Married on Paper: The Argentine's Price / The Inherited Bride / Marriage Made on Paper

“You take it pretty personally when a woman says no to you. I remember that well.”

“No, what I take personally is a woman thinking I’m good enough to tease, but not good enough to take to her bed.”

She took a step toward him, her lips tightened into a line.

“Is that what you think that was? Me teasing you?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking. If I was thinking I would never have let you touch me.”

“You think that’s the basis for a happy marriage?”

“I think maybe the basis for a happy marriage is not pursuing the union for business purposes, but then, I’m not really an expert.”

“That is a shame, as you have agreed to marry for the benefit of your company. And, as we’ve discussed, no one has forced you into this. And I will not be made a fool of. Not twice. Not by the same woman.”

“You think I made a fool of you, Lazaro?” Her voice was barely raised above a whisper, the force of her emotions making her words tremble. “You weren’t the one pressed up against the wall in a public place and … and you have the gall to be angry at me?”

He took a step toward her, softening his voice. “Is that what bothers you the most, Vanessa Pickett, that I make you lose all of that respectability that’s so important to you and your family?”

“No, what bothers me is that you think nothing of … of … humiliating me like that in public. Treating me like a thing, your possession that you can put your hands on whenever you want to.”

“Is that it? My touch humiliates you?”

Vanessa took a step toward him, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her delicate hands curled into fists. Arousal and lust warred with anger for prime position inside him. His body still wanted her, was still craving her after that small taste he’d gotten back at the club.

It shamed him, how badly he wanted a woman who saw him as she did. And yet, he could not stop himself. He had been craving her for twelve years. There was nothing that could destroy the desire. Not years of separation, not other lovers, not even the anger that was rolling through him like a tidal wave.

He curved his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, his hand drifting down until it touched the rounded curve of her bottom. “I don’t believe that. I think what you really hate, Vanessa, is that no matter what, no matter how much you wish you didn’t, no matter how ashamed you are of it, you want me.”

Her expression was tight, mutinous, her dark eyes blazing with heat and rage. She put her hands on his chest, curled her fingers around the fabric of his shirt and stretched up on her toes, her breasts brushing against him. She kissed him, her mouth hungry on his, the explosion between them making the kiss at the club seem tame, harmless.

Desire was a living entity between them, dark and dangerous, driving them, pushing them. It was like hurtling toward a cliff, knowing they would both go over the edge if they didn’t stop. And yet, knowing that, neither of them stopped.

Lazaro doubted if he could.

She slipped her tongue between his lips, tasting him, teasing him, and a flood of pure lust spread through him, overtaking him. He slid his hand down and cupped her bottom, drew her hard up against his erection.

Vanessa’s stomach contracted when she felt the evidence of his arousal. He still wanted her. And even though she was angry at him, she wanted him. Maybe even more because of that anger, all of her emotions mixing, the anger in her a lit match against flammable desire. She wanted him more than she wanted her next breath, and it didn’t make any sense to her.

Sex, in her mind, had always been about love and roses and perfect moments. This was as far from a perfect moment as she’d ever imagined, and yet she wanted him. All of him. Every last muscular inch.

She slid her hand sideways and wedged her fingers into the gap of his buttoned-up shirt. He was all hot, hard flesh. She traced a line along his skin, the faint scrape of chest hair against her palm sending a shiver of excitement through her.

On the dance floor, she’d felt as if a part of herself had been unlocked, releasing a desire for more of life than she’d been living. It had been a taste of freedom, and now she was starving for it.

She always thought things through. She planned and rationalized and made sure she was making the right decisions for everyone involved, the right decision for her family name.

But now she wanted Lazaro. And it wasn’t about the company, or the marriage or anything beyond the desire to find pleasure in the man who aroused her beyond words.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said, her voice breathy and unfamiliar, her words echoing in the empty lobby.

He looked down at her, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Every hard line of his body was locked and tense, and she could feel his heart raging beneath her palm. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.

The knowledge sent a shot of pure giddiness through her, a kind of power she’d never fully understood before.

“I don’t like to be teased,” he said, his voice rough, his accent more pronounced.

“I’m not teasing.” She held his gaze, tried to keep her hands, her legs, from trembling. Her voice at least was steady. She was deadly serious.

“Tell me what you want.” He lowered his head, his lips hovering above hers.

“You,” she whispered, the word torn from her.

“More,” he ground out. “Tell me more.”

Her heart thundered hard, her cheeks hot. “I want …” She swallowed. This wasn’t the time to be timid. There was no room for lies, for self-protection. “I want you. Your hands, your mouth, your …” A shudder of desire racked her body. “I want to make love with you. Tonight.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

FINALLY. Tonight she would be his. At last he would take the edge off of the burning desire that had plagued his sleep since the day he’d first seen Vanessa Pickett.

He growled low in his throat and pulled her to him, kissing her, tasting her, his body on fire with the need to push her up against the wall and take her then and there. It would be so easy to slide that dress up over her hips and have her that way, so easy and so tempting.

He pulled away from her and pushed the button on the wall to bring the elevator down. He wanted her, desperately. But he knew she didn’t want a public display. And it mattered. Because when she’d spoken of humiliation, it had been genuine.

His stomach was a tight ball of pain. Her humiliation might simply be because it was him and not some purebred show boy her father had selected for her.

But then, Vanessa’s relationships had never been news- or gossip-worthy, and he had a feeling she was simply private. The intense desire to protect that part of her, to protect her, shocked him.

Even if her humiliation was centered around being caught with him, he found he didn’t want to make her feel that way.

The lift doors opened and he took her hand and led her inside, hitting the button immediately, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary.

She looked at him, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips bright and swollen from kissing him. He cared about her not being humiliated because he wanted her filled with nothing but desire. He wanted her mind blank of everything but the need for him to be inside her, because when he was touching her, that was how he felt, and he wanted her to feel the same.

This moment wasn’t about revenge. It was about satisfying a need that had gnawed at him for the past twelve years.

As soon as the elevator doors opened into the vast living area of the penthouse he took her in his arms again, and she came willingly, her soft, delicate hands sliding over his chest, his back. Her lips were hot and soft against his neck.

Vanessa didn’t think. She just felt. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. She was determined not to let it matter.

She just wanted to feel. She wanted Lazaro. And she was going to have him. There were so many things in life she’d denied herself, so many things she’d wanted that she’d walked away from because of propriety. Lazaro was one of them.

Not now.

This was her moment. All hers. It was only about desire and want and satisfying the ache inside her, filling the cavernous void that had seemed to grow with each passing year.

She’d spent so long drifting. Walking down a path simply because she’d gone too far to turn back. But she didn’t really feel alive. She felt heartburn and angst and stress. But there had to be more than that.

This was more. This was different. And it was hers.