Manacled in Monaco (13 page)

His touch disappeared and it left her bereft.

“Rolan?”

“No coming, Sarita honey, not until I say so.”

“I can’t stop it.”

“But I can.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m better now, so you can continue.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Will you please continue?” She decided right there and then he would pay a penalty for making her beg.

“How can I refuse when you ask so prettily?”

She never knew shins and calves and the backs of knees were sensual dynamite, and he had to pause at least ten times before reaching the tops of her thighs. By then, she’d become a raving sex addict, pleading, threatening, aching for release.

When Rolan slipped one of the massive pillows under her hips and adjusted the restraints so she lay exposed, legs able to shift a mere inch left or right, he had to nip her again, twice on each cheek. His touch disappeared again, and she needed it so much, but she forced her pants into a regular breathing rhythm.

Every sense seemed poised on the brink of explosion. Sexual musk contained and concentrated by the heavy bed curtains made her aware of each calloused digit, the rough circle on the pad of his right thumb, the softness of his pinkie finger, the ridge of his Super Bowl ring.

Her pulse rocketed when his tongue traced a lazy circle on her left palm.

“Rolan, please,” she pleaded.

“Please what?” he asked, and suckled her forefinger.

“Please let me come,” she said, surrendering, no longer interested in control.

He didn’t answer, just nibbled her wrist.

And the slight pressure of his teeth, a tiny nip on the fleshy base of her palm hitched her breathing and she babbled again. “Lick me there, please. Oh God. Come inside of me. I need you so much.”

“Where do you want me to lick you?”

The grated question, the edginess in his voice flooded through her veins, and she answered without hesitation, all semblance of small town conservative girl jumping out of the plane without a parachute. “My pussy, lick my pussy.”

“Jesus.”

She didn’t even realize he’d freed her hands and legs and removed her blindfold, all lost in his hard cock filling that aching void, squeezing past her clamping muscles. Wave after wave hit her and she met his every thrust, locked her ankles around his ass, fisted her hands in his silky hair, and plundered his mouth, her tongue matching his pounding rhythm.

“More,” he growled, and reached between them, one thumb rubbing a hard circle on her nubbin.

White heat hit both of them at the same time, and he shuddered into her in spurts and nipped her shoulder on the last thrust. She hadn’t realized how carefully he’d shielded her from his weight until he collapsed on top of her, crushing their sweat slickened chests together.

Amplified senses registered slight nuances: his uneven audible inhales, a thatch of hair tickling her neck, the thud of his heart against a breast, the pungent musky aroma tainted with a hint of Irish Spring soap. He nuzzled her throat and she curled a lock of his hair around her finger, eyes misting as a well of tenderness surged. Sarita bit her lip, afraid to speak, afraid she’d confess how essential this man had become to her in the space of three short days.

He gave a sudden jerk and rose onto his forearms. “I seem to be making a habit of squishing you. That better?”

Tracing his square jawline with one finger, she nodded. “I seem to like being squished. Is it always like this, Rolan?”

“It’s never like this, Sarita honey. At least it hasn’t been like this before.” He brushed his lips against hers, a slight grazing. “Hmmm, you have that speculative look on your face again. Tell me what’s worrying that mind of yours.”

“It’s none of my business, I guess. But, what you did, the handcuffs, the blindfold, do you do that often?”

“Never done it before.”

Her eyelids flew open and she met his gaze. “Honestly?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he answered, his fingers mimicking the words.

“Oh.”

He rubbed her frown away with a thumb. “Again, that look. Speak to me, woman. What other bug’s got into you?”

“I just remembered. I’m still not on birth control, Rolan.”

“Yeah, well that’s a chance we’re risking. I haven’t been bareback since prom night and there’s no way I’m using a condom with you.”

“What if I get pregnant?”

“Do you want another child?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Tony told me the other day that he wants a brother or a sister. We were going to let you get used to the idea of being a father and then tackle you on it.”

“We’re going about this all ass backward,” he said, but the wide grin on his face softened the words. “Have a child, get married ten years later, have sex, then discuss birth control. And mostly it’s because I can’t think when I get near you. All I want is to be inside, trapped in that hot tight pussy of yours.”

Heat scalded her cheeks and her vaginal muscles clenched.

“Jesus. You are so wonderfully responsive.” He shook his head. “I’m hard again. My cock’s reacting like it did when I was thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” she asked.

“First time I had sex.”

“Thirteen,” she repeated, brows lifting. “You had sex at thirteen?”

“Hmm,” he replied, and feathered kisses up her neck. “My mother hired a math tutor for me, a first-year college student, the summer after I turned thirteen. She taught me a lot, and I even passed math for a couple of terms.”

Sarita’s thoughts scattered with each syllable, each touch of his lips, returning to one burning question over and over again and she blurted, “Just how many women have you slept with?”

When he met her angry gaze, his mouth thinned. “The past is the past, Mrs. Paxton. I suggest you leave it there.”

She didn’t relish being scolded like a ten-year-old. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Stop pouting, you’re acting like a teenager. We’re married and I have every intention of trying to be faithful to you, to our vows. But, jealousy will drive me away. So cut it now.”

“Fine,” she said and pushed her palms against his chest. “But I still need to go to the bathroom.”

Avoiding making eye contact, Sarita padded to the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned against it. Her hands curled into hard fists and she shook one in the air. “Try to be faithful? Oooh, I could just kill him.”

The sunken shower area beckoned, so she pushed the button to lock the door and headed for it. Turning the knobs, she adjusted the water temperature and stepped into the stall just as Rolan knocked on the door and yelled, “Sarita, open this door.”

He stopped pounding before she washed the conditioner out of her hair. The linen closet at the far corner of the room yielded a plush terrycloth bathrobe and matching cushy slippers. Taking her sweet time, she towel dried her long hair and finger combed the locks. All the while her anger seethed, simmering a notch below boiling point.

It must have been a full thirty minutes before she opened the door. Apprehension replaced fury with each inch it widened.

He stood besides the bed his bare feet spread wide, pelvis thrust forward, arms crossed. Anger apparently didn’t affect his sex drive, she noted, mouth pursing at the sight of his jutting cock. She met emerald eyes darkened almost sable and read the wrath tempered in those dilated pupils.

“Since you so generously will try to be faithful to me, I suppose I could vow to do the same. But your experience outweighs mine by a zillion to one, so I think you owe me a head start. One affair, shall we say?” Her hands shook, so she linked her fingers behind her back.

It took her gaze off him for a fraction of a second, and in that time, he’d reached her, slung her over his shoulder, and then dumped her on the bed. He loosened the bathrobe’s tie, spread the material, and straddled her thighs, letting his weight pin her squirming legs.

“This,” he snapped, cupping a hand over her mound. “Is mine. All mine. No one else gets near you. I don’t share.”

Chapter Nine

Rolan couldn’t remember ever being so enraged.

“I’m never going to say this again. You are my wife.” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Mine. If you ever screw anyone else, both of you had better start running. Got that?”

“It works both ways, Rolan,” she said through gritted teeth.

He realized her anger matched his and that took the edge off his temper.

“Agreed.”

“Agreed.” The tips of her fingers brushed his right thigh.

Shifting to one side, head propped on a palm, he studied her face, the wide set amber eyes, the arrogant tip-tilted nose, those plump pouty lips, and his sudden fury dissipated. “Ah, Sarita honey, it’s our honeymoon. Let’s not quarrel. Kiss and make up?”

“All right,” she answered and tangled her hand in his hair. “I like the way you kiss.”

“But?” he prompted, recognizing the slight pursing of her mouth meant something bothered her.

“I probably shouldn’t say.”

“But?”

“You are one stubborn man. But I’ve only kissed you, so I really have no comparison. You asked, so don’t go all huffy again.”

She laid her palm against his mouth and he tongued it.

“Kiss me, Mrs. Paxton.”

Their lips met in a slow sipping and he let her take control. Rolan realized he associated honey not just with the color of her eyes, but the way she tasted, like cinnamon-flavored honey. She curled her tongue around his and traced a path down its center, the tickling sensations licking fire to his groin.

“You get me so hot, so fast,” he muttered against her mouth. Inhaling he added, “You smell so clean, like baby powder. I probably stink of sex. Come on, let’s go back to the pool and I’ll clean off with a swim.” As he spoke, his busy hands slipped the robe off her shoulders.

“All right. What time is it?”

“Time for a swim,” he quipped, rolled off the bed, and held out his hand.

Accepting his help, she said, “No, really. What time is it? I’ve lost track of which day we’re on.”

“Day one of our marriage, Mrs. Paxton. We have two full days left, and according to the grandfather clock behind you, it’s almost eight.”

“You must be hungry.”

Wrapping his arms around her, he nuzzled her shoulder. “Hungry for you.”

“Then that growl I heard was my stomach, not yours?”

She had one of those perfect smiles, where the corners of her lips curved sharp and sweet, and when those eyes danced with mischief, he wanted to grant her every wish.

“Okay, I lied, I am hungry for food. Let’s raid the fridge and have a picnic by the pool.”

Rolan noticed she walked gingerly and guessed she was sore. Shooting a rueful look at his erection, he figured restraint proved in order, and the only way to accomplish that meant going out in public.

“I have a better idea. Let me shower quickly. Let’s get dressed and find a nice romantic spot for dinner.” He halted at the top of the stairs. “I’ll bring in the carry-ons. Want to wait in the bedroom?”

She nodded, but stood there watching him trot down the stairs. Looking over his shoulder, he teased, “Ogling my ass, are you, Sarita honey?”

“You know what they say,” she said, hands resting on slender hips. “What’s good for the goose --”

God, he had fun with her. He shot her a quick whatever wave and continued down the steps.

Not wanting to bother with clothes, Rolan opened one of the gigantic double doors and a wash of icy air sprouted goose bumps on his arms and chest. Scattered foggy clouds dotted the manicured lawn circle rimming the graveled driveway. He sprinted to the car, popped the trunk, and seized the two suitcases. As he entered the doorway, Sarita greeted him with one hand outstretched, his black cell phone in her palm.

“It’s Suresh, for you.”

They exchanged burdens, his phone for her luggage.

“What’s up?” he asked and Suresh’s answer halted further movement.

He snuck a look at Sarita and his shoulders slumped in relief when he saw her moving toward the stairs. Tamping down the chivalrous instincts that had him heading to relieve her of the carry-on, he watched her heft the suitcase up the steps and he moved in the direction of the kitchen.

“How many stitches?” Rolan kept his voice low. “You sure he’s okay?”

“A clean cut, two stitches in the back of his head,” Suresh answered. “His flip-flops had no tread at all. That’s why he slipped off the gangplank. I chucked the slippers out and bought him new ones with a heavy tread. Didn’t want to disturb your honeymoon, but I figured you’d better prepare Sarita. They had to shave the hair around the cut, so she’ll notice it right away.”

“Thanks Suresh, I owe you one. Make sure Tony doesn’t call her. I’ll tell her on the way home. If I tell her now, the honeymoon’s over.”

“Gotcha. Austen had taken the day off and Terry was in Antibes, so Harry called me when Tony fell. Man almost fainted on me. Can’t stand the sight of blood. I’ll probably keep Tony with me at the hotel.”

“There are six staterooms on the
Glory
, Suresh. Stay there if you want.”

“I may take you up on that. We had a bit of bad news about the new headquarters -- the deal for the new location is at a standstill.”

“Crap. That bastard Menton. I can’t believe he pulled such a fast one selling the old building out from under us. Practice camp starts in two weeks. Do we have a fallback position?”

“Nada, but I’m working on it.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow, probably early a.m. Make sure Tony’s in bed early.”

“Done, I’ll see you the day after.”

“Yeah, bye.”

His wife’s coddling of their son strained the boundaries of normalcy. He’d already decided to tackle that head-on when they returned home. Rolan would bet any money Tony had never had stitches before. Damn, she’d go ballistic the minute she spotted that bald spot on his head. Rolan knew who she’d target her fear and anger at -- him, for not telling her right away.

Sarita had already dressed when he reached the master bedroom. She had on one of the flirty little outfits Madame Yvonne had purchased. Capped sleeves accentuated her cut triceps and he stifled an internal groan at the cleavage revealed by the low-cut sweetheart neckline. She twirled. The full skirt billowed and settled around firm calves.

His lips curled and he delighted in her enjoyment of her femininity. She sat in front of the dresser and slipped on a strappy dark brown sandal with a three-inch heel. His prick reacted by thickening. Everything about this woman aroused him. Yet two days ago with Cindy-something, the sound of a knock on a door had sent his arousal into flaccidity. The thought arrested his movements.

“And how long have you been standing there?” Their gaze met in the mirror.

He shrugged. “Who knows? I’m so bewitched by my wife, I can’t remember. I guess if we’re going to go out, I’d better get moving.”

Leaving the bathroom door open, Rolan headed for the shower stall, turned the knob to cold, and stepped in.

“What did Suresh want?” she called from the doorway.

“We need new headquarters and the deal he’s been working on isn’t going well,” he answered.

She disappeared, and by the time he’d toweled off and walked into the master, was nowhere in sight. Whistling the
William Tell Overture
, he dressed. Pocketing the surprise he’d purchased the day he arranged their wedding, Rolan jogged down the stairs. He found Sarita in the kitchen with a burgundy mobile phone against one ear, and his breathing stammered.

“I can’t get through to Tony or Terry or Austen, Rolan.” Her forehead creased. “Something’s wrong, I just know it.”

“Austen’s stalking Madame Yvonne, Terry’s in Antibes for the day, and Suresh has Tony with him at the hotel. Everything’s okay, Sarita honey, no worries.”

“But why isn’t Tony’s cell phone on?”

“Maybe he’s asleep already. We’ll call him in the morning.”

He hustled her out of the castle and as they navigated the steeply declining mountain road, he asked, “Do you have any commitments in Orangeville?”

“Talk about a change of subject. Not really. When we moved to the city for my year at the Culinary Institute, I put everything into storage.”

“How did Tony handle the change in schools?”

“I didn’t think it was fair to make him adjust twice, so I homeschooled him last year.”

“How the hell did you manage that and going to school full time?” He shifted in the buttery leather seat and cut to her. Guilt and remorse drove wild images of her living in squalor with Tony.

“It wasn’t as bad as you think. David, my mentor, helped me with Tony, and he worked his schedule around mine. I’ve been very fortunate. First, Doc gave me a home, then the diner hired me, and then David became my champion. Really, things worked out much better than I expected.”

He almost snorted aloud and his determination cemented. Nothing but the best for his wife and son. Never would either of them ever suffer again.

“What about that place?”

Jerked out of his somber train of thought, Rolan glanced in the direction Sarita pointed. He hit the indicator switch and turned into a narrow driveway leading to an A-framed Swiss chalet. Large italicized letters forming the words, “Chateau Gastronome” hung from the mid-point of the A.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

She wrapped one hand around his bicep. Her dazzling smile, the sparkle in her eyes, clogged his throat and made it impossible to get words out, so he nodded. He hauled her into his lap.

One finger trapped his mouth. “Uh-uh, Rolan Anthony Paxton. Much as I enjoyed the last time we did this, I’m dressed up, and it’s not often someone else cooks for me. So, no kissing ’cause you know what it leads to.”

Kissing the soft fingertip against his mouth, he nodded, flipped open the car door, and set her down on uneven cobblestones. Capturing one hand, Rolan escorted her up the steps and through a narrow doorway.

“It’s perfect,” Sarita whispered and clutched a palm to her chest.

“Yes,” he said, staring at her entrancing profile. “It is.”

“I’ve never seen so many Alpine dolls. I’m sure most of them are antique. Look at the detailed lederhosen on that doll.” She flicked a finger to the left. “The one on the fireplace mantel. The owners must be Swiss.”

Sheer willpower allowed him to tear his gaze away from her glowing skin, the bubbling excitement which radiated with each word she uttered. Her elegant fingers clutched his forearm when she spotted another interesting artifact.

Rectangular, with curved alcoves in each corner, the dining room’s ambiance reflected an old-fashioned living room replete with antique-framed black-and-white photographs of family members at weddings, christenings, and Christmas feasts. Lace cream curtains at bay windows fluttered and danced in the convection air currents created by a blazing fire and a paddle fan hanging from the apex of the wooden ceiling,

Their hostess, a fortyish woman dressed Alpine style complete with a black netted cap, led them to a burnished table to the left of the stone fireplace. The smell of pine filled the room and a soft murmur of violins competed with the crackling and snapping flames.

“Wait a second, honey,” he requested and rearranged the upholstered chairs at opposite ends so they were adjacent. Pulling the chair away from the table, he bowed and said, “Your chair, my lady.”

“My hero.”

Sarita ordered appetizers and entrees for both of them, but he chose the beverages, beginning with the Cristal champagne she seemed to favor. Conversation flowed and both of them relaxed. Though they touched on more somber topics, each seemed determined to avoid the problematic future. Time both flew and remained captured, as if this capsule of a night would continue forever.

When she scooted off to the bathroom, he spoke with the hostess and arranged dessert. A group of five occupied another table about ten feet away and the only other patrons, an older couple, had a corner table at the far end of the restaurant.

The jolt of pride surging through his veins when she strolled back to their table took him by surprise. Dropping the napkin onto the table, he stood, waited for Sarita to sit, and pushed her chair closer to the table.

Sometime during the intimate dinner, Rolan realized he needed to touch her, stroke her forearm, brush a thumb along the curve of her shoulder, or nibble on her lips. When he broke down, cradled her face, and planted a hot wet kiss on her mouth, she didn’t protest.

“We need to get home soon, Sarita honey. I’m not going to last long,” he mumbled against her lips.

“I can skip dessert.”

“No way.” He dropped a kiss on her silky forehead and signaled the hostess with a wave of his hand.

The aroma of rich chocolate preceded the arrival of a dark soufflé, which brimmed over white porcelain. Murmuring something, their heavyset hostess-cum-waitress laid the dish in the middle of the table and poured a generous portion of Grand Marnier over the crusty top.

“How did you know this was my favorite?” She inhaled, and waved the air above the confection. “Orange and chocolate…the only combination that can match it is almond and chocolate. I think this is the most perfect evening I’ve ever had, Rolan. Thank you. I feel like Cinderella.”

Trying to keep things light, he quipped, “Does that make me Prince Charming?”

Shadows dappled over Sarita’s features obscuring her expression. “Guess so.”

“Here,” he said, and gave her the serving spoon. “You know how to do this.”

Rolan held his breath and the classical music playing in the background faded away.

Using the spoon to cut a small circle in the middle of the confection’s seal brown surface, she picked up his plate and scooped a large portion of the rich fluffy custard onto the glistening china dish.

Taking the saucer from her hand, he set it down in front of him, not taking his eyes off her face for a second.

“Now you.”

Her head jerked up and both eyebrows lifted.

“Go on,” he urged.

Returning to her task, she dipped the spoon into the soufflé’s center and something clinked. She squinted and moved the spoon around.

“There’s something in here. Rolan, don’t touch that soufflé. I can’t believe this. Everything was perfect so far. But, if they dropped something in here, we’ll probably have food poisoning later.”