The Argentine's Price

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.

He was hers.

She slid her hands up his chest, his muscles tightening beneath her palms, his chest rising sharply with his quick intake of breath. He’d accused her of teasing him. Maybe she had teased him, but no more than she’d teased herself. She was haunted by her memories of him, of what might have been.

No more what-ifs. No more teasing.

The first step was always the hardest. Her fingers trembled as she slid the top button on his shirt through the buttonhole. The next one was easier, desire taking over and banishing nerves and doubts.

She flattened her hands on his bare chest, felt his heartbeat, strong and fast. She pushed his shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He didn’t move, he only stood in front of her, a bronzed god of masculine perfection, each muscle perfectly cut and defined. The way the light worked with his physique, adding even more extreme definition to his body, made her want to capture it on film. Forever. For her.

Her fingertips skimmed down his torso, over his washboard-flat stomach and down to his belt buckle. She sucked in a breath and worked the belt loose, letting it fall open. She felt driven now to uncover him, to see him, all of him. She had wondered, for so many years she had wondered, and now she didn’t think she could wait another second to see the body her mind had woven fantasies around since she was sixteen.

She pushed his pants and underwear down his hips in one jerky movement, and he kicked them to the side, his eyes never leaving hers. He made no move toward her, he simply stood, naked, completely aroused, in the middle of his living room.

His confidence boosted hers. He wanted this. He wanted her. For once, she wasn’t going to worry about possible inadequacy.

She moved her hands down, not quite touching him intimately. He closed his eyes and put his hand over hers, guiding her toward his erection. Her stomach tightened, nerves making a guest appearance now.

She took a breath and placed her hand over his hard shaft. He was hot steel beneath her palm, the hard length of him speaking of his desire for her. She felt her internal muscles tighten as she explored him, nerves fleeing, unable to exist alongside the need that was filling her now.

She squeezed him gently, then again with more strength, increased boldness, when a raw sound of pleasure escaped his lips. His civility was all gone now. Lost in desire, his custom suit on the floor, he was just a man. And he called to everything feminine inside her, made her ache with the need to have him.

“You are overdressed now, I think, querida,” he said, his voice raw.

She felt the slide of the zipper, a rush of cool air on her back, and then her dress was pooled at her feet. She was still wearing her high heels and a barely there bra and panty set. She should have felt silly, or embarrassed or something. But she didn’t.

Because she saw the hunger in his eyes. Saw the need that reflected her own.

And she felt powerful. Powerful and turned on.

“Kiss me,” she said, reaching for him.

“Un momento.” He unclasped her bra and discarded it. “Beautiful.”

He cupped her breast, sliding his thumb over her nipple. She sucked in a breath and watched his dark hand cover her pale flesh. He leaned in and kissed her neck, then lower still, drawing one tightened bud into his mouth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

“Laz …” She gripped his head and held him to her, hoping that he would keep her from sliding to the floor.

He lowered himself to his knees, his lips skimming over her ribs, her stomach. He pushed her panties down her legs, baring her to him. She closed her eyes then and just felt. He kissed her thigh, his hands moving down her legs, unfastening the buckle on one of her shoes. He moved his thumb over her ankle as he removed her high heel, the contact on a totally unerotic point on her body sending sparks of sensation skittering through her.

He did the same with her other shoe, tossing it to the side along with the rest of her clothes.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

She looked behind her and saw the plush velvet couch. She’d forgotten where she was for a moment. Everything had gone fuzzy around the edges, everything except for Lazaro.

She lowered herself to the couch, unsure why she was doing it, only knowing that, in this instance, obeying Lazaro was going to be the most rewarding course of action. She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did.

“I have dreamed of this. Of you,” he said, on his knees before her. “Of how you would look. Of how you would taste.”

He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, his hands moving to grip her hips and draw her to the edge of the couch.

Her entire body was trembling, inside and out, desire and curiosity defeating any of the embarrassment she should be feeling. Because this wasn’t about propriety. This was about need. And she needed Lazaro.

She wove her fingers through his hair as he continued kissing her, higher, until he hit the spot that was aching for his touch. He slid his tongue over her, the friction sending heat and flame through her body.

She could feel something building in her, could feel the onset of her climax, so close. So close. He released his grip on her hips and pushed one finger inside her, the rhythm of his penetration working in time with the flick of his tongue over the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

The tension that had been building, low and tight, released, pleasure rolling through her in pulsing waves.

When she came back to herself, Lazaro had joined her on the couch, his hands moving over her curves, caressing every inch of her body. He leaned in and kissed her lips. “Good?” he asked.

She nodded, her voice lost to her.

He shifted positions so that he was over her, and she parted her thighs for him, making room. The head of his erection pressed against her and she held her breath for a moment, waiting, for pain or satisfaction or completion, whatever it would bring.

He cursed sharply and got up from the couch, crossing to his discarded pants.

“What?” she asked, feeling dizzy.

“Condom.” He fished a packet from his wallet and tore it open, making quick work of rolling it on.

They’d stopped at the condom point once before. But she had no intention of stopping him now. She couldn’t stop. She had to have him. All of him. For her. For him. Because they both needed it. She did.

She shook with her need to have him. Only him.

Her heart jolted when he moved to her, not from virginal nerves, but because she understood why there hadn’t been another man. It had been so easy to blame it on circumstances. To believe it was because of the specter of her almost-fiancé.

It was because of Lazaro. Because she wanted him. Because she’d been waiting for him. So stupid. So dangerously foolish. But she’d had a taste of true passion in his arms, and no one else had ever aroused anything remotely as intense.

Why take less?

And tonight, Lazaro wasn’t offering less than what she’d felt before. It was more. So much more than she remembered.

“Thank you,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly as a wave of emotion washed through her, making her shake inside.

“For?”

“For remembering. The condom. I think I would have forgotten.”

She was glad he’d thought of it, because she hadn’t. There was so much happening and she couldn’t think straight. Marriage or not, she wasn’t ready for a baby. Not when everything at Pickett was so unstable.

She pushed that thought to the side and focused on Lazaro. Nothing else mattered. Not now.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as he moved back into the position he’d been in, poised to take possession of her body. She kissed him as he thrust into her, focusing only on the pleasure he was giving her with the erotic glide of his tongue, ignoring the vague, tearing pain.

It passed quickly at least, her body adjusting to him, welcoming him. He put his hand on her thigh and urged her to wrap her leg around his, as she’d done on the dance floor. The move opened her up to him, made each of his thrusts stimulate her inside and out.

Pleasure built inside her again, lower, deeper, more intense. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, lowering his head so that he could take one of her nipples into his mouth, his thumb gliding over the other one.

She arched against him, meeting his thrusts, letting his hands, his body, his touch, block out everything. Everything but the climax she was working toward, everything but the pleasure that was threatening to overtake her, body and soul.

His thrusts came faster, harder, his control slipping. He moved his hands to her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. She slid her tongue over the line of his jaw and she felt every muscle in his body shake, then seize as a harsh groan escaped his lips. His pleasure—seeing it, feeling him pulse inside her—pushed her over the edge and she was lost in her own sensation, in the ecstasy that drowned out everything else, every thought, every worry.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on to him, holding him to her. For the moment, nothing else mattered. It was only Vanessa and Lazaro, and everything else was just peripheral. For now, this was the reality, and everything else was the fantasy. Distant and fuzzy. Unimportant.

Lazaro shifted and extricated himself from her arms, standing and walking into the bathroom. She watched him walk the whole way, dazed, sated and enjoying the view.

Her eyes started to flutter closed, a drugging sleepiness overtaking her, making her limbs feel heavy, pleasantly numb.

Lazaro walked back in, his expression blank. “Vanessa …”

“Don’t,” she mumbled, sleep slurring her words. “I promise, we can fight in the morning, but right now, can we just … sleep?”

He returned to the couch, settling beside her and drawing her into his arms. She put her head on his chest, his heart thundering beneath her cheek. Tomorrow would be reality. For now, she was going to enjoy the fantasy.

Lazaro watched a shaft of pink sunlight catch one of the windows on a building outside, throwing its reflection into the living room of the penthouse, illuminating Vanessa’s perfect body.

He had built fantasies around the idea of what her body might look like, of the way her face would look when he brought her to the peak of pleasure. Of what her silken flesh would feel like beneath his fingers.

He had convinced himself that there was no way she, any woman, could live up to what he had made Vanessa in his mind. A fantasy spun in the mind of an eighteen-year-old, left to grow, had to be beyond reality. Beyond what was possible.

But Vanessa had surpassed a mere fantasy last night. She had been perfection, a taste of heaven and light and a kind of soul-deep satiation he had never believed existed.

He could not have conjured up something more, something better.

She was complete female perfection. Every curve. Every dip and swell. Skin like cream; plump, pink-tipped breasts that made his stomach tighten with desire. Everything about her—touch, taste, sight and scent—satisfied him in a way that was utterly foreign.

But, incredibly, coupled with that bone-deep satisfaction was a need for more that made him ache.

She stirred against him, her nipples brushing his chest, the contact lighting a fire in his blood. He moved his hand over the curve of her hip and she made a soft sound of pleasure and arched into him.

He dropped a kiss onto her bare shoulder and her eyes popped open. She rolled slightly and slid off the couch onto the floor, cursing before standing, her cheeks bright pink.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked, her voice rusty from disuse.

“Around,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Could you not look at me for a second please?”

“I’ve seen it, Vanessa. More than seen.”

“Please,” she said again.

He looked out the window, all his concentration taken by the effort it took to pull his focus away from her perfect body.

“You act as though you haven’t had a morning after before,” he said.

The telling silence made his stomach tighten, and he couldn’t keep himself from looking back at her. She was standing there, clutching her dress to her chest, biting her lip.

“You haven’t?” he asked.

She huffed out a breath, shifted her weight to one side, one bare hip looking more rounded, more prominent. “How many women have you slept with?”

“Excuse me?”

Her dark eyebrows shot upward. “Rude question, isn’t it?”

“Odd,” he said. “And pointless.”

“Then I don’t suppose I have to answer either.”

His heartbeat quickened. It really shouldn’t matter, and yet, he found it did. Because he wanted her to be his. His alone. The idea that no other man had ever been with her like that sent a rush of pure, unenlightened testosterone through him. His. In every way possible.

“I don’t know,” he said, disgust filling him as he spoke the words.

“You don’t know if I have to answer the question?”

“I don’t know how many women I’ve slept with,” he bit out.

She frowned. “Oh.”

He hadn’t anticipated this. That his vast experience could cause him shame. He didn’t brag about his luck with women, but inevitably, if there was an article about him written anywhere, his reputation with the opposite sex was mentioned. It had always earned him a certain measure of respect.

It wasn’t respect on Vanessa’s face. It was disappointment. It passed quickly, her expression neutral again, her eyes focused on a spot just past him.

Even though it was a fleeting impression of disappointment, it left a hollow feeling in his chest.

“I answered,” he said.

She met his eyes. “Then no, I haven’t had a morning after before.”

“How is that possible, Vanessa? I didn’t pick you out as a virgin when you were sixteen.”

“But I was. Well, obviously I was then, since last night I still was.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you know how many women you’ve slept with?” she countered, clutching her clothes more tightly against her.

Because I was trying to forget you. He held back the stark, honest thought that filled his mind.

He shrugged and stood. “Because I’m a man, Vanessa. Once I made money, women were readily available and I took advantage.”

She stood, her focus on an undefined spot on the carpet. He didn’t like the look on her face. She sighed heavily and then lifted her face, meeting his eyes. “We’re trading, are we?” He nodded in confirmation. “Because, in addition to the fact that my father is a professional at chasing men out of my life, I wanted … someone to want me. Not my father’s money. Or my status. Or … I just hadn’t found that.” She averted her gaze.

“I didn’t care about your money or your status.”

“You just wanted sex?”

Her words bit into him. He shrugged. “I was eighteen. There isn’t much more a horny teenage boy wants. Not only that, I was experienced, too much for my age. It’s what we did. I think it was part of what made being so poor bearable. Taking advantage of those few moments of oblivion. It’s how I related to women, so, yes, it was what I wanted.”

“But it’s not all you want now. Now you want my connections too.”

“Things have changed.”

She nodded slightly. “Can you turn around again? I don’t want to have to back out of the room.”

“Why did you decide to sleep with me last night?”

Her lips flattened into a line. “When I figure that out I’ll get back to you.”

Lazaro turned his back and faced the view, letting her walk out without an audience. He tried to ignore the odd, crushing weight that was pressing down on his chest.