by C. C. Gibbs
By the time the men reached the castle gates, Rafe and Nicole had disappeared. The huge, iron-strapped doors were open, the inner court fully restored to the last polished cobblestone, the entrance hall equally resplendent, the high, timbered ceiling a hybrid Gothic-Saracen design so intricate it could have been patterned on a spider web. And the painting, alone, of the ceiling timbers had taken six Florentine workmen two years. Other artisans also had been hard at work on the castle; not that the project was anywhere near finished, but portions of the castle were livable. Carlos led the men to the back of the entrance hall, then down a flight of stairs to an elevator. “The tech equipment can withstand a nuclear attack,” he explained. “We’re five stories down in the dungeons.”
While the four men were descending underground, Rafe and Nicole were climbing a circular staircase winding up the inner walls of the tower. In contrast to the original design built for defense, a railing had been installed for safety.
Rafe held Nicole’s hand as he guided her up the stairs, explaining the various restoration projects in detail, his obvious reverence for the historic structure gradually eliminating the last vestiges of Nicole’s paranoia. By the time they reached the small landing at the top of the stairs, she was relatively satisfied no monsters lurked and acutely aware of the tower’s antiquity, the sense of history in the weathered stones so vivid she could almost visualize the previous occupants who’d traveled these stairs. “Do you ever think of all those who’ve lived here before? You must,” she said, answering her own question.
“It’s impossible not to.” Turning the large key in the lock, Rafe pushed open the centuries-old, iron-studded door and waved Nicole in. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but you can feel the spirits in these old walls, in the worn stair treads, in this room that served as the last bastion against enemies.”
“Seriously?” She scanned the large, airy, elegant space. “Here?”
“Yeah. This was the final sanctuary from attack, the top floor the ultimate defensive position. The stairway was deliberately narrow in order to thwart invaders. And this door”—he rapped his knuckles on the much-worn, four-inch-thick oak—“shows evidence of some hard-fought battles.” He smiled. “No sword marks on the inside though. The castle survived intact until the Venetian palazzo was built in 1507; after that the comte’s descendants allowed this to fall into decay.”
He spoke in an inconsequential tone, so she took her cue from him and answered as mildly. “You must have had a decorator,” she said, surveying the circular area, carpeted with layers of antique rugs, the walls hung with colorful tapestries, the furniture richly carved, gilded, and upholstered in sumptuous Venetian velvets. “This is posh for a medieval interior.”
“Not in this part of the world. Byzantium’s trade with the East was flourishing, every luxury was available. The furniture is original, although most of the fabrics had to be replaced. Miraculously, the tapestries were transferred to the palazzo and escaped destruction. Legend has it the original French comte had an eye for beauty and extravagance.” And lush women whom he’d housed in this, his tower harem. With Nicole’s declared misgivings about the tower, Rafe chose not to mention that bit of history. “Apparently, the comte’s freebooting life gave him the wherewithal to live in comfort. Take a look at the view though,” he added, changing the subject. “It’s the reason I had this room finished first.”
Resting his shoulder against the doorjamb, Rafe watched Nicole cross the room to the windows overlooking the sea and briefly considered locking the door, shutting out the world with all its lethal consequences, and indulging his sexual appetites as the original comte had. It was only a fleeting thought; those on Ganz’s trail were tenacious. They had to be. The price of failure was high.
With a soft sigh, Rafe eased the door shut and resolved to forget the precarious future for the next twenty-four hours and simply gratify their wild, mad, soul-stirring desires until the clock ran out.
Sharply aware of the limited time, Rafe followed Nicole to the new large windows he’d had installed, wrapped his arms around her, and drew her back against his hard body. “God, you feel good,” he whispered, tightening his grip. “We should just stay here. Fuck everything. What do you think?”
Recognizing the faint tiredness in his voice, a fainter melancholy in his mood, she turned slightly to meet his gaze and smiled. “Count me in.”
He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice.” He slid his fingers through hers, smooth and easy, his voice when he spoke so soft she had to strain to hear. “If only the world wasn’t ready to wreck everything good, grind it up and throw it away. If there actually was a second first time.” Or better yet, a way to overcome their numerical disadvantage in this war, he thought, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “As if, right?” He shrugged, then winced; his shoulders were coiled tight. “Screw it. Let’s just play hard till we flame out and go down for the count. Whaddya say?” No beat beforehand, no advance notice, a raw-edged flaring pressure in his voice. “Oh shit, forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
You shouldn’t have asked like that, she wanted to say. But he was breathing fast, like he’d been running, and his fingers were folding and unfolding around hers in taut restraint. “I don’t mind,” she said, feeling the urgency too, the swirling danger spinning in the air, the reeling sense of imminent loss. “How about a small wager on who flames out first?” she added, wanting to make him smile even for an instant.
“You can’t be serious.”
The smile she was looking for drifted through his words. “So far I’ve been able to keep up, Contini.” Her voice was soft as silk, a hum of pleasure beneath her words, the smallest hint of backward thrust against his crotch.
Anyone less familiar with her impatience would have missed the slight movement of her ass. “We’re talkin’ pro leagues, Tiger.” A playful note rang in his voice now, the sharpness and tension gone.
“Sign me up.”
His husky laugh warmed her to her toes, sent a spiraling heat racing downward, brought a flush to her cheeks.
He liked that she blushed; his barely chained testosterone liked it even more. “No ground rules,” he said softly. “You okay with that?”
There was an unmistakable warning in the low-pitched statement and an irresistible invitation as well. He offered rich, flamboyant pleasure with virtuoso ease, the thick, straining length of his dick against her back the ultimate temptation. “I’ll let you know if I’m not okay.”
The silence lasted three seconds too long. “I may not listen. I’m a moody, selfish fuck. Just so you know.”
“Wow, news flash,” she said drily.
“Keep it up, pussycat,” he whispered, bending to nip at her ear, “and you’ll get a news flash right up your tight little ass.” Slipping his hands free, he swiveled her enough to get a firm grip on her bottom. Then, kissing his way up her cheek, he put his thumbs on her hips for leverage, flexed his fingers over the curves of her butt, and gently squeezed. “You thinking about fucking me now?” His voice was warm on her cheek. “You thinking about me deep inside you?”
His voice was velvet soft, the faint pressure of his broad palms so slight she shouldn’t instantly feel a rush of desire burn through her senses or find herself suddenly breathless, melting. With a soft groan, she leaned into his strong body.
“You’re always ready to rock, aren’t you?” He told himself there were advantages to her slam-bang sexual response, that her past and his were irrelevant, that he should be gratified. But an inescapable outrage was never far from the surface when he thought of Nicole with other men. “With you, it’s Christmas every day.” His voice was lightly abrasive at the last, his splayed fingers tightening hard on her ass.
She flinched, trying to jerk away. “That hurts.”
He told himself to be reasonable, and he was for two seconds more. “But how much does it hurt—isn’t that the question?” His voice was silken, his grip relentless; reasonableness had never been his strong suit. “Sometim
es you like it a little rough. Even ask for it.”
Her entire body was trembling, her breathing ragged. “Stop it,” she hissed, trying to ignore the sensational size of his erection pressing into her stomach, the blazing desire drumming through her senses, the wild, frantic throbbing inside her that confirmed the exasperating truth of his observation. “I’m not asking now, okay?”
“Such a liar,” he whispered, stroking her bottom through the soft fabric of her dress, gently, back and forth, unhurried, like he knew how to do this job; it wasn’t complicated. “Tell me this sweet ass is all mine and I’ll help you calm down.” A second passed, two, then one palm came down on her butt with a well-placed, expert smack that registered in every high-octane, stressed-out, sexually deprived nerve in her body.
She gasped, then softly moaned as a wayward thrill spiked through her body in flame-hot waves. “Damn you,” she whispered, her face warm with desire and embarrassment.
He suddenly flashed a smile. “It’s okay to give in once in a while, pussycat. When you need it you need it. No one’s keeping score.”
Now who was the liar? The too-beautiful-for-words control freak who also happened to be her favorite, blissed-out, orgasmic high, that’s who. She sighed. “You do have a stellar dick.”
The side of his mouth kicked up. “Appreciate your interest.” Then he unleashed the full power of a truly wicked smile. “Just a suggestion, but if you’d like to ramp up the game, we could try a little more wildness, make you even wetter and hornier.”
“You’re in a mood”—she smiled back—“so no thanks.”
“Come on, you like me to be bossy. You get off on it.” He gave her ass a sharp, open-handed slap.
She yelped, the high-pitched sound melting into a breathy, fevered whimper as pleasure spread like wildfire through her senses.
Rafe’s golden eyes flickered with amusement. “So is it yes or no, pussycat? I’m confused. Most—”
“Don’t you dare say ‘most women.’” Although her protest would have been more effective if her body hadn’t been aglow, buzzing, slick with need; if her nipples weren’t beaded hard.
His gaze lifted from her nipples, his smile indulgent. “What I was about to point out,” he said mildly, “is that most of the time you come faster, harder, and scream louder when I push you to the wall.”
Oh God, and no one did it better. Sure, smooth, gauging her meltdown with maddening ease, his long, slender fingers splayed across her ass, the provocative pressure just enough to send the requisite tingles to every eager, throbbing, sexed-up, fuck-me portion of her anatomy, to remind her how good it felt to be pushed to the wall by the living legend Rafe Contini. Wishing she wasn’t such a pushover for him, that she had some of his nerveless discipline, she heard herself say, “That’s not always true,” when they both knew she was lying, when she’d barely had breath to finish the sentence, when the agitated rise and fall of her breasts was a patent display of primed, X-rated need.
“Whatever you say.” A pleasant vibe to his voice. “Your call.” But mostly his, he thought with customary arrogance, his gaze on her lavish, quivering tits, recalling their soft, weighty resilience with a tantalizing rush of memory. Selfishly intent on cupping that warm, silken flesh in his palms, he moved her effortlessly, arranging her back to his front once again and reaching around her, and began unbuttoning her dress.
“Wait a minute, wait, wait.” Rafe was always capable of such restraint like some abstemious monk. If this was the pro leagues, if she wanted even a chance in hell of winning their wager, she couldn’t just cave. “Hey”—she shot him a look over her shoulder—“you said my call…what are you doing?”
He raised his dark brows fractionally. “Getting ready to fuck you. Remember—no rules.” Capturing Nicole’s hands, he circled her wrists with one hand, and started freeing buttons with his other. “And I’m guaranteeing unlimited orgasms. What’s not to like?”
“Your damned arrogance, for starters.” But her nipples were drilling holes in the fine linen of her dress, her breathing unquiet, restless, her body opening the door wide for those promised orgasms.
“Fuck my arrogance.” He spoke with stunning indifference. “As if that’s gonna stop you from coming.” Freeing another button, he glanced at her stiff peaked nipples. “Christ, you’re almost there, aren’t you? All I have to do is touch these impressively sexed-up nipples and you’ll go off like a rocket.”
She gritted her teeth, looked back at him through a haze of lust, and shook her head.
He laughed. “We’ve met before, remember? Even on a good day you’ve got a short fuse when it comes to sex. Don’t get me wrong, I like that, but I’m running this show. That means you’re going to lose your little wager,” he said with a lazy smile. “In just a few seconds.” Slipping free the last of the row of pearl buttons, he eased open the dress top. “Jesus, Tiger,” he whispered, a small heat in his voice. “You have the nicest tits—best in the world, no shit.” He slid his fingers down her warm cleavage, under the ripe abundance of her breasts, lifted slightly, his fingertips sinking into the yielding softness, his erection surging in stark appreciation. “Fuck—just the feel of these cushy boobs makes me so hard it hurts.” His voice was tightly leashed, a hushed expectancy in his words. “Change of plans. You’re gonna have to jack me with your tits first.”
He heard her muffled sob, bent forward, saw that her eyes were glittering with wetness. “Christ, don’t—hey…let’s talk about it, okay?”
She sniffled and drew in a deep breath, embarrassed and angry with herself for falling apart with a man like Rafe, who was the poster boy for casual sex. “I don’t feel like talking,” she said, biting her bottom lip to stifle her unsteady swirl of emotions. “I’m fine.”
She looked so lost and confused, making her happy was a no-brainer. “Look, that was a dickhead thing to say.” Her eyes were still shiny, her little hiccupy sniffs witness to his dickheadness. “From now on, if I’m doing something you don’t like, just let me know. We good?”
His offer to accept input during sex didn’t go unnoticed by his psyche, the word pussy-whipped startling in its novelty. But when Nicole blinked, then nodded and smiled, he suddenly felt as though he’d been given a prize. “That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Yeah?”
“You betcha.”
Her smile this time was warm and heady and he had to tell his dick to cool it a little longer. Too many years of women giving him what he wanted had made him callous. Insensitive. He almost smiled. Fuck, new world order. Behave.
Sliding his fingertips over the soft fullness of her breasts to her nipples, he caressed the sensitive crests with feather-light delicacy, up and down, around and around, tugging a little, squeezing gently, taking his time until her breathing turned into erratic little pants. Then, capturing the ostentatious, jewel-hard tips in his fingers, he slowly compressed the tender flesh.
She shuddered, the exquisite pressure streaking downward, coiling hot and achy between her legs, and with a frantic little groan she pushed back against his engorged dick. “Rafe, please, I’m dying.”
“Just a second,” he whispered. Moving his hands down her stomach, beneath her short skirt, he slid his fingers under the edge of her panties, twisted his wrist, pushed two fingers into her slippery sex to her G-spot, placed his thumb on her clit, said, “Take a breath,” and exerted an irresistibly subtle pressure.
She moaned—a fevered, hysterical sound.
Liquid desire instantly drenched his fingers. “More?” It was a promise of pleasure he took pains to deliver, stroking her sleek, pulsing tissue with tenderness and skill, with targeted ingenuity, with just the right degree of pressure and depth. Until she was squirming hard against his hand and so close to climax, her whimpers were rising into audible demands. “Done waiting?” A gentle question not likely to be answered when she was trembling, her eyes shut tight. With a hand on her shoulder, he turned her back so she faced him, his fingers still buried in her sweet, throbbing se
x rotating sleekly. Dragging his fingertips over the tender nub of her G-spot, he waited a pulse beat while she shuddered, then slid his other hand under one soft, plump breast and, lifting it high, bent to lick her nipple. Lightly at first, a few nibbles, a little sucking, a drift of up and down strokes with the flat of his tongue, estimating her readiness, her soft moans, choppy breaths—waiting.
Until she suddenly arched her back against the sharp, raw feeling, grabbed huge handfuls of his hair, hauled him close, and choked out, “Now, now, now!”
Showtime.
Spreading his fingers wider, he tightened his grip on her tit, sank the fingers of his other hand deep into her hot, slick pussy, and, holding her securely, drew her taut, peaked nipple into his mouth and sucked the life out of it.
Nicole groaned as lust punched downward with lightning speed, turned into hot blazing rapture, and exploded a pulse beat later into the opening throes of an orgasm so stunning, she gasped. The soft, smothered sound swiftly escalated into a more familiar overwrought cry that rose in volume until it reached the adrenaline-powered scream of full-out, orgasmic ecstasy that always made Rafe smile. She had no restraint, her emotions were raw: hot/cold, sweet/sulky, plenty of stubborn, but easy too. She laid it all out there. White lightning. Take it or leave it.
Taking it made his world perfect, made his heart rate tick up, made him feel lucky as hell.
She was still trembling when he carefully eased his fingers free and drew her into the warmth of his body. Running his hands up and down her back as she slowly calmed, he felt a pure, unspoiled content he felt only with her. Picture postcard nice. Good enough to pin up and remember with wonder when the world blew up to shit.
By slow degrees Nicole’s senses returned to planet Earth and with a blissful sigh, she stretched up and kissed his throat. “You’re so good to me, X-rated, sweet, rough, everything beautiful. Thanks, really truly.”
Dipping his head, he kissed her lightly. “Does that mean I get a turn?” Because playing at love and roseate postcard scenarios were going to be winding down real fucking soon. “If you’re still going another few rounds though,” he added, politely, forcibly suppressing stark reality. “Not a problem.” But he was sliding her dress off her shoulders and down her arms as he spoke, baring her breasts a moment later, his dick fixed on getting into the game regardless of her answer or his offered politesse.
