Postcards From Buenos Aires: The Playboy of Argentina / Kept at the Argentine's Command / One Night, Twin Consequences

Finally he was just where he wanted to be, leaning over her as he’d wanted, as he’d imagined. Finally he was getting to hold her under him and nudge the tip of his shaft inch by inch into her hot, sweet heaven.

She was so slight, so slender. But so ready. And even if he’d had an ounce of self-control left—even if he’d wanted to take it slowly—she had other plans. She slid down to meet him, her eyes never leaving his even as her body took him in and her hands smoothed their way around to his backside.

And he slid home.

The strain not to take her hard and fast nearly broke him, but he lifted her hips and took it as slowly as he could. He felt her fingers frame his face … looked down, opened his eyes. She was staring with those huge eyes, deep and dark and so full of secrets. She licked her lips and drove him on with her hips. Her breasts jiggled as he thrust into her and he knew then that this was the most erotic experience of his life.

‘Rocco, baby, this is too good … too good.’

She squeezed her hips even more, and just the perfect tilt of them sliding together nearly killed him. She called out to the day-brightened room as she lost it. He was losing it with her. This was it. The wait was over.

He grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her head, held her down. Then he threw each of her legs round his waist and hauled her by her hips as close as he could get her. She curled back on the bed, for once his supplicant, and he leaned over her, stared into her and ground himself free.

Released.

It was immense.

He came and didn’t stop coming. And she was there, squeezing him home.

Cradling her in his arms, he rolled over and spread her like silk over his body while he crashed back down to earth. His heart hammered and his vision struggled to return. The edges and curves of the white plaster cornice slowly took shape around the dark grey ceiling high above him. The blackout blinds were high on the windows, letting in the morning’s brightness.

It was days since he’d been here. Weeks, maybe even months since he’d had a woman here. And he’d never, ever had a girl like Frankie here. Anywhere. Ever.

He squeezed her to his chest, almost as if checking she was real.

‘What do you think? Worth the wait?’ he said finally.

She lay still. ‘I hate to burst your bubble, but I think it might need to be the best out of three.’

He smiled. Trust her …

She smoothed her hands over his chest, pressed her fingers into the bruise that now bloomed like a map of the world over his right pec.

‘Is that sore? Am I hurting you?’

He snatched at her skinny little wrist as she fired him one of her wicked grins.

‘The purple skin and burst stitches don’t give you a clue?’

She batted her eyes and lowered her head. Kissed the bruised flesh—little whispers of touch with that fiery mouth.

‘Is that better?’

He threaded his fingers through her hair, caught them up in a tangle and worked it free.

‘I’ll live. Come here.’

He wanted to feel her close against him. He was acting out of character, but having her wrapped over him felt so damn good. He loved women—of course he did—but he knew the chemistry, the bonding, the whole emotional fallout attached to the aftermath of lovemaking could lead to expectations he was never going to fulfil. But this moment he had waited for. And he was going to savour it.

‘Makes a change from the last time, when you tried to kick me out of bed.’

‘At least one of us had our head screwed on.’

He leaned up on his elbow to look at the sleek cat that lay across him.

‘You know how crazy that was? You tested me to the max. I’ve never been so tempted, and you were—what?—sixteen? Have you any idea how wrong that would have been?’

‘Didn’t feel wrong at the time, though, did it?’

She twisted her head round to look at him, pressed another whisper-kiss to his chest. Nothing about her felt wrong. Then or now.

He shook his head. ‘Your family didn’t strike me as being the most freethinking. It was a miracle that we weren’t caught.’

She turned her head, pulled herself away. Lay back on the bed beside him and stared up at the ceiling.

‘We were. Caught. Actually.’

‘What? Are you kidding me?’

He shifted up. No way. No. Way. He would have known—he would have been called to account. There was no chance her brother would have continued to do business with him—no way their professional or personal relationship could have withstood that type of interference.

She twisted her head. ‘Oh, don’t worry—I denied it. Until I was hoarse. And Mark doesn’t know—at least I think he doesn’t. But my dad—let’s just say he has suspicions … deep suspicions.’

Damn. He hadn’t considered that.

‘Angel—I’m sorry. I’d never have left you to handle that on your own had I known. What happened?’

She sighed, and he saw her twist at the silver ring on her finger.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if we woke him with our noise or if he was just awake anyway. But after you’d got your stuff together and walked out I went to go back to my room and he was there—at the top of the stairs. He asked me outright what the hell I’d been doing.’

He remembered every second of that night. Stifling her cries with his mouth as she came in his hand from those few fevered touches. Pinning her down and then reality crashing round him as he’d realised what the hell had just happened—what the hell he’d been about to do. Trying to get out of bed, pulling on clothes that were icy and damp, buttoning himself up over the erection that wouldn’t go down. Heaving on his boots as she’d still tried to tempt him back to bed. Finally grabbing her shoulders and hissing at her to stop, to leave him, she was too young!

But she hadn’t given up. Naked, driving him wild. He’d hauled the sheet off the bed and wrapped her up. As he’d yanked the door open and tried to remember which way was out the farmhouse’s narrow windows and dark passages had lent him no clue.

Finally he’d stumbled down to the kitchen, past the sheepdogs lying in front of the fire’s dying embers, heard the tick of an old clock, heaved on the rusty bolts that had held the door closed.

She’d come down to stand in the doorway to the hall with a haunted look—as if the heart had been ripped out of her. He’d stopped then—aching to go to her, to make her feel better, to take away the hurt, take away his own hurt.

But he’d been young—only twenty-one! He’d spent so long getting to that point, working through his own pain. La Colorada had finally been ready. His polo career had been taking off. He hadn’t been able to stay there, to ally himself to a woman—a girl. He’d been only just beginning to taste the chance of a sweet future. It would have been madness to go to her.

So he’d turned back to the door, hauled it open and stepped out into the early-morning rain. She’d come right out into the daylight, onto the huge slabbed courtyard, called his name one final time. But he’d just slung his bag onto his shoulder, taken one final look at her, wrapped up like temptation’s gift. And then gone.

‘He was just standing there—then he went into the guest bedroom, saw you were gone and the state of the room. Saw me in the sheet.’

She turned her face away.

‘He slapped me and called me a whore.’