A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

by Angela Bissell

  A tiny shred of stubbornness pushed to the fore. ‘Kiss me first.’

  His eyes glinted, one corner of his mouth lifting in a ‘two can play that game’ smile. Deliberately avoiding her mouth, he kissed her neck, finding the soft, sensitive place with his tongue that made her back arch in response. Then he pushed inside her, a strong, steady thrust that went only so far before her body resisted.

  ‘Dios...you’re so tight.’

  He pushed in a little further and she stiffened, her body demanding a moment to accustom itself to the intimate invasion. Eyes closed, she dug her hands into his shoulders and willed her internal muscles to relax.

  ‘Emily?’

  Hearing concern in his voice, she opened her eyes, looked at him and saw a stark mix of lust and uncertainty in his expression. ‘It’s been a long time,’ she whispered and felt her cheeks redden at having revealed that small intimate truth. She shifted and drew her knees up and back, and suddenly her body yielded and he slid all the way in, so deep and so completely they both gasped aloud and shuddered.

  Groaning, Ramon buried his face in her neck and ground out more words in Spanish.

  And then he rode her hard, a sheen of sweat gathering on his skin, his magnificent body rippling above hers as he drove them both towards climax with breathtaking skill.

  Emily clung to him, each powerful thrust of his body into hers pushing her closer to the edge. She tried to hold on, sensing he was close, wanting him to come at the same time as her. But there was no stopping the intense burst of pleasure that hurtled her high into the stratosphere. White light splintered behind her eyelids and then she did what she’d refused to do before.

  She cried out his name.

  Again. And again. And again.

  * * *

  Ramon hit the ‘end call’ button on his phone and padded through to the bedroom. It was after one a.m. and, since Sleeping Beauty had appeared dead to the world, he’d decided to make some calls in the living room.

  He studied her sleeping form. Emily was an outrageous bed hog and the discovery both surprised him and amused him. She was so contained most of the time, so controlled, he had assumed she would sleep in a similar fashion—either curled into a tight ball or flat on her back, hands folded neatly on her stomach. Instead, she lay sprawled across two-thirds of the mattress, her arms flung wide and her long legs half-in, half-out of the tangled covers. She was totally naked except for the silver chain and pearl that hung around her neck, and her tumble of golden curls, damp still from their shower, spilled across the pillow, begging him to bury his hands in them.

  His body stirred, lust pooling with the memory of how many ways he’d enjoyed her body in the last two hours.

  She’d blown his mind. Revealed a streak of passion and daring underneath her natural reserve that he’d relished exploring. Her inexperience had surprised him but pleased him too, satisfying some dark, proprietorial part of his male ego he hadn’t realised existed. He’d planned to take his time with her and he had up to a point. But the second her body had accepted him, pulling him into the heart of her tight, satin heat, he’d lost control.

  And then he’d lost control in the shower too. He’d carried her in with the intention of doing no more than soaping the sweat from their bodies, and instead he’d lifted her against the tiles and plunged into her, the roar of pleasure in his veins obliterating all thought until she’d whispered urgently in his ear, telling him not to come inside her. He’d withdrawn immediately, shocked that he’d forgotten to protect them—even more shocked that for one reckless, fleeting second he’d wanted to bury himself inside her again and say to hell with the risk.

  He’d stood panting, torn between lust and good sense until, with a bold, saucy look that’d stopped his breath, Emily had dropped to her knees, wrapped her fingers around him and taken him in her mouth. He’d tried to summon a protest but his attempt had been half-hearted at best, and in a matter of seconds she’d brought him to the edge of completion.

  Ramon had slept with countless women in countless places, but standing in that shower, with his hands braced against the walls, staring down at Emily’s flushed, satisfied face, had been the single most erotic experience of his life.

  Her words from earlier came back to him.

  What happens in Paris stays in Paris.

  At any other time, such an edict would have suited him down to the ground. What self-professed playboy wouldn’t want to hear words that relinquished him of any unwanted strings or emotional commitments?

  And relationships without strings were Ramon’s golden rule. It was how he’d lived his life for the last twelve years and how he intended to carry on. Forming attachments was something he avoided for good reason. You couldn’t hurt people if they didn’t get close.

  The thought of hurting Emily made him feel physically ill. She was tough, but he sensed her outer armour shielded an underlying vulnerability. Their conversations hadn’t touched on family, but he recalled reading some tabloid bio on Maxwell that had talked of his wife having died in childbirth.

  How must it feel, knowing the woman who’d given you life had lost her own while bringing you into the world? He couldn’t imagine it, yet he knew a worse pain. The pain of knowing his actions, his choices, had led to another person’s demise—not once, but twice.

  His hand tightened around his phone. He had no business comparing Emily’s life to his own. Unlike him, she had done nothing wrong. She wasn’t responsible for her mother’s death.

  He thought of his mother, Elena, and her difficulties with conceiving and carrying a child to term. Having Ramon after adopting Xavier must have been quite the shock. To their credit, his parents had shown no favouritism, treating their sons with equal affection, but no doubt it’d been a great irony for them that Ramon—their own flesh and blood—was the one who’d proved a disappointment. Who had shamed the family. His mother was a good woman, but he wouldn’t blame her if she never found it in her heart to forgive him.

  He ran his gaze over Emily’s face, wincing at the small patches of redness where his stubble had grazed her skin. He felt a tightness grip his chest. He’d known her for less than a week yet he knew she was strong and principled—a good woman, like his mother. Was that why she made allowances for her father? Or was it because she had no one else? Her grandfather was dead, she had no siblings and there didn’t seem to be any extended family on the scene. Aside from Royce, who hardly qualified as a contender for Father of the Year, was Emily alone in the world?

  The tightness intensified and with it came a vague sense of unease. Since when did he speculate on the personal lives of his lovers?

  Yet he knew he couldn’t class Emily as one of his casual flings. His relationship with her was primarily a professional one and tonight he’d crossed a line he shouldn’t have crossed. He’d been reckless, allowing his base desires to govern him, and he knew he should be regretting it right now, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was thinking about pulling the sheet away, easing her thighs apart and tasting her again. He was thinking that one night, a few brief hours, wasn’t enough time to do all the things he wanted to do with her...to her. And he was thinking that, if their time together had to be confined to Paris, then perhaps this one night wasn’t long enough. Perhaps they needed the whole weekend.

  Her eyes opened and she blinked drowsily, stretched her gorgeous limbs and smiled up at him with lips pink and swollen from his kisses. ‘Ramon?’

  ‘Sí, mi belleza?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Late—or early, depending on your view.’

  She rose onto her elbows. ‘Do we need to go? Is the plane waiting for us?’

  He put his phone on the nightstand. ‘No. I’ve stood the pilot down for the night.’

  A flicker of anxiety showed in her face. ‘Will he be available to take us back first thing in the morning?’

  Ramon climbed onto the bed. ‘He’s available when I want him to be available.’ He pushed the tangled sheet off her
and palmed the soft mound of honey-blonde curls at the apex of her thighs. Slowly, he ran a fingertip down her sensitive flesh and her soft gasp made his groin tighten. ‘Tender?’

  ‘Only a little.’

  He gave a slow smile then moved his hand and made her gasp again. ‘In that case, I’ll be gentle.’

  * * *

  Bright morning sunlight streamed through the lounge windows of the penthouse and for the first time in Emily’s life she truly appreciated the sentiment behind the expression ‘the cold light of day’.

  She pulled the belt of the fluffy white bathrobe tighter around her waist. ‘No,’ she said and felt an immediate rush of relief, because the other word she could have uttered—the big, fat, resounding yes that was even now attempting to crawl up her throat against her better judgement—could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to escape. ‘I can’t stay another night. I need to go home to London this morning.’

  And I need you to put some clothes on, she almost added, although thankfully only his chest was on display. He wore his dark suit trousers from last night but they weren’t belted or zipped properly and they sat too low on his hips. She knew if she let her gaze drop she’d see more of his flat, muscled stomach than her composure could handle at present.

  Unaware of her internal struggles, he poured coffee from a silver pot into two china mugs. ‘Is there something you need to return for today?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied, accepting the coffee he handed her without meeting his eye. Her sanity. That was what she needed to return for. Because clearly she’d lost it somewhere between here and London and she could really do with getting it back before the wanton, needy creature he’d unleashed in her decided that staying in Paris with him was more appealing than returning home.

  She took her coffee over to the big floor-to-ceiling window and stared out at the stunning view of the city.

  Perhaps the light of day wouldn’t have seemed so harsh right now if she hadn’t emerged from the bedroom at just the wrong time. If the man who’d been wheeling a heavily laden breakfast trolley out of the lift hadn’t glanced at her and she hadn’t seen, in the moment before he blanked his expression, the speculative glint in his eyes. He’d been judging her, eyeing up the drowsy, bed-rumpled woman who’d slept with his boss—and, given she was guilty as charged, could she really blame the guy for looking at her as if she were a two-bit slut?

  She swallowed, self-disgust rising in her throat like bile. She’d set aside all manner of caution and self-preservation and let curiosity and pure physical lust take control.

  Oh, God.

  All these years of despising her father’s behaviour and now she couldn’t even claim the moral high ground.

  She gripped her mug between her hands. She couldn’t spend another night in Paris with Ramon. Just thinking about the things they would do together made her skin flush with heat and her body tremble with a deep-seated longing she couldn’t quash. He was like a dangerous, addictive narcotic. She’d had her first hit, experienced the ecstasy of the high, and now she was craving another.

  Could addiction take root so quickly?

  She shook her head. Crazy thinking. She was out of her element, her comfort zone, and she’d just done something completely out of character. Something that—even now with self-condemnation dragging at her stomach—had felt wrong and yet impossibly right at the same time.

  Good grief. No wonder she was feeling disoriented.

  ‘Emily...’ Ramon’s arms came around her from behind and she stiffened so suddenly her coffee spilt, the hot liquid scalding her thumb.

  Cursing softly, he took the mug away and returned with a napkin.

  She patted her hand dry. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For what? For flinching when I touched you just now, or for what we did last night?’

  Hearing an edge to his voice, she fisted the napkin in her hand. What could she say? That she wasn’t used to having someone put their arms around her? She wasn’t. She was more comfortable when people kept their distance, though not because she didn’t crave human contact. Contrary to the nasty things her ex had said after she’d ended their relationship, her veins didn’t run with ice water. But when you hadn’t been hugged much as a child, when you had never experienced the physical manifestation of a parent’s unconditional love, you were hardly going to blossom into a touchy, feely adult.

  And as for last night...her and Ramon...that hadn’t been about affection, or emotion. It had been about sex.

  Nothing else.

  She drew a deep breath. ‘I think last night was a mistake.’ His eyes rapidly narrowed and she hastened to add, ‘I’d had too much champagne. I... I was tipsy.’

  His face darkened. ‘Are you saying I took advantage of you?’

  ‘No! Of...of course not,’ she stammered, instantly regretting her feeble excuse. ‘But...my judgement was impaired.’ She twisted the napkin between her hands and cringed inwardly. She was making a hash of this. ‘I... I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘Are you drunk now?’

  She blinked. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you thinking straight?’

  Hardly. How could she think straight with his bare, muscled chest and powerful shoulders dominating her field of vision? ‘Yes.’

  Moving with lightning speed, Ramon grabbed the belt of her robe and gave it a single hard yank.

  Before Emily had time to react, the sides of the garment gaped open and exposed her naked breasts.

  She made a small, startled sound and tried to tug the robe closed but his arm was already snaking under the soft terry towelling and circling her waist like a band of reinforced steel.

  He hauled her against him, plunged his other hand into her loose, bed-tousled curls and cupped the back of her head.

  Her breasts tingled, her nipples hardening into treacherous points of need. ‘Ramon—’

  His mouth came down on hers. Hot. Forceful. A teensy bit brutal. Somewhere in her reeling mind she wondered if she should struggle, try to bite him, perhaps. She didn’t. Instead, she curled her hands over his shoulders, arched her body like the wanton creature he’d turned her into and opened her mouth under his. He backed her against the solid glass window, his kiss growing more fervent, more demanding, and she didn’t notice he’d released her head until she felt his hand sliding between her legs. A single finger thrust inside her, right into the centre of her wet, pulsing heat, and she gasped against his mouth.

  He lifted his head, withdrew his finger and, holding her gaze, very deliberately put it into his mouth. He sucked, extracting his finger slowly, and then licked his lips. His smile was utterly, wickedly shameless. ‘That doesn’t taste like a mistake to me.’

  Outrage surged, instantly tempering the hot pulse of desire between her legs.

  How dared he smash through her defences and mock her in a way that was so...so erotic?

  She banged the heels of her hands against his chest, twisted out of his grip and yanked the robe closed. ‘I’m going to get dressed,’ she told him, holding her chin high, injecting a hard, chilly note into her voice. ‘And then I’d like to go home please.’ Her throat feeling tight all of a sudden, she secured the belt around her waist and strode towards the bedroom.

  ‘Emily.’

  Civility overriding the urge to ignore him completely, she stopped and turned, just as a brown paper package bound with string landed at her feet.

  ‘Clothes,’ he supplied before she could ask. ‘So you don’t have to worry about the “walk of shame”.’

  He turned away to the breakfast tray and Emily stared at his back. Then she picked up the package, blinked away the sharp sting of unexpected tears and shut herself in the bedroom.

  * * *

  By the time the London limo driver turned into her quiet neighbourhood street, a headache pounded in Emily’s temples and she felt as if her nerve endings had been wrapped in razor wire.

  Ramon sat beside her on the back seat, silent and brooding, as he had been for most of th
e journey. They were both angry. Both upset. Which only reinforced Emily’s belief that they’d made a terrible mistake. Jeopardised their professional relationship for—what?—a bit of short-lived gratification?

  She wiped a clammy palm over her thigh. The jeans she wore fit perfectly, as did the sleeveless, pale blue top and matching cardigan. Even the underwear was the right size. Every item she’d found in the neatly wrapped package had been new, the tags still attached. Emily was appreciative but she didn’t want to think too hard about whomever had bought and delivered the clothing and what they must have thought of such a task. Or maybe they hadn’t thought anything. Maybe they were used to running such errands for their boss.

  The idea made her feel slightly ill.

  The limo stopped. Ramon said nothing, so she quietly gathered up her things.

  ‘Are you staying in London?’

  He turned his head and looked at her and electricity arced between them, as red-hot and incandescent as ever. Anger, it seemed, had only intensified their chemistry.

  ‘No. I’m returning to New York.’

  ‘Good.’ She prayed the word sounded more convincing to his ears than hers. ‘I think it would be wise if you stayed away for a while. Gave us both some...space. We can conduct any business by email and phone.’

  A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘I’ll come to our club in person whenever I deem fit.’

  Stiffening at his arrogant tone, she opened her mouth to offer a pithy retort and found she had nothing. ‘Goodbye, Ramon,’ she said instead, ignoring the sudden dull ache beneath her breastbone, and climbed out.

  He said something but Emily didn’t catch it, his words muffled by the thud of the limo door as she slammed it closed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SIX WEEKS.

  That was how long it was before Ramon finally returned to London, although it had taken considerably less time for him to conclude that his morning-after behaviour in Paris had been reprehensible.

  Abominable.

  He hadn’t reacted well to rejection. Yes, Emily could have handled the situation with more grace than she had, but his own behaviour had lacked any degree of decorum. He wasn’t unfamiliar with self-contempt and regret, but until that weekend those particular demons had not sat so heavily on his soul in a long time.