Page 24

24

LUCIA

U nsure exactly what to expect, I shower and dress again before taking the elevator upstairs. The last thing on my mind should be sex. Unfortunately, it seems to be almost the only thing on my mind, especially now that the end of my employment looks uncomfortably in sight.

The elevator doors open to a quiet penthouse. I can hear the shower running and almost turn and leave again. The thought of a naked Roman only a few walls away is extremely disturbing. In the end I hover uncertainly in the corridor, checking my appearance in the tall mirror. I’m wearing a white halter-neck sundress with a blue floral print. It’s conservative enough, if you don’t consider the lacy underwear beneath it, or the fact that it doesn’t allow for a bra.

Stop thinking about him taking it off.

It’s more likely that this will be the last of my new wardrobe I’ll ever wear. I sigh and bid a mental goodbye to the endless unexplored hangers in my closet downstairs.

“Take a seat.” I spin around as an unsmiling Roman, clad in denim jeans and a white T-shirt, hair still wet from the shower, leads the way into the dining room. He pulls out a seat at the formal dining table and I sit down, swallowing uneasily.

This feels uncomfortably formal.

“Do you think what Ofelia said is true?” Roman asks without preamble. He’s sitting off to my side, facing me, one ankle slung over the opposite knee. He’s barefoot, drumming his fingers on the table. “Has she been getting kicked out of school just so she can be home with the other two?”

“From everything I’ve seen so far, I’d say the answer is yes. She’s very protective of them both.” When he doesn’t immediately answer, I continue tentatively. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize what the rehearsals were for. I was working off the notes left by the last au pair, who said the security detail had been taking them to and from rehearsal. The kids told me I wasn’t required, and I believed them. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Seeing my surprise, Roman half smiles. “I might be a ruthless employer, Lucia, but I’m not an unfair one. We both got played on this one. I think the real question is, what do we do about it now? It’s not safe for them to be in that procession. Holy Week crowds are huge.”

“I’m sure a security guard could sit with Mickey,” I argue. “And I could always ride the float with Masha, who, let’s not forget, will be disguised as a cactus.”

I attempt a smile.

“Security would be able to walk beside us, I’m sure.” I remember belatedly that I’m supposed to be having a much different conversation right now, one that would certainly eliminate the option of me riding the float with Masha. But somehow that seems less important than mending the uncomfortable rift that opened over lunch. I’m rather taken aback that he’s asking for my opinion at all. It’s not like CEO Man to bother consulting anyone else. “Please let me fix that cut for you,” I add. “The shower’s made it bleed again.”

Roman touches his eyebrow, looks at the blood on his finger, then wipes it impatiently with the back of his hand. “I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing that should probably have stitches.” I look around the penthouse. “I assume there’s a first aid kit in here somewhere?”

He tilts his head in exasperation. “You’re not going to let this go, are you? In the kitchen, over the stove.”

I walk in and fetch it, then come back. He’s still frowning at the table, fingers playing a rapid tattoo. I take out antiseptic and a cotton ball and approach him with caution, holding both up. His mouth twists wryly, but he doesn’t argue as I set to work cleaning it.

“Ofelia is booked into school here for the final term,” he says as I work, “but I have her registered at a London boarding school next year. Mickey, too.”

I dab away, but don’t answer. There’s a packet of butterfly stitches in the kit. I open them while I wait for the antiseptic to dry.

“They need to get a good education,” he says. His breath is warm on my skin, his jeans rough against my bare leg as I lean over to apply the stitches. “And they’re better off not getting used to being here. They’ll move back in with their mother as soon as she’s finished in the US.”

I swallow my profound objections to that plan and focus on the first part of his remarks. “Speaking as someone who spent quite a lot of time in boarding schools,” I say cautiously, “they aren’t always the best environment for a child with a disrupted home life. There are a lot of good international schools here. Surely Ofelia and Mickey could attend one of those? At least until their mother gets... settled.”

“Maybe.” He smells so good. Clean, fresh, and oaky, like a forest after rain. It’s dangerous inhaling him. Even more dangerous to actually look at him. I stay focused on sticking his cut together, trying not to notice the way his eyes are roaming all over me. “I’ll agree to the parade,” he says abruptly. “After security have done a thorough assessment and given me a plan. The school issue I’ll take under advisement.”

“That will make the children very happy.” I finish applying the stitches and go to step back, but Roman’s hand snakes out, encircling my wrist. He uncrosses his legs and pulls me between them.

“And that matters to you?” His eyes are dark, his hands resting on my hips.

I gulp. A dull pulse begins to throb between my legs. “Of course it matters to me.”

“Let’s hope,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking leisurely over my hip bones, “that you take all aspects of your employment as seriously. Nice dress, by the way.” He slides his hands down to the hem and then onto my bare legs. “Although I think I’d prefer to see it off.”

I gulp. Don’t get distracted. “There are—er—some other things we need to talk about.”

“And we will. Later.” His hands travel slowly up my legs, sending fire through me, until they come to rest tantalizingly close to where I need them. Abruptly he pulls me down, so I’m straddling him, his hands resting under my ass, my legs spread indecently wide. The hard bulge under his denim presses against the thin covering of my underwear. He rocks me slowly against him, my clit rolling up and down his huge shaft. I’m helpless in his grasp, my entire world centered on the fire between my legs, the need to have him inside me.

“You left this morning.” His lips trace fire along my neck. “Why?”

He switches his mouth to the other side. I bite my lip in an effort not to moan.

“You said . . .” I gasp as his mouth moves lower. “. . . no pajama parties.”

His cough of laughter jolts his cock against me in a way that makes me wetter than I already am. “I don’t recall you wearing pajamas, milaia .”

He rolls me over his length again. “Fuck, you’re wet.” His voice has a rough edge. “I can feel your heat all over me, little vedma . What if I put my mouth on these?” One hand comes up to my nipple through the dress. “Would that push you over the edge?” I gasp and arch toward him, grinding down harder on his sheathed cock. He thumbs the nipple so slowly I want to scream. “Well, well, Miss Lopez,” he says huskily. “No bra? Somebody really does need to come.”

I moan. Is it possible to come just from dirty talk? I feel like I’m already on the verge.

“Next time,” he growls against the curve of my breast, “wait for my order before you leave my bed.” His tongue traces the crevice between my breasts, still trapped in the sundress. “You do understand orders, Miss Lopez, don’t you?”

Fuuck.

“Yes.” My voice is breathy.

“Good. Then take your tits out of that dress before I tear it off.”

I reach behind me and untie the halter neck. The dress falls away, revealing my naked breasts. His sharp intake of breath, and the sudden leap of his cock beneath me, send me spinning into a whirlpool of deepening desire.

I want him. I want Roman so fucking much I can’t stand it. Some distant part of me is horribly aware that this might be the last time I get to do this, and that makes me shameless and desperate.

Taking his face between my hands, I kiss him.

Every other time we’ve kissed, we’ve been deep in it, already lost on our way to the final destination. This time is different. Slower. Entirely involved, just his mouth on mine.

I might have started it, but he takes control immediately, holding me hard on his cock, his lips taking mine with such devastating skill I’m writhing shamelessly, my bare breasts crushed against him. His tongue swipes my mouth, and I moan in the back of my throat, pushing harder into him. The kiss loops and surges, intense, deep, and all-consuming. His hand is in my hair, my mouth entirely at his mercy as he plunders it. The world shrinks down to the heat of our open mouths, the thudding pulse between my legs, my aching breasts. I’m a quivering ball of mindless desire.

He takes his mouth from mine and bends me backward, taking first one nipple then the other until I’m straining against him. My pussy is so fucking wet and swollen my underwear feels uncomfortably constrictive. I want everything off, want to feel his naked skin against my own.

“Take it off,” I gasp, tugging at his T-shirt.

“So impatient.” His throaty laughter vibrates maddeningly against my nipple. “But that isn’t the way this game works, Miss Lopez.” He pulls my dress over my head and rears back, staring at me. I’m naked but for lacy French panties, legs spread indecently wide, arched against his denim-covered cock with my nipples swollen and begging for his mouth.

“ Yebena mat , little vedma.” His voice is gravelly, his eyes burning hell fire. “Do you have any idea how fucking hot you are, Lucia? Look at yourself.” He turns me around so I’m facing the mirror over the bar and settles me back down with my ass against him, my legs draped wide over his own. I barely recognize the girl in the mirror. Her lips are swollen, her eyes almost closed, nipples flushed and damp from Roman’s mouth. His hand comes around and slips down the front of my panties. I cry out as his fingers find my clit. His other hand settles on my nipple. He puts his mouth against my ear.

“Don’t close your eyes, little vedma ,” he murmurs. “See how fucking hot you look. How turned on you are.” He slips a finger inside me, and I moan, trying to spread my legs wider, push it deeper. “This reminds me of the first day I touched you, in my office.” He finger fucks me slowly, his thumb pressed against my clit, the iron length of his cock hard up against my ass. “You were so wet, milaia . But I think you’re even wetter now. You’re like a furnace inside.”

“Please,” I gasp. In the mirror I can see the powerful muscles in his forearms cording as he fucks me with his hand. It’s mesmerizing. And it’s driving me insane.

“Please what?” he rumbles in my ear.

“Please let me fuck you.”

“No.” Abruptly he lifts me up and slips my underwear off. He hitches me up, then lays me down on the marble dining table. He grins darkly. “First, I want to eat.”

He covers me with his mouth, and all coherent thought is lost.

He eats me like I’m a creamy dessert on a spoon made of glass, licking every last crevice with delicate certainty. My hands thread in his hair, trying to press his face closer, but he teases me with wicked patience, sliding his tongue first up one side then the other, his tongue swirling slowly around my throbbing center like it’s the chef’s masterpiece. His fingers press the outside of my folds, pushing my clit up toward him, and he licks the length of me, barely millimeters from it with devastating precision, always just denying me that final satisfaction. When finally he encloses my clit in his hot, wet mouth, I throw my head back and scream.

His hands slip under my ass, his mouth devours me, and I can feel my orgasm about to break like a tropical storm. Just as I feel the first ripples approaching, Roman rears back to standing, bringing me with him, my legs around his waist.

“Not yet,” he says, eyes glittering. “I have to fuck you.” There’s no trace of teasing in his voice now. Nothing but the same urgent, dark need that is rippling through me. I pull his T-shirt off, he unbuttons his jeans, and I moan as his impossibly hard, swollen cock breaks free. I eye it greedily as he kicks his clothes aside and bends me over the table, spreading my legs wide. His harsh intake of breath as he holds my hips and stares down at me turns me on almost as much as the sight of his rearing cock in the mirror. I keep my face turned so I can watch as he slowly strokes the head of it down my wet opening, one of his hands splayed on my lower back. It’s incredibly hot watching his masculine perfection, hard as the marble table itself, holding himself in check with iron control, his face darkly intent as he slowly teases us both.

I want to watch him forever. He’s so damn beautiful, all corded muscle and taut control, his hands on me strong and sure. For the briefest moment I think of the horrible prospect that this might be the last time I am with him like this, and even the thought of it breaks my heart.

There’s so much more to him than the autocratic CEO I met in the café. I can see the scars on his body in the mirror, the marks of the life he’s led. I want to tell him that I understand scars. That I understand why it’s so hard for him to open up to the children, even though I sense he wants to do that more than even he knows. I want to tell him how my heart flips every time he looks at me, just like my body surrenders at the mere thought of his touch. The blunt head of his dick slides over my clit and I groan, so close to the edge that I can barely see.

“I want this,” I say hoarsely. “I want you so much, Roman.”

He stills for a moment, poised at my entrance, his eyes in the mirror narrow and dark. “Say it again,” he says roughly. “Say my name. Tell me what you want, Lucia.”

“I want your cock inside me, Roman.” I’m losing it, even the sound of the words sending me closer to orgasm. “I want you to fuck me, Roman. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything...”

He thrusts into me with a hard roar, filling me so deeply and completely that there is nothing more than this. My eyes close and all I can do is hold on as he drives into me, over and over. I almost came the moment he entered me, and now I feel like I’m on a slow-rising wave, my orgasm building from the very base of my spine.

Then he slips his hand around to stimulate my clit. “Come for me, milaia .”

And I do.

It explodes from the very depths of me, gripping me with an intensity that leaves me utterly breathless. I’m lost in ecstasy, seized by an endless wave of spasms that only seem to increase as he drives deeper and deeper into me. He thrusts to the hilt and holds himself there as I close around him, my whole body shuddering. Then he pulls out once, thrusts back in, even harder. White light explodes behind my eyes, and my body reaches for something more, a place I’ve never felt before, like a second layer of orgasm.

“ Fuuuuuck! ” I scream, and that’s when I feel him lose it.

His thrusts grow almost brutal. One hand gathers my hair, tugging my head back. “You’re mine, Lucia,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.” I’m beyond thought, beyond argument. “I’m yours, Roman. Only yours.”

He roars and thrusts impossibly deep inside me, then holds still, his cock pumping with his release, each spasm drawing another echo from my own body.

It feels like ages when I finally become aware of the marble crushing my breasts and realize I’ve had my eyes closed. I stay like that for a moment. Roman is still inside me, his hands tracing my back. One finger halts on the scarred tattoo. I tense, waiting for the inevitable questions.

Instead, he slowly withdraws from me. I’m not entirely sure I can stand without his hands. My knees are weak as a kitten, and I feel completely disjointed. I turn and fall face down on the sofa, not least to hide my eyes from his. I’m afraid of what he will see in them.

I hear him rustling at the bar. A moment later he is standing in front of me, jeans on again, open at the top button. The bulge behind the material looks as huge as when he was inside me. Part of me wants to just reach for him and disappear back into the mindless sexual abyss. I feel both utterly relaxed and at the same time, already turned on for the encore. His eyes trace my body, lingering on my ass. For a moment I toy with the idea of rolling over and spreading my legs, just to see what he’ll do. Something tells me Roman is far from done.

Before the idea becomes action, he hands me a frosty glass with a gin twist. I prop myself up on my elbows and sip it, my legs crossed behind me at the ankle. He sits on the coffee table next to me with a Scotch, his eyes still roving up and down my prone figure.

“I think you should take siesta here,” he says. His voice is deep and rich with the aftermath of his orgasm. It makes me want to come again, right now.

But that would be dangerous.

The problem is that I want to say yes, so badly that I’m weak with wanting him. I want to crawl into his bed and curl into him. It’s so tempting, the thought that he wants me to stay, that he might feel even a part of the same magnetic lust I do. But no matter what just happened between us, or what insane attraction is drawing me to him, I still have to tell him the truth.

I have no idea how to broach that conversation. But something tells me I should at least be dressed when I do.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I put my drink down, stand up, and walk over to my dress. “The children will be waiting to find out what you plan to do about the procession.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything, just sips his Scotch. I pull my dress on, horribly aware of his eyes on my back. I’m trying to work out how to say what I know I must, when he takes the decision out of my hands.

“Do you want to tell me why you have the mark of the Orlov bratva on your back,” he says conversationally, “or would you like me to guess?”