CHAPTER NINE
MARCOS LET HER win the run to the house. She hesitated when she reached the threshold, but he grabbed her hand and led her toward her room. The one thing he never did was spend the entire night with his lovers. Usually, he took them to hotels or met them at their place, but he rarely took them home to his. And when he did, he bundled them off before daybreak.
He did not sleep with anyone. Ever.
Francesca was the first woman to catch him in the midst of his nightmares, but still he would not share his sleep with her. He would make love to her—was dying to do so, really—but he would return to his own room when they’d exhausted each other too much for more love making.
When they reached her room, she seemed to grow suddenly shy. She moved away quickly, before he could take her in his arms again, and busied herself with tidying up a stack of magazines on the bedside table.
“You are having second thoughts?” he asked, because he was never willing to dance around the truth.
“N-no, not at all,” she said with a toss of her glorious hair. She looked defiant. Like a scared little kitten trying to be brave.
Marcos smiled. “Ah, mi gatita,” he said softly. “There is nothing to be frightened of. I will be gentle with you.”
“Who said I was afraid? Really, Marcos, you think too much of yourself.”
He laughed. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and cast it off. The blood pounded in his veins, urging him to take her now, but he would not do so. He intended to use the utmost control, to take it slow and thorough. To make up for eight years of wanting. Surprisingly, the wanting was as much his as it was hers. He hadn’t considered consummating their relationship back then, but since he’d seen her again, he regretted not having done so. An odd feeling, to be sure, but there was no use questioning it.
He crossed to her, while she watched with wide eyes, and wound his hands in her mane of hair.
“So much hair,” he said, “so beautiful. I do not know why you never wore it this way before.”
Her gaze dropped. He could see the pulse beat in her throat. And in that moment, he found her more attractive than he could ever remember finding any woman. Francesca had that killer combination of wide-eyed innocence and a deep sensuality she seemed unaware she possessed. He wondered, only for a moment, if this was another act, a metamorphosis of her persona eight years ago.
But, no, he didn’t believe that. The woman who’d fought him for the sake of an old man she loved did not need to resort to playing games now. What would be the point anyway? They were here, in this room, and he was going to strip her slowly and make love to her for as long as he was able.
And, Dios, he was going to enjoy it.
Francesca felt like she was viewing the scene from somewhere up above. Surely Marcos Navarre was not standing before her shirtless and tugging her toward him by gently winding her hair around his fist. Surely his eyes weren’t ablaze with heat for her? The bulge in his jeans was not because of her.
But there was no one else in the room.
She slipped her arms around his naked waist, the heat of his skin sizzling into her like a brand. Then she tilted her head up and closed the distance between their mouths before he could do it. She was afraid that if she didn’t, she would wake and discover this had only been a dream.
The kiss was far gentler than she’d thought it would be, gentler than the kiss in the vineyard had been. It was as if he was trying too hard to be careful with her.
“Marcos,” she said against his lips, “I’m not going to break. Kiss me.”
“I am kissing you,” he murmured.
“Really kiss me. Like you mean it.”
“Oh, I mean it.”
She gasped as he cupped her face in both hands, his mouth coming down on hers hotly. If she thought they’d shared a passionate kiss before now, she was mistaken. This kiss was so much more, so full of heat and passion and longing that she didn’t know how they’d ever make it to the bed before they went up in flames.
His hands left her face, slipped beneath her sweater and pushed it upward. They broke the kiss long enough for him to rip it over her head, and then they were kissing again. Francesca reached for the fastening of his jeans while he unsnapped her bra and tugged it off her arms.
She wrapped her arms around him again, and then she was pressed against him, naked chest to naked chest. The sensation was exquisite, so full of heat and sensation that she wanted to moan with the pleasure of it.
But then Marcos swept her into his arms, never breaking the kiss, and she clung to him with heady anticipation. A moment later, he laid her on the bed, following her down. It felt wicked to be here like this, him on top of her, both still clad in jeans, their bodies grinding together through the barrier of fabric.
She was on fire. Absolutely on fire. Arcs of electricity shot through her core, tingling into her limbs. Marcos broke the kiss and sat up as he started to remove her jeans.
“We need to turn off the light,” she blurted.
He stopped what he was doing. “I want to see you.
All of you.”
“No—Marcos, I can’t.”
His brows drew down. “Why not? Because you think I will disapprove of something? Dios, you are a na?ve woman.”
She crossed her arms over her bare chest and bit her lip. “I’m self-conscious, that’s all.”
“I know this. And I intend to prove to you how beautiful you are to me.” He stripped her jeans and panties in a smooth motion, then stood and shoved his own pants down his hips. His penis sprang free, glorious, erect—and, wow, more than she’d expected. “Do I look as if I’m turned off by your body, mi gatita?”
Francesca shook her head, a hot feeling bubbling up inside her at the sight of him. He was truly magnificent. And she was a very lucky woman right this moment.
Marcos stretched out over top of her, his weight pressing her into the bed. Dizzily, she thought it must be the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced—because she wanted him so badly, had wanted him for years. And she was about to have him. The anticipation was excruciating, amazing …
Marcos slid down her body. “I’ve been wanting to do this …”
He cupped her breasts, pushing them together so that he could suckle each one in turn. He used his tongue and teeth, licking and nipping her ever so lightly while she squirmed beneath him, the pleasure so exquisite she thought would surely expire of it before much longer.
“Marcos—oh …”
“You are delicious, Francesca. Everything a man could want …” he said against her damp skin.
His mouth made a hot path to her belly button, and then he was moving lower, pressing a kiss to her hip, her abdomen.
Francesca gasped as he moved lower. She would never survive it. Never.
“Marcos, don’t—”
He said something in Spanish then, something hot and dark that melted the words in her throat, melted her fear. And then he was parting her thighs, gazing at her.
She wanted to pant with the anticipation of it. It’d been so long, so damn long since she’d felt pleasure.
Marcos parted her with his thumbs, and then his mouth was there, licking and sucking that part of her that had been neglected for so many years. Francesca didn’t have even a moment to build up to her release; she shattered immediately, the world turning into a bright white burst of feeling that wrung a sharp cry from her before it let her go.
“Madre de Dios,” Marcos breathed. “You are incredibly sexy, Francesca. Never doubt this.”
And then he was taking her over the edge again with his lips and tongue, before moving up her body and kissing her while she wrapped her legs around his waist.
He groaned low in his throat, halting his forward motion. “I had intended to go slower, but I find I cannot wait. You must tell me if it’s too much, if I hurt you.”
“I’m not a virgin,” she said, threading her hand through his hair and arching up until her breasts were touching his chest. How much she’d wanted to do this with him so many years ago, before she even understood what it really entailed. To let him be the first—and only—man in her life.
“You might be tender after so long.”
“I really don’t care. I want you, Marcos.” How freeing to say those words, openly, and know he felt the same. At least in this.
She tugged his head down, fusing her mouth to his. Marcos must have surrendered to the inevitable, because he slid into her body in one long glide that took her breath away.
Francesca tilted her hips up, then gasped at the lightning bolt of sensation streaking through her. Marcos tore his mouth from hers.
“Don’t move,” he said harshly, his eyes glazing. “For God’s sake, don’t move.”
She did it again, her breath snagging in her chest, her body sizzling. “But it feels amazing …”
So amazing she wanted to cry with the wonder of it.
His jaw was granite. “Sí, but this will be over far too soon if you don’t stop moving.”
She caressed his cheek, joy welling inside her, making her giddy. “Oh, Marcos, why didn’t you tell me you had premature issues?”
He swore. And then he laughed, though she knew he tried not to. “Why do you amuse me even now? Is this not serious to you?”
“Very.”
“And to me,” he growled. Then he flexed his hips. A shiver began at the top of her head and rolled to her toes. It was so unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. All thought of teasing him flew from her head. Raw need was a clarion blast in her soul.
“Marcos—”
When he rolled his hips forward again, she couldn’t remember what she’d been about to say. Couldn’t think. Could only feel.
“Oh yes, mi gatita,” he said, somehow still capable of thought and speech, “it is very serious indeed.”
When he withdrew and surged forward again, Francesca was lost to everything but what their bodies did. The way they rose and fell together, their breaths mingling, tongues tangling, the rhythm of their thrusts becoming more and more frenzied. It was as if they fought each other, and yet it wasn’t a fight at all. It was a tango, a beautiful dance that required each partner to give everything to the other in pursuit of satisfaction.
The air in the room was charged, zinging with electricity, and she felt as if she were drawing all of it into her body, concentrating it in her core until it would inevitably burst forth and incinerate her in the process.
It seemed to last forever and not long enough. She had no warning before she was flung into space, gasping and shuddering, her body dissolving into nothing ness. She heard Marcos’s groan of satisfaction, felt the power of his final thrust, the tremors in his body as he found his release.
A few moments later, he propped himself up on his forearms so as not to crush her beneath him. And yet she missed the pressure of his body, the hard hot feel of him melting into her. God, she’d do it again right this instant if she had the energy.
And so would he, perhaps, if the fact he was as hard as ever was anything to go by.
Francesca stretched, still floating on a cloud of satisfaction and unwilling to come down off it to deal with reality anytime soon. There was plenty of time for that later.
“And how did that feel, mi gatita? Was it worth the wait?”
“Oh yes,” she purred. “Very worth it.”
He laughed, then kissed the skin beneath her ear while she sighed. “And you said I was too sure of myself.”
“You are. But Marcos?”
“Mmm?”
“Why do you call me mi gatita? What is that?”
His smile was genuine. “I call you my kitten because you are so fierce, and so sweet at the same time.”
No matter how she cautioned herself against reading too much into it, her heart cracked wide open. She was allowing him to get too close, allowing herself to feel too much. She turned her head away on the pillow, stared at the tiny bug that swirled around the lamp. Would it get too close to the heat?
Was she in danger of burning up in Marcos’s white-hot flame?
“You are thinking about something,” he said. “But I want you to think only of me.”
Marcos flexed his hips, and her body answered with heat and want that wasn’t diminished in the least by the release she’d already had.
“Think only of me,” he repeated. “Of us.”
And then he made it impossible for her to think of anything else.
He was sitting in a darkened room, on the floor because there was no furniture, and he could hear the scritch-scritch of small rodents behind the walls. His wrists were bound in manacles. They’d stopped stinging hours ago. Now they throbbed. Throbbed because they were swelling from the raw wounds he’d opened by trying to pull free.
He couldn’t see what they’d chained him to. Couldn’t see anything. Could only hear the rats and smell his own sweat and blood. How long had he been here? He’d lost track of time in the darkness and deprivation of the last few days.
Nearby, something hissed, sending his battered senses into high alert. Marcos struggled against the bindings, uncaring that his wrists felt as though they were being ripped open anew.
The hissing grew louder, the dry coiling of scales on the floor more precise as the serpent moved. Marcos yelled, as much to scare the snake as to express his fear—
“Marcos!”
He blinked. The room was dark, but he was in a bed. And he wasn’t alone.
“Marcos, it’s okay,” a woman’s soft voice said. “You’re with me. There’s no one here but us …”
Her arms went around him, her face tucking into the crook of his neck. His first instinct was to push her away.
But he didn’t want to. He wanted to hold her, to let her drive the dreams away.
“Francesca,” he rasped.
“Yes, I’m here.” She pushed away suddenly. “I’ll get you some water. You’re so hot.”
He grabbed her arm. “Stay. Please.”
She seemed to hesitate, but then she lay back down and curled into him again. Her body against his was comforting, soothing. He stared at the ceiling. How had he fallen asleep here with her? And why didn’t he want to leave?
He should push himself up, should return to his own room, but he couldn’t seem to do so.
“Would it help to talk about it?” she asked very quietly.
“It’s an old dream,” he said, though that’s not what he’d intended to say. “There’s a dark room, rats, and a snake.”
“Is this something that happened when you were a child? When you lived on the streets?”
He swallowed. How could he tell her it was worse than that? “Something like that, yes.”
Her hand slipped over his abdomen, tracing the scar he’d gotten from a close brush with an enemy machete. “Where did this come from, Marcos? Does this have anything to do with your dreams?”
“No more words,” he said, rolling on top of her soft body. “I can think of better things than talking.”