CHAPTER TWO
“HOLY CRAP,” SHE muttered, frozen just inside the door of his ‘apartment’. Well, that was a misnomer if ever she’d heard one.
“This is like a … freaking sky palace,” she stood on the spot but did a slow, thorough three-sixty-degree revolution. The apartment hadn’t been ‘just around the corner’. It had been a quick, chauffeur driven ride into the City – a ride in which Ivy was too wound up by adrenalin to attempt more than perfunctory small-talk. They’d parked undercover and caught the lift right to the top floor – level forty-two of what must be The Langton, going from the view she could see through the windows.
And could you technically call them windows when they formed an entire wall of the apartment and part of the roof? They curved beautifully and she could see the wisps of clouds against the inky black of the night sky. Beyond the glass, at one end of the enormous living space, there were floating lights. A balcony, she guessed. The walls that weren’t made of glass were white. Not warm white. Stark white. And there were dramatic pieces of art splashed loudly across the serenity. The décor was modern, all Scandinavian style timber furniture mixed with more glass and steel.
“This is where you live?”
He was right behind her, his body warmth a physical barrier she wanted to fall into.
“No,” his fingers grazed the flesh on the underside of her arm as he loosened her clutch from its spot, gripped against her side. He took it and strode deeper into the cavernous space, tossing it carelessly on a side table before turning to regard her thoughtfully.
“No? Are we breaking in?” She responded huskily, slipping her feet out of the wedge-heels she wore, grateful for the vertical-reprieve. She wiggled her toes and the bright red polish she’d had applied winked back at her encouragingly. “Should I be braced to defend us?”
His laugh sent a throb of something delicious down her spine. “As much as I’d like to see that, no. It’s mine; I own it. But I don’t live here.”
She regarded him thoughtfully. “Where do you live then?”
“I have a place outside San Sebastian; that’s home. But I spend much of my time in Madrid… for work.”
“You travel a lot?”
His nod was a concession. “You?”
Steve had been afraid of flying, which, given the constraints of her job, had limited the places they could go. “Only really to France.” There had been a girls’ trip to Budapest one weekend. “Hungary. Not as much as I’d like to.”
He nodded, and she had the sense that he was reading more from the statement than she’d permitted. That he was analysing her rather than just making conversation. His eyes – they were so distractingly stunning – narrowed, speculation giving them a glow.
“Why not?”
Her smile was dismissive. “I work long hours. It’s hard to get away.” Keen to change the subject off anything that might remind her of Steve, she said, “We should have gone to my place. This is too nice. I’ll break something.”
His laugh was quiet. “I doubt it.”
“It’s like a photoshoot from an architectural magazine. My purse is completely out of place.”
He grinned and pushed out of his suit jacket, discarding it messily on the back of a white leather Eames. “Better?”
“Yeah. I guess clutter loves company.” She moved deeper into the space, still totally overawed by the stunning outlook. “It’s just beautiful.”
He shrugged. “For London, yes.”
“For London?” She pulled a face of mock offence. “Careful. That sounds like a bit of an insult to my fair town.”
He nodded. “As it was intended.”
He moved into the kitchen – the kind of kitchen that would be perfectly acceptable in a five-star restaurant – and pulled a bottle of champagne from a small fridge concealed beneath the bench top.
“You don’t like London?”
He popped the cork quietly, holding it tightly in his hand as he lifted it out of the bottle. “London I can tolerate. The weather on the other hand,” he grimaced as he filled the glasses then skirted around the kitchen, handing one to her.
Again, she used the opportunity to let her fingers flirt with his and the awareness here, in his apartment, without the swirling of crowds and the sounds of strangers; here where the promise of what was to come was inherent in every breath she took, there was a powerful arc of sensual need that flamed her nerve-endings.
“You get used to it,” she said, her mind working on auto-pilot as a separate entity of her brain.
“Perhaps,” he took a drink of the champagne and his throat moved as he swallowed. It was a thick throat. Strong. Powerful. A kick of desire trembled through her.
She wanted to see him.
All of him.
“But you live one life, you know? And for me, life is not,” he frowned, “This.” His eyes flicked around the room, expressively, distracting...
“What is then?” She prompted, but she was being pulled into a sticky, threaded web, as if by magic. His words were wine and she was drunk on them, intoxicated by his accent and his thoughts.
“The sun on my skin. The salt water from the ocean tangy in the air. Food, wine, friends. No smog.” His smile was the last straw. She suppressed a shiver as the image he’d painted danced before her eyes, so real she could almost reach out and touch it for herself.
Her voice was thick. “Why do I think you’re too busy to enjoy much of that?”
“You’re right.” A sense that they were connected in a way that defied logic zapped between them.
She sipped her champagne, aware that his gaze followed the gesture, lingering on her eyes and lips.
“London always leaves me with a sense of claustrophobia. Like I’m walled in by buildings and land. I don’t like it.”
“I’d never thought of it like that. Besides, we have the Thames.”
His laugh was soft. “I wouldn’t brag about that.”
Now Ivy laughed. “You’re a geography snob, you know that? London is generally thought to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”
“Most cosmopolitan perhaps; not beautiful.”
“You don’t think this is beautiful?” She lifted her hand and gestured to the view. Beyond the glass wall of his penthouse, the city was aglow with lights and activity.
“I think you are beautiful,” he said, and her heart thudded at the compliment. “I think you would find my home beautiful. London is … unique.”
She swallowed, not sure if she could argue with his assessment; not sure she had any interest in the conversation. Or any conversation.
Her champagne glass was almost full. She took two large sips, almost draining it, and then put it down on the table. Should she tell him she didn’t do this often? Or was it obvious? What if he decided he didn’t want to sleep with someone as inexperienced as her?
No.
He wanted her; the details of her past didn’t matter. This was one night.
One night out of her life – something she’d always be glad she did because finally she could start shifting Steve into a different box in her mind. His body would no longer be the only body to have possessed hers.
Determination gave her courage.
“It’s nice champagne,” she murmured, taking another sip and then deliberately sauntering to the kitchen and placing the glass on the marble bench. “The same as in the casino.”
She saw him nod in the window’s reflection.
Ivy turned, slowly, determinedly, and then walked back towards him. Her fingers were shaking slightly but not from anxiety. She was full of nerves – good nerves. Excited nerves. She wanted this with all of her being. She stopped right in front of him, drawing in a shuddering breath and locking her eyes to his. She asked a silent question; he answered resoundingly.
Ivy fumbled at his top button, loosening it after two attempts. She could feel his eyes trained on her face and her fingers shook a little more, but he didn’t say or do anything to speed her up.
It was a form of sensual torture. The slowness with which she worked was stirring his blood in his body, making it hot and wild with need. When she reached the last button on his shirt and lifted her eyes to his, as if once again silently asking permission to remove the shirt from his pants, he almost groaned with impatience. He didn’t, though. He nodded instead. A small movement of agreement and then her fingers slid inside his belted waist, pulling the fabric free as her fingers brushed against his flesh.
His body jerked.
He wanted to do this. To do it quickly. To take her here, against the wall, or on the kitchen bench; he didn’t care.
He’d been with enough women to know his impatience was unusual and unprecedented. Seduction was, generally, an art form, and Rafe Santoro had perfected it. He never rushed matters.
But her innocence was obvious, her inexperience surprising, and he held his breath, keeping still, honouring her uncertainty, allowing her tentative exploration even when he ached to take command.
Her fingertips glided over his bare chest as she pushed the shirt away, finally, now that each button had been separated from its holster. This she did slowly, too, letting her hands feel him as her eyes ravaged his exposed chest.
Ivy knew it wasn’t fair to compare this man to Steve.
She’d never noticed anything deficient in Steve; she’d loved him. But these two men were not of the same species. Rafe’s chest was a testament to one of Da Vinci’s sketches of man, with its ridged muscles and tight contours. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him; he was lean, but he was taut and firm.
He was male-model-handsome. Hollywood hot.
She bit down on her lip as she pushed the shirt further apart, until finally she could guide it down his arms and remove it completely, so that it dropped to the floor behind Rafe.
“My turn.” A gravelled voice that was a tipping point. Her pulse slammed through her body and she waited, her stomach churning, as he pushed at the straps of her dress, lowering them. Not as slowly as she had, but with the same deliberate fascination.
Heat pooled inside of her as he removed the dress, dragging it down, down, until he reached her breasts.
“No bra,” he murmured appreciatively.
“No need,” was the self-disparaging response she issued with a flicker of a smile.
She didn’t know if he’d heard. Urgency overtook him. His hands dropped to her rear and lifted her easily, as though she weighed nothing. He carried her, her legs wrapped around his waist, the dress making her squeeze him tight, and his mouth dropped to her breast, taking a nipple into his warmth and flicking it with his tongue as he moved through the apartment.
He pressed her against the wall, her back held while her legs stayed wrapped around him and his mouth tormented her with heat and flame. She dragged her hands through his hair; thick and dark, she pulled at it as he rolled her sensitive nipple in his mouth, torturing her with the ambush of feeling.
“I want to drag this out,” he groaned and the words swirled around her breasts with heat and flame. “But I need you now.”
She nodded. She felt the same. And no thought of Steve was on her mind as she agreed. “Me too.”
She ground her hips, bringing her warm heart close to his length, his hard cock was right there. She could feel it through the flimsy fabric of her underwear and she moved against it hard and fast, writhing as though he was inside of her, trying to satisfy the waves of need that were building within.
He swore – at least, she presumed he did – in his own language. A harsh, guttural sound accompanied by the clink of his belt as he loosened it, pushing his pants apart and releasing himself so that now only her underwear stood between them. He thrust against her, joining her in simulating the act they both wanted and she cried out, hoarse and loud, as pleasure radiated through her. Now when he kissed her breasts, it was demanding and harsh, almost to the point of pain, and she could feel her world tilting off its axis, splintering into a billion tiny, hot pieces.
Ivy swore. A sound of total surprise, as though she’d been caught standing in the middle of the train tracks and had no idea how she was there. What was happening to her? Fever was in her blood; a fever unlike she’d ever known.
“I need … I want … please …” A cry for help, fevered and passionate.
“This,” he said, and he pushed against her, so that she nodded desperately. “I know.”
“Please,” she groaned, and when he dropped a hand and pushed aside her underpants, she wanted to take him deep inside. The invasion of his finger was a surprise and at first, she was angry – it wasn’t enough. She wanted him. His length, deep inside of her. But waves of pleasure pushed away that first initial reaction. His finger swirled inside of her, tormenting her pleasure centres, finding her most sensitive cluster of nerves and brushing them again and again until she was incandescent and crying out, pleasure overtaking her completely.
At the moment she splintered apart, he eased her to the ground. Her dress was a belt around her waist and she was on the precipice of sanity; orgasm rushed through her, reaching the outer edges of her being with determined speed, until all of her was awash with a depth of sensation she’d never known possible.
She could only lean against the wall, needing its support, her eyes half-shut as she trembled in the wake of the assault on her pleasure centres.
Rafe moved quickly, slipping a condom over his erection. He was so damned hard it almost hurt to constrict himself in the rubber, but he’d never taken risks when it came to sex and even this stunning woman wasn’t going to make him forget that. But she was such a picture, heavy with desire, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, body limp.
He swore in his native tongue, a guttural sound of need as he reached for her and lifted her once more, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting into her in one movement, pushing her back against the wall as his body claimed hers. She was so wet, and so tight. Her muscles squeezed around his length and he paused, holding her where she was as he trapped her hands and lifted them above her head, holding them with one hand as he thrust into her again and felt her convulse as pleasure continued to radiate through her.
“You are perfection,” he said, kissing her hard. His tongue lashed her mouth as his body moved with hers; it was a moment of total ownership – for both of them. Each commanded the other; his body moved for hers and hers for his.
He dragged his mouth along her cheek, down to the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck and he sucked on the pulse point there until she groaned and then he thrust hard inside of her and she jerked, pushing down, grinding against him, needing more; needing him to move quickly, to ease, or fan, the flames that were licking her anew.
He understood, but torturing her with the slow, drawn-out release of passion was too tempting. Her release would be all the better for making her wait a little longer.
He dropped his mouth to her nipples and rolled one between his lips, then clamped his teeth down on it with just enough pressure to make her cry out sharply. His fingers squeezed the other.
She was saying his name, over and over again. Rafe. Rafe. Rafe. It was a pulse in the night; a throb of need that was as much a part of him as her. Her muscles squeezed him with each thrust, tormenting his tip.
He was so deep inside her, buried in her... She moaned as he pushed into her again and everything began to explode. Pleasure was a hot spring and she was at its centre. She pulled her arms free of the makeshift prison of his hand and dug her fingers into his shoulders.
And then he was with her, crying out as he tipped over the edge, chasing her to heaven, feeling every squeeze of her body, every tremble that rocked her, and he kissed her as they exploded, tasting her sweetness and then, when he dragged his mouth to her neck again, the salty tang of sweat as it beaded on her frantic flesh.
The apartment was immaculate and they, against the wall, were the perfect contradiction to that: they were in a vortex of primal, animalistic passion. Both as savage as the other, completely overtaken by instinct and need rather than sense and civility.
“Wow.” Ivy blinked her enormous dark eyes. Her body was quivering and her breath was burning. “Wow,” she said again, shaking her head from side to side. Her hair was a bird’s nest at the back from the way she’d been dragging it over the wall.
His smile was slow to unfurl and it spread hot delight through her gut. “Wow,” he agreed, dragging his thumb over her swollen lips. He eased her to the ground and at the moment his body left hers, she made a keening sound of complaint that he answered with a small laugh.
“It’s not over,” he promised.
Her eyes flared wide. “It’s not?”
“No, Ivy. That was definitely just the beginning for us.”
*
It wasn’t fair to make comparisons.
Steve and she had been each other’s first lovers.
Their experience was limited. And though he’d never rocked her world, it had always been … nice.
“Leave it off.”
She paused, midway through lifting her dress back in place. Her eyes locked with his across the room and she felt an instant zap of power and passion. A familiarity that was borne of only the shortest acquaintance. How strange to know so little about someone and feel that they literally understood you from the inside out.
Intense experiences were bonding, though, and that had been as intense as hell.
Her eyes stayed latched to his as she continued to slide the dress upwards, holding the straps in place and then sauntering towards him. He stared at her, his expression unreadable. His lips twisted in a ghost of a smile.
“Or put it on.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and his muscular chest rippled. “That just gives me the pleasure of removing it again soon.”
Her mouth went dry but she smiled and reached for her champagne, drinking it gratefully. It was still cold. She padded barefoot towards the doors that must lead to the balcony. As she got closer, she could see that the outdoor space was larger than she’d appreciated. There was a table that would comfortably seat twelve, two wicker lounges with deep, cream coloured cushions, and a spa in one corner.
“This place is insane.”
He laughed. “I suppose so. I don’t really think of it.”
Ivy’s job was great. She’d worked her way up and she was in a high-level position at a leading media company. Her salary was way above what she thought fair, and her home was lovely. A pang of something sharp jabbed her as memories of house-hunting with Steve besieged her. The feeling of delight when they found ‘the one’ and gleefully plotted out which rooms they’d use for what… right down to a nursery for their prospective, one-day-when-the-time-is-right children.
Yes, her lifestyle was good, but it was nothing compared to this. “What do you do?”
“Do?” He arched a thick, dark brow.
“Professionally,” she prompted, her hand lifting to the door and opening it without realising what she intended.
“I do many things,” he said simply, but in a way that was as charismatic as it was confusing.
He followed her as she stepped outside, flicking a switch on the wall that gave life to the dozens of bobbing fairy lights strung across the balcony. Ivy gasped.
It was like a little slice of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, right there in front of her. “How can you not think this beautiful?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, you would find my home in Spain beautiful.”
“I find this… stunning.” She breathed in. At this height, the air was thick and cool. Autumn was upon them but the night was still comfortable. She sat on one end of the sofa, revelling in the unfamiliar sense of awareness that his sensory invasion had sparked.
“Mmm,” he grunted noncommittally, his eyes raking her face. “Do you go to the casino often?”
She shook her head. “God, no. It’s not really my scene. Tonight was my first time.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “What is your scene, then?”
“Oh.” She’d walked right into that one. “I’m more of a homebody.”
He dropped his gaze slowly, deliberately, raking his eyes over her body with the kind of inspection that made her feel he could see every single inch of her. And he probably could. “I find that almost impossible to believe.”
“Seriously? You don’t know me. I’m … way more comfortable in my pyjamas with Netflix going all night.” She shook her head. “An insatiable appetite for crime drama is my vice. Law and Order. SVU. The Practice. Love them all.”
“And this is how you spend your Friday nights generally?”
She bit down on her lip. “You think that’s sad?”
“I think it’s a waste,” he corrected, gravelly appreciation in his voice.
She shrugged. “Lisette’s into this stuff. When I’m out I tend to be more into restaurants and art. But, you know, she’s over from Vegas and has her own ideas about what constitutes a good time.” The way Ivy said it with a little roll of her eyes made him warm, for some reason.
“The casino would have been pretty tame after the Vegas scene.”
“But a hell of a lot more thrilling than the night I had planned.”
“Which was?” He prompted.
“Oh, there’s this exhibit that’s just opened in Camden.” She and Steve had planned to go together. The thought made her voice crack, just a tiny bit, but she ploughed on regardless. “Rare, first edition books. Then champagne at the Tate Modern and Dim Sim on the South Bank.”
“Less thrilling,” he grinned. “But very ‘you’, I suspect.”
She tilted her head to her side. “And you are often at that casino, or bars like it, right?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I conduct a lot of business from that sort of place.”
She wrinkled her nose and he noted that it made her look years younger. “You know, when you say it like that, you sound like some kind of high-end drug dealer or pimp or something.” And then, stricken. “Which you’re not, I presume?”
His smile was wry. “No. Though the fact you thought so is somehow flattering. I feel like I have way more street credibility than I’d realised.”
“Even in a ten-thousand-pound suit,” she agreed with her own laugh, curling her legs up underneath her and rubbing her thumb over her toenail distractedly.
“By business, I meant contract negotiations. Entertaining. All very white-collar, non-criminal enterprise. Sorry to disappoint.”
Her tummy flared with passionate awareness. “Oh, nothing about you is disappointing, believe me, Rafe Santoro.”