It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

He returned his attention to the papers, forcing himself to focus, to concentrate on the investment assessment, his eyes scanning the asset list for the tenth time in half as many minutes.

  A noise – the slightest noise – alerted him to movement. The turning of the taps. The stopping of the water. A moment later, the quiet thud of the shower screen door, heralding its closure. The soft rustle of a towel. He stiffened, conscious that a moment was steaming towards him, a moment he could handle in one of two ways.

  Body or brain.

  Right or wrong.

  Fingers on a doorknob; it turned, slowly, creaking a little. He read the sixth line of the report, glowering. The letters and numbers swirled before his eyes with the force of his concentration.

  If she emerged from the bathroom naked, the decision would be made for him.

  He tapped his pen once more, lifting his head with all the appearance of casual inquiry, but the second his eyes landed on her body, he knew he hadn’t fooled her. His gaze narrowed, his lips twisting in a smile that felt laced with mockery.

  She was wearing her pyjamas – sensible, cotton shorts and a t-shirt that was about three sizes too big for her.

  Her eyes fell to the papers. “You’re working.” The words were rushed from her lips. With relief or regret?

  He made a gruff noise of agreement. The slender column of her throat convulsed as she swallowed, hard.

  The cotton of her shirt shifted as she moved, showing the outline of her body, soft fabric on softer breasts. His gut clenched and rolled. Desire punched him hard in the solar plexus.

  “Just reading a report.”

  Focus, damn it. Focus.

  “Oh.”

  Cristo. Disappointment flooded the single syllable. With a sense of fatalism, he laid the papers down. She moved towards him, fidgeting her fingers nervously in front of her.

  “On what?”

  He frowned. “A consortium we’re considering acquiring.”

  “The Watney Group?” Her voice shook a little. He stayed where he was, back propped against the old timber headboard, legs kicked out in front of him.

  “Yes.”

  “I read that report. Last week.” Her uncertainty was doing silly things to him, pulling at his desire in a way he hadn’t expected. After all, he was used to experienced lovers, women who were well-versed in the usual rules of seduction. Nervousness was never a part of foreplay, in his experience.

  And this wasn’t foreplay, he reminded himself. Unless he was going to sleep with her, in which case, this whole weekend had been an agonising build up.

  “What did you think?” He asked the question to stall for time – so that he could read her better. Not because he expected an answer.

  “I think their textile businesses seem dodgy.”

  He frowned, the observation momentarily spearing through the building desire. Her assessment precisely accorded with his own. “In what way?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need my opinion.”

  “I asked for it,” he reminded her, his tone gruff.

  She reached over him for the report, so her arm brushed his legs, and he knew her well enough to know that it was a complete accident. She startled as though an electric shock had travelled between them, her eyes huge as she looked at him. He could see a fine pulse point hammering at the base of her throat, and it snapped the last of his resolve. The papers dropped from her fingertips.

  “Luca…”

  It was a plea.

  He stared at her, uncharacteristically ambivalent, all the reasons for holding firm locked inside of him, falling lower down, as an impulse and instinct began to drum faster, harder, demanding a response.

  He couldn’t stay where he was; not a moment longer. He moved quickly, standing, surprising her as he brought himself toe to toe with her, towering over her petite frame, his chest sawing with each rough indrawn breath.

  Her hands lifted, her fingertips splayed against his chest, her eyes awash with emotions as she met his hard stare.

  “I –,”

  He waited, every cell in his body reverberating.

  “Just for tonight, let’s pretend –,”

  “Pretend what?” He growled.

  She bit down on her lower lip, her fingers feeling for the bottom of his shirt. She lifted it slowly, and though it wasn’t intentional, the torturous pace was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. He had to bite back a curse.

  “Let’s pretend that you’re not my boss, Luca.”

  The gauntlet was laid. Two paths were before him. Her palms glanced across his sides and without answering her, he lifted his arms above his head so she could remove the shirt fully. She had to stand on the tips of her toes to achieve that, her breasts brushing his chest so the decision slammed into him fully formed.

  He grabbed the shirt as she passed it over his wrists, removing it fully with a sound of impatience.

  “And what if I like being the boss?”

  He didn’t give her a chance to answer. His mouth crashed to hers, a kiss that brought with it a total bodily release because he had been waiting for this – not a kiss like they’d shared outside earlier, for that had been on borrowed time, with the dinner about to start. This was theirs, a kiss they could enjoy, a kiss shared in private with no chance of interruption. A kiss that would take them where they both wanted it to go. A kiss that was just the beginning.

  His tongue tormented her, tangling with hers as his hands stripped her clothes quickly, removing them as though he couldn’t breathe until she were naked, his touch urgent, desperate, hurried. She whimpered when his fingers brushed her nipples, his touch everything she needed, his kiss more demanding, increasing in rhythm with his finger’s touch. His knee parted her legs, brushing her sex, so she found her hips pushing her down onto his thigh, trying desperately to ease the ache that was spreading through her, needing a relief only he could give.

  “Please, Luca,” she cried over and over, incoherent, desperate, not even sure what she needed or wanted, just knowing this wasn’t enough. Everything inside of her was bursting to life, flames licking through her.

  She arched her back and he dropped his mouth to her breasts, flicking first one then the other with his tongue, circling each nipple until she was dragging her hands through his head in desperation, grinding her hips, pushing herself forward.

  His laugh was throaty, uneven. His hands caught her hips, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, kissing her mouth again as he lowered her to the bed, his body weight on top of hers everything she needed, an imperative force, an awakening that stirred her soul to life.

  He pushed up on one elbow, spreading her hair around her face with a look of concentration, his breath warm on her temples, and then he was kissing her again, his hand roaming her body, his kiss mirroring the slow exploration, until he reached between her legs, gently brushing the hair at the apex of her thighs.

  “Luca.” It was an uneven, wobbly plea. But for what?

  No one had touched her there like this. Even with Ashton, sex had been incredibly basic. Goose bumps spread over her skin.

  “I don’t know what to –,”

  “Cara,” his voice sent pleasure radiating through her. “I am the boss, no?”

  She bit down on her lip, surrendering then, moaning as she dropped her head back to the pillow, pleasure snaking inside the pit of her stomach.

  “Yes,” she whimpered, and then his finger pushed inside her, swirling against her most intimate, sensitive muscles so she lifted her knees towards the ceiling, digging her toes into the mattress, bright lights bursting behind her eyes.

  His tongue moved in time with his finger, in and out, and then he added a second finger, stretching her a little, his tongue unrelenting.

  “You’re so wet,” he said into her mouth, and all she could do was make a husky whimpering sound in response.

  “So goddamned wet.” He lifted his head for a moment to stare at her as he added another finger, and she ima
gined he was making sure she was ready for him, that he was testing her and preparing her. Pleasure built; she felt heat on her brow, a desperate need exploding through her.

  His fingers moved faster, harder, and she tilted her head back, desperate only for the feel of his arousal now, needing more, even than he was giving her.

  “Luca,” she cried out, his name like an incantation, one she cried again and again until the syllables ran together, making little sense to anyone but her, and him.

  “I know,” he muttered darkly, moving away from her for a moment, so the night air ran over her, briefly dragging her from the sensual haze. She fought that, running one hand over her nipples, the other cruised across her flat stomach to her most sensitive cluster of nerves. His breath hissed from him as he watched her fingers gently roll across her clit, his cheeks slashed with dark colour, an Italian curse filling the room.

  He sheathed his erection; her eyes dropped to the enormous size of him, her fingers stilling as – for a moment – uncertainty coursed her veins. He was huge. This was going to feel – she couldn’t say. She knew only that there was no backing out now. She didn’t want to. More than anything she’d ever wanted, she wanted her boss to make love to her, to fill her with his strong masculinity and show her what pleasure felt like.

  “Please.”

  He growled – this was how they communicated now, apparently. Begging, pleading, cursing and growling.

  “Sei sicuro?”

  She blinked, the Italian words musical and unfamiliar to her.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely,” she nodded, her hands lifting, reaching for him as he stepped towards her, bringing his body back over hers, his eyes level with Bronte’s so that he could stare down at her, reading her mind – at least, that’s what it felt like. He separated her thighs, his eyes piercing hers as he nudged his tip at her entrance. She bit down on her lip, a flush of anxiety coursing through her.

  “Relax,” he murmured, dropping his head, kissing her gently, his fingers lacing through hers, lifting her hands above her head and pinning them there. “I’ll be gentle.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t be gentle with me. I don’t want that.”

  She couldn’t say how she knew she felt that way but as she said the words she knew they were accurate.

  “Sei –,”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She arched her back, a fire ravaging her soul. “Please, Luca, please.”

  He kissed her harder then, the pressure of his mouth pressing her back against the mattress, and without warning he thrust into her, hard and fast, his arousal driving to the core of her soul, so deep, so hard, so that she cried out, the sound filling his body, as the unfamiliar sensation of being so full, so stretched, took a moment to adjust to. Then he was moving, in and out, and true to his word, to the promise he’d given her, he wasn’t gentle now either, drawing back hard and driving into her, so she had to bite down on her lip to stop from screaming with the intensity of pleasure that assaulted her.

  Then, he was gentle, slowing suddenly, so a different kind of heat and awareness flooded her; arrows of desire shooting through her until she burst apart, pleasure exploding from every pore of her body, and it was no longer possible to be quiet. Her moans filled the room, his rasping breath too; she felt his eyes on her as she came, hard, his gaze watchful, his pleasure obvious at her own lack of control, and then he began to move, before she could even catch her breath, hard and fast now, his fingers plucking her nipples, his mouth dominating hers, demanding something from her she wasn’t sure she could give.

  Without warning, another orgasm burst through her and this time, she wasn’t alone. This time, he held her tight, his own body in a spasm of release as he kissed her, emptying himself into her, so she felt every pulse of his muscles, every bit of his pleasure vibrating through her over-sensitive muscles.

  Their breath mingled; bodies were entangled, limbs woven, intimate, joined. She rolled her head from one side to the other, partly to make sure it was still attached to her neck. She felt as though every bone in her body had turned to mush.

  He pushed up, so that he could see her, his eyes scanning her face. Bronte was surprised; she didn’t feel even a hint of embarrassment. She’d thought there might be that, or regret, something negative, but instead she just felt – alive. A rush of joyous awareness was warming her from the inside out.

  “So that’s what really great sex is like, huh?”

  His laugh was a deep rumble. “I’m flattered.”

  She lifted a hand, running it over his cheek, still not believing she could actually touch him so freely when – she now admitted – it was all she’d been wanting to do since he’d picked her up on Thursday afternoon.

  “I’m serious. That was – wow.”

  Another laugh. “Wow is good.”

  “Wow is very good.”

  He shifted onto his elbows, high enough to see her clearly. “I thought I’d regret this.”

  “So did I.”

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Her eyes shifted a little, a frown crossing her face. “I didn’t expect this. This weekend, I mean.”

  “I know that.”

  She nodded. “I guess you have women throwing themselves at you all the time.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, the gesture so sweet and unexpected that her heart twisted. “Is that a question?”

  “Oh, I just meant that perhaps you thought I intended to seduce you or something. That I was tilting my cap at you.”

  He burst out laughing. “Yes, a perfect seduction,” he agreed. “A drunken strip, then an attempt to push me away for kissing you briefly, then an argument, and then, finally sex.”

  Heat flushed through her. “Well, exactly. If I’d been wanting to—,”

  “Tilt your cap at me,” he inserted with a teasing smile changing the features of his face.

  “Right. I’d have done a better job.”

  “If you were aiming to make me crazy for you so that I could not stop thinking about you all weekend, you did an excellent job.”

  She sucked in a breath of surprise. “I didn’t plan this.”

  “I know.” He stroked her cheek. “Nor did I.”

  She nodded. He’d fought this pretty hard. “And when we leave here, on Sunday, we’ll pretend this never happened. Right?”

  She didn’t know why she’d turned that into a question. They’d both agreed to that and it made sense. This was a fling – a weekend out of time. Once she was back in the office, they’d be like strangers to one another.

  “I think that’s a little naïve.”

  Something strange burst inside her, something that felt dangerously like hope.

  “There’s no sense pretending it didn’t happen. But we will go back to our normal relationship. There is no ongoing consequence from this.” He held her gaze for a moment too long, as if to assure himself she was in agreement, then nodded, apparently satisfied. He shifted, pulling his body away from hers, so she made a small groaning noise of disappointment – because she hadn’t been ready for him to leave her yet.

  His laugh was heavy. “The night is not over.”

  She pouted. “But I just –,”

  He dropped a kiss to her lips then straightened. “I know. And I approve.”

  She watched him disappear into the bathroom, incapable of movement. A moment later he appeared with a towel slung low around his waist. He paused at the tiny fridge, removing two bottles of mineral water. He held one out to Bronte and she took it on autopilot, her eyes lingering on his bare chest. Fine red lines criss-crossed his tanned flesh, scratch marks made by her urgent, desperate fingers.

  She lifted up onto her knees, moving to the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry about these.” She hesitated for a moment before pressing a kiss to the bottom of one of the scratches, then traced it with her fingertip.

  He was very still, eve
n his chest remained as it was, like he was holding his breath.

  “Do they hurt?”

  “I’m tempted to say ‘yes’, just so you’ll kiss them all better.”

  It was very strange how comfortable she felt. Half an hour ago she’d been awash with nerves but now this felt so normal and natural, it was hard to reconcile her two different emotional states.

  “Oh, I’d like to do that.” She leaned forward, underscoring her words with another gentle kiss. This time, she traced the line all the way to the top using her lips and not her fingertips. He let out a shuddering breath and she felt the force of his gaze on her as she transferred to another scratch.

  Bronte smiled to herself, feeling sensual, wicked and unpredictable. The morning would bring them closer to the end but for now, the night was young, and she intended to make the most of it…

  8

  “I HAVE TO WAKE up in under five hours.”

  “That’s ages away.” He kissed a line from her shoulder to her jaw, his lips gentle, sending tiny darts of pleasure through her body.

  “Is it?” She sighed, every sensation hyper-charged so that even the soft fabric of the sheet made her skin tingle.

  “Mmm.” A muffled noise, his lips pressed to a pulse point at the base of her throat. “More than three hundred minutes.”

  “Ah.” She grinned. “You’re quick with maths.”

  He laughed. “Such rudimentary maths.”

  His fingers trailed from her shoulder to her wrist, drawing invisible circles.

  “Why are you in London at the moment?”

  “We’re not in London.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re here in the UK for two weeks. I don’t think that’s happened the whole time I’ve worked for Montebello.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. Fiero’s here quite often, Raf too, and Max sometimes. You, rarely.”

  “True.” He moved his finger to her lips, drawing a slow outline of their curved shape.

  “So why now?”

  His frown was fleeting, his finger moving to the dimple in her cheek. “The Watney Group acquisition is my project. I’ve been working on it for almost a year. It’s all coming to a head now – if we decide to proceed then it has to be in the next month or so. I’m here to tidy up loose ends, meet with our appraisal team, go over things with a fine tooth comb, and finalise the paperwork.”