers around his hot, rigid prick.

“Twice you’ve had me so hot, I came in my pants. Your ass is burning now, but by the time you say I do, it will be the least of your worries.”

“Rolan, you’re scaring me a little.”

“Sarita honey, you shouldn’t be afraid at all. You know I’d never do anything but bring you pleasure. Don’t you?”

Did she?

“You’re not sure. Okay, was there anything we’ve done you haven’t enjoyed? Are you afraid that you’ll like it?”

“I said that aloud, didn’t I? I don’t think I could ever look a Bailey’s bottle in the face again.” At his wide grin, she added, “You know what I mean. Spanking, Rolan?”

“How did it make you feel? Be honest now.” One thumb brushed her cheek.

“Surprised. Naughty, kind of breathless. A little afraid.”

“Did it hurt you either physically or emotionally?”

“Not really.” Startled, she realized the truth of her admission.

“Anything else?”

His emerald eyes hunted for some nebulous response from her. “It made me wet.”

“Ah, that’s what it’s supposed to do, Sarita honey, It’s all for your pleasure. You haven’t had any real sexual experience until the last couple of days, so we’ll explore different aspects of sex. Think of it as a tasting menu, you pick the dishes you like and have them regularly. What you don’t like, you don’t eat. Okay?”

Three hard knocks sounded on the door.

“That’s Madame Yvonne. She’s waiting outside. Ten to one Austen’s hovering around her. He’s smitten.”

“I noticed.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t make love to you until after the ceremony, but I want you focused on me, on wedding night sex. Every time you see me, I want you to picture how much I love Bailey’s flavored pussy. And I want you to think of rules and consequences. Rule one, no sitting during the ceremony or the reception. I’m going to have you so wet that if you sit, this lovely dress will stain. If I see you sit once tonight, I’ll haul you into the men’s room and add another ten spanks to your hot little ass.”

Sliding her palm out of his pants, he nipped her lower lip, shot her a Satanic grin, and stalked out of the room like a Bengal tiger hunting deer.

Rear end on fire, embarrassed to the gills, Sarita let Madame Yvonne hover and fuss without a murmur, too caught up in this strange side of Rolan to worry about the marriage ceremony. She’d never dreamed, not once in the last ten years, he’d be like this. He liked to spank, no that was too mild, he reveled in it. Was she marrying a sadist?

At precisely seven-thirty, Austen drove her and Tony to the Hotel de Paris. Its imposing, almost forbidding, exterior intimidated the daylights out of her. Not so Tony. No, her young son seemed to the manor born, exiting the Lamborghini as if he had rights to it. Leading her up the marble steps, he lifted an arrogant brow when one of the bellhops inquired as to their destination.

“We’re with the Paxton party. The private elevator.”

She slanted a stunned glance at this imperial version of her ten-year-old-child.

Tony caught her confused look, grinned, and whispered, “Dad said he didn’t want anyone crashing the wedding, so we have a private elevator. He says if you act like you own the world, then you do. Stick your nose in the air, Mom. You’re going to be Mrs. Rolan Paxton, wife of a three-time Super Bowler.”

And a spanker.

She should start running now and never stop.

Rolan held sway over the private elevator, greeting them as the doors opened. “Thank you for delivering her, son. Now she’s all mine.”

“She’s still my mom, Dad.”

“You can have her back after the honeymoon. Okay?”

“How long’s the honeymoon?”

“Two nights, three days.”

“Okay, I can handle that, I guess. Where’re you two staying?”

“At a small castle in the Italian mountains. You have my cell programmed into yours, right? Just call if you need anything.”

“You gave Tony a cell phone?”

“You’re starting to get a little antsy there, woman. Should we head to the bathroom?” he murmured into one ear, his warm breath tickling her lobe.

“Rolan,” she said, grabbed his arm, and tiptoed as the elevator doors closed, blocking Tony’s tuxedoed form. “Is spanking it? Or is there more?”

“Much more, Sarita honey. I’m guessing I’ve piqued your curiosity?” He had the clean-cut good looks of the boy next door. But underneath that bland exterior lived a predatory marauder with strange appetites.