CHAPTER FIVE
THIS WAS MADNESS AND rightness, all rolled into one. How was it possible that she felt so certain and so conflicted about something? She wanted Rafe. She wanted him and she was high on how much he wanted her.
But it was a terrifying thing to contemplate what she – they – were about to do. To stand on the threshold of his apartment, to know that he was waiting for her, that she was here simply to sleep with him. To answer the call of her body’s hormones and biology, to put chemistry above common sense.
Steve was getting married.
And even if he wasn’t, he didn’t love Ivy anymore. Maybe he never had done.
She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders.
Whatever happened with Rafe, it was her choice. She just had to understand her own mind.
Before she could lose her nerve completely, Ivy lifted her fist and knocked on the door three times.
Rafe drew it inwards almost immediately and she couldn’t help the breath that was dragged in. He’d ditched his suit jacket, and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his tanned forearms, and the sight of them made Ivy’s mouth dry.
“Ivy.” His eyes seemed to be interrogating her, looking at her, waiting for her to speak.
She smiled, a nervous smile, one of uncertainty.
“Would you like to come in?”
Would she? Doubts layered themselves over surety but a magnetic pull seemed to be strongest of all, drawing her forward. Wordlessly, she crossed the threshold of the apartment, clearing her throat as she turned to look at him.
“How are you?” He asked quietly, as though he understood. As though he knew what a big deal this was for her.
“Fine.” She tried to relax her smile.
He gestured towards the kitchen and she looked in that direction. He’d poured two glasses of champagne and a little platter was laid out, with strawberries and chocolates and cheese.
The perfect seduction.
“Rafe,” she said urgently, knowing that if she didn’t speak soon she would lose the ability completely. “Can we… talk?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded, then stalked across the room. He lifted the flutes and carried one to Ivy.
She took it but didn’t sip. Instead, she nursed it between her fingertips, finding it easier to focus her gaze on the incredible view of London. It twinkled in the evening, lights like courage, darkness her fear.
“You’re having second thoughts,” he prompted.
She sipped her champagne, in attempt to moisten a parched throat. It was the same one they’d shared the first night she’d come here. “It’s not that,” she said thoughtfully, choosing her words with care. “I… you weren’t wrong about Steve.” She swept her eyes shut. “About me wanting to get back at him, in some way. It’s why I decided to come home with you.”
She didn’t see the way his jaw clenched.
“We were together a long time and when it ended, I was devastated. Have you ever been in love?”
“No.”
The immediacy of his answer didn’t surprise her. She suspected Rafe Santoro was a man who guarded his heart with great care. Perhaps she could learn that skill from him.
“It’s strange to go from thinking everything is fine and great to discovering it’s not. And he moved on so quickly. I just thought… that if I slept with you… I don’t know.”
Rafe didn’t speak.
“I thought it would help me feel better. But I’m a mess,” she said seriously, and then, she turned to face him, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I spent so long with Steve that I have no idea who I am anymore.” She was proud that not even a hint of tears stung her eyes. “But I do know I want to sleep with you.” The words sounded discordant; they were so foreign to Ivy. But they were true. From deep within her soul she knew how she felt and what she needed.
“I want you to make love to me. I want you to teach me everything about my body because, Rafe, you made me feel… the way it was the other night… I’ve never…”
His eyes seemed to spark with something and then he was moving towards her and she was rushing to him. No words were necessary to complete the sentiment.
He knew what she wanted and so did she. What she needed.
His lips sought hers, his hands pulled at her shirt. A button popped off; she heard it thud against the wall, but it only registered in a small part of her mind. The part not absorbing every detail of what it was like to have this man’s hunger for her overwhelming her senses.
She pushed at his shirt, lifting it from the waistband of his pants, needing to feel his skin. He made a guttural noise when she found the buttons and undid them, faster this time, needing him but knowing that it was inevitable. She dug her nails into his back, his skin soft beneath her touch. His hands were demanding as they pushed at her skirt, and he growled into her mouth when it didn’t give.
“Zip,” she muttered, moving one hand to her back but he found it before she did, his fingers sliding down the golden metal, loosening the skirt so that she could step out of it as she moved forward, closer to him, so that they were almost melded together.
Her skirt was a puddle of black on the white tiled floor. He lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, holding her tight against his erection, his hands tangling in her hair and he kissed her as though they were drowning and this was their only hope for survival. Their desperation was a shared one; it was a current dragging them under, they clung to each other out of necessity, need.
“I have been hard for you since that morning,” he chastised into her mouth and she ground her hips down, brushing him against her, despite the barrier of fabric their underwear created.
The lights were off in his bedroom; he flicked them on. The full overhead lights glowed and Ivy blinked a little. “I want to watch you come,” he explained, so simply and honestly that the words alone practically produced the result.
“Okay,” she whispered, but his lips were on hers again, chasing her as he manoeuvred her backwards onto the bed. It was soft, and it smelled like him. She breathed it in, her body on fire. The last lingering doubts gave way.
This was the right decision.
She wanted him with a ferocity that almost bowled her over; how could that be wrong?
He drew her underpants down her legs, now with a slow concentration, a torturous journey that she wanted to expedite. She kicked her legs impatiently and he laughed, a throaty rumble. His hands dragged over her body, her underpants crumpled in one hand, and as he reached her wrists, he straddled her, so that only his silk shorts separated them from coming together.
He fed her wrists into a leg hole of her briefs, his expression unreadable, as he looped them through one of the metallic slats of the bed head, then caught her other wrist through a leg hole, crossing her wrists so that she was effectively trapped.
Ivy’s eyes met his. “Clever,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen my knickers used as handcuffs before.”
His laugh was a rumble. “I’ve been fantasising about getting you tied to my bed since you disappeared into thin air.”
“Like your very own sex slave?”
“Si.” He dropped his mouth to her breast and she sucked in a sharp breath. It was a cool night, but that wasn’t why her body pulsed with goose bumps. She pulled at her wrists. The fabric strained but didn’t give. The angle her wrists were on made it impossible to loosen them. Or maybe not impossible, but there was something so erotic about being his prisoner that she didn’t want to try too hard.
His tongue found her throbbing femininity and she cried out, loud, sharp, a visceral acknowledgement of relief as he drove her to climax, immediately. Not immediately. It had been hours of awareness. Every step, every movement had reminded her that she was on sexual tenterhooks, waiting for the pleasure she so desperately needed.
“Rafe,” she groaned, lifting her legs to give him better access. His laugh against her sensitive flesh was an added eroticism. She wiggled her hips, her whole body tingling as the stubble on his face grazed her thighs. “I need you.”
She felt him smile against her. He breathed warm air over her and then he stood, staring down at her, his chest moving rapidly. He pushed his shorts down, slowly, his eyes not leaving hers.
“I need you,” she said again, impatient and desperate.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He unfurled a condom over his length and her eyes followed the movement of his long, confident fingers, wishing she was running her own hands over him instead. She pulled at her wrists once more and he laughed.
His body on hers was heaven.
She arched her back, her legs folded, knees facing the ceiling. He brought his mouth down on hers at the same time he thrust into her in one swift, possessive motion. Hard, fast and deep. Dominant and demanding, just like his kiss; just like the hands that were dragging over her body as though verifying she was as he remembered.
“You taste like champagne,” he said quietly, thrusting into her.
“You taste like me.”
His groan was acknowledgement of the eroticism of her imagery. Cristo, she was unique.
“You surprise me,” he said, dragging his mouth along her jaw, flicking his tongue against her earlobe as he moved inside of her.
“I’m glad.” She shuddered as sensations began to tremble in the pit of her stomach, whooshing through her, spreading like wildfire and then she was tumbling down a steep, terrifying hill, like when she’d learned to ride a bike and not been able to find the brakes. The intensity of feeling was overwhelming. She brought her legs around his back and cried out as pleasure made thought, awareness, speech almost impossible.
She was high on the wave as he came with her, his own hoarse voice mingling with hers, an animalistic sound of release she didn’t even hear because her own heart was throbbing so loudly in her ears.
Ivy couldn’t have said how long they lay entwined like that, her legs wrapped around his waist, with him inside her throbbing heart, but eventually, he shifted, and she made a small sound. A sigh. A sob.
His eyes lifted to her face and a frown etched his lips.
She stared up at him, wondering at the change in his demeanour, but when he lifted a hand to her cheek and stroked it, she felt wetness. Embarrassment flooded her. She was crying? She pulled at her wrists and they didn’t give.
“Can you undo me?”
He nodded, but didn’t move. “You’re crying.”
“I didn’t realise. That was … intense.”
“Mmmm.” A gravelly admission, but his frown lingered as he moved his fingers upwards and stretched her underwear so that she could wiggle a wrist out. With one out, the other gave easily.
Rafe held the underpants in his hands, a smile tickling his lips. “I think we’ve ruined these.”
“And my shirt,” she said with a small nod, wiping her palms across her cheek to remove any sign of the emotions that had been unwelcome guests upon her face.
“You’ll have to go home half-naked,” he teased, bringing his mouth to hers.
And the idea of going home sat strangely in her mind. The realisation that maybe he expected her to leave again immediately flooded her with uncertainty.
The first night she’d come to his apartment, she’d crept out in the middle of the night because she hadn’t wanted her unsophistication in such matters to show. The idea of wearing out her welcome had been anathema to her. So too the idea of his warmth and heat turning to unwelcoming cool.
And now? He wanted her with a desperate passion that was on a par with hers.
When Steve had left her, she’d been blind-sided. Surely there’d been signs, but she hadn’t seen them. She’d ignored them. She’d been so caught up in her own blissful pleasure and happiness that she’d failed to see his unhappiness. Maybe if she’d paid better attention, she would have read Steve’s feelings better; anticipated his needs. Known what was coming.
Well, she wouldn’t make that mistake again. Having a man tell her to leave, or feeling that she’d outstayed her desired welcome, was not something she’d ever go through again. From this moment on, Ivy would leave before she could be asked to go.
Her smile was perfunctory. She drew on reserves of strength that had failed her in the past as she pushed out of the bed and strolled through his bedroom. Her body was tingling and her muscles felt stretched. Pleasantly stretched. His bathroom was palatial; she remembered it clearly from the early morning escape she’d performed weeks earlier. She also knew he had a walk-through wardrobe just beyond it. She slipped inside, unaware that Rafe was sitting in bed watching her with a mix of confusion and amusement.
His clothes were hung with military precision. Starched shirts, pants, ties. She selected a white shirt and pulled out drawers until she found his underwear. As she lifted a pair of his silk boxers in place, she couldn’t help but get a kick of arousal. They were enormous on her, but they were better than nothing.
She stepped out of the bathroom, hair pulled over one shoulder, face unreadable save for the practiced smile she’d forced herself to offer.
“Am I to ruin my own shirt now, as payback?” He pondered, arching a brow in an expression that was so sexy it made her stomach churn.
“I really do think it would cause a stir if I got on the tube in just a bra and skirt.”
“Mmm,” he grinned. “You could be right.”
He stood up, walking towards her with a determination that was predatory. “So when you go, you can wear this.”
She spoke without a hint of emotion. “I’m going to go now.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his hands linked behind her back. “You’re leaving? Again?”
She wouldn’t stay so long that he tired of her. “Yeah.” Her smile was a fraud. “I got what I came for,” she winked to soften the offense he might take from the words.
But his laugh was a deep rumble. “I see.”
But Ivy sobered. “It’s all I want, Rafe. I need to know you get that.”
He scanned her face, and again, she had the strangest sense that he was reading her, decoding her, understanding her even when she was telling him how she felt. What more was there to know?
“Fine,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
She swallowed. Good. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? Boundaries, rules, an understanding that this relationship was limited by what had happened to her, and by what Rafe was. There was safety in parameters. “I’ll just get my skirt.”
“Allow me.” He kissed her quickly and then stepped away. When he returned a moment later, he held her skirt, and a small paper bag.
“A gift. For you,” he held it out to her.
Curiously, she unsealed the top and looked inside. It was a small spray bottle. Perfume? She lifted it out, her eyes skimming the label. And she laughed.
Portable – Stain – Remover.
“It seemed like something you need. A lot.”
Ivy’s eyes met his, and her stomach squeezed. She didn’t want to go! Danger, danger, danger. “Thank you,” she said, in an effort to sound calmer and more confident than she was. “I’ll treasure it always.”
He grinned. “It’ll be good to see you without drinks down the front of your clothes.” He lifted a hand to the valley between her neat breasts. “Although,” he murmured, “It has been nice to have a reason to stare at your breasts.”
“I aim to please,” she quipped, handing the spray to him so she could slide her skirt up her legs and zip it into place.
The awkwardness swirled around them. Or maybe it was just Ivy. She felt beset by uncertainty. “That’s definitely not how I expected my night to go,” she said with a small smile.
“Nor I, when I woke this morning.” His finger pressed at her chin, lifting her eyes to face his. “You are welcome to spend the night, Ivy.”
But for how long? How many nights? Two? Three? Before long he’d be wanting his space. And she wouldn’t be the kind of woman who got so swept up she didn’t read the signs.
“I have to be at work early tomorrow,” she said with a lopsided smile, walking out of his bedroom and towards the front door of the apartment. “Our new owner’s a hard-ass and I don’t want to get in trouble.”
His laugh chased her. She scooped down for her bag before he could, and her hand was on the door when suddenly his fingers curled around her shoulders and spun her. His mouth took hers. It controlled it. His tongue was an invasion of her mouth and her senses. She collapsed weakly against the door, her mind mushy as he stoked her to a new level of desire.
Stay.
Stay and enjoy this.
Was he saying that, or was it her own traitorous mind shouting at her?
“Tomorrow,” he ground the word into her mouth. “Straight after work. My driver will collect you.”
She shook her head. But to what? She was drowning, adrift at sea, with no idea what she should say or do.
“Tomorrow,” he intoned and now his body pressed to hers and she groaned softly.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured. Twenty-one hours - torture.
Danger, danger, danger, but in that moment, she didn’t completely care.