She pointed at a helicopter hovering above the roof of a nearby tower block.
‘Not at the moment, no. But where is your world? Can you see it from here? Show me.’
He circled his arm around her waist once more and laid his hand on the wall, tucking her close to his body.
‘Way over there is Croydon. That’s where I grew up. Before Mum moved away and I became a boarder at the British Ballet.’
She paused, expecting him to ask her for more details. It was a subject of great interest to most people—how her mother had moved three hundred miles away with her boyfriend and started a new family, conveniently forgetting the child she already had. She barely understood it herself, but she didn’t blame her mother.
She’d started with good intentions, but it had all fallen apart after a year or so. There had been visits and phone calls during which Ruby had forced herself not to cry. Because she had known that if she’d cried she’d have had to leave ballet school and move to Cornwall. And be eclipsed there for ever, in the shadow of George and the twins that were about to be born.
They were sixteen now, she thought suddenly. Sixteen—almost adults themselves—and still no sign that she was ever going to get along with them. The awful thing was she just didn’t feel anything for them. It was terrible to admit it, even if only to herself. Was it because they didn’t look like her? They had their mother’s blonde hair, George’s sturdy build, while she was dark, slight...
She looked out across the river, at the moonless sky, the endless inky horizon. Somewhere out there she had family who looked like her. Uncles, aunts, cousins. Brothers, sisters. People with features like hers, minds like hers. Maybe dancers like her...
Her mind conjured up her favourite daydream. She was dancing on some foreign stage—the performance of her life. A man stood in the audience—her father. He called her name, pushed forward to see her, She shielded her eyes and then she saw him. ‘Father,’ she cried...
Her heart leapt into her throat and her eyes burned. Beside her, Matteo moved closer and she tensed. For a moment she was still lost on that dark stage, searching for that face.
‘You must have been a very gifted child,’ said Matteo through her dream.
She felt his fingers cradle the back of her head. She let her head rest there, grateful for the warmth, the strength, the masculine grasp. She didn’t fight it. Emotions were surfacing tonight that she’d kept buried for a long, long time. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the soft touch of his fingers on her skin, being held close...
She turned in his arms. Another kiss—gentle, soft. The slide of his tongue dipping into her mouth. She accepted it gratefully, eagerly. He pressed closer, his arms encircling her at the wall.
‘Something like that,’ she said on a sigh, relieved to be pulled from her memories as her head fell back and the ache between her legs grew hotter and heavier.
‘I really can’t wait to see you dance,’ whispered Matteo as he hooked his other arm around her and drew her into his sensual world.
He placed tiny little kisses on her neck, which had her extending her head to give him more access. She sighed and shifted against him and he pulled her closer, his hands holding her possessively. She relaxed against his broad, strong chest and felt the urgent ridge of his desire. His kisses travelled to her ear and she shivered as a huge spasm of desire ricocheted through her.
‘Matteo, please...’ she moaned.
‘You like this, don’t you?’ he murmured. ‘Your secret exogenous zone. And we still have all the others to find too, before dawn.’
He kissed her again, nibbled and suckled at the edge of her earlobe, licked and kissed and nuzzled her neck. She was tired of holding back. Tired of striving so hard for so long and there being nothing to show for it. She was tired of feeling hungry for life, of starving herself of pleasure, fun. She’d worked so hard to get here and the exhaustion of keeping it together was lapping inside her now like the relentless dragging of the tide.
Her own private rules—training and abstinence, working until her body was exhausted to be the best, to please—had been her whole life as far back as she could remember, with little time to relax because it was too terrifying to stop.
She deserved this night. She needed it.
Under her dress her nipples throbbed in tight buds and she felt almost unbearably aroused. She pressed even closer to his body, the full skirt of her dress swishing noisily as she ached to feel his lips on her mouth and his hands on her body.
He held her head in his hands, kissing her mouth until it opened, his tongue plundering deeply inside. She kissed him back and pressed herself closer, desperate to free herself from all this red froth, to step out of it naked and feel his hands on her body.
She wanted to feel the way she knew he could make her feel.
‘The bet’s off. Take me to bed,’ she breathed.
The words spilled from her mouth into the hot heavy air between them and he stopped. She looked up into those chestnut eyes, willing him to take control now that she had relented. Willing him to do what she trusted him to do—give her the oblivion she sought.
She reached up and traced her finger around his mouth, feeling the graze of stubble, the soft pad of his lips, then she slid her fingers inside his wet mouth. Her head fell back as he sucked her fingers.
‘Exactly what I plan to do.’
He took her hand and led them back indoors, past the discarded champagne and the twin palms on either side of the French doors, nodding in the breeze like benevolent sentries. In through the lounge, where her clutch lay like a red silk flag against one dark leather couch, and where its reflection, his red tie, lay across another. Her skirt swished brazenly with every step she took.
Through an open doorway she glimpsed a solitary silver bowl, overflowing with fruit—the only sign of life in a gleaming, sterile kitchen. In the shadowy hallway a wall of photographs faced another bare of anything other than lamplight. She caught the face of his mother, smiling on the prow of a yacht, her hair blowing in the sea breeze, and felt a momentary jab of discomfort, a whiff of disloyalty that made her footsteps falter.
He must have sensed it for he turned and caught her eye, holding her steady with his gaze. He cupped her jaw and placed a hot, demanding kiss on her mouth. She felt the brand of his desire.
He walked to a door and opened it into a bedroom. His bedroom. Acres of pale carpet spread out under rugs and various pieces of furniture, lit only by the spill of lamplight from either side of a wide, low bed.
She stepped inside. This was it. This was where she was going to be seduced.
Her heart thundered in her chest as she looked around, and there in the mirror Matteo stretched out an arm towards her.
‘I’ve been admiring your dress all night,’ he said as he trailed a finger along her collarbone. ‘Wondering what you looked like under all this...’
His finger traced the line of her bodice from left to right, lightly brushing the skin of her décolletage. She shivered uncontrollably and closed her eyes as he traced the line down the middle of her chest to where the skirt of the dress flared out. Then he placed a hand on either side of her waist and pulled her towards him for a kiss.
Kiss me and never stop, she thought, loving the sensation of his tongue expertly licking and probing, stoking the fire higher. How could she have denied herself this pleasure...so much pleasure?
Her own greedy fingers pressed against his chest. She could feel the spring of hair under her palms and rubbed tiny circles there, loving the sensation of his firm muscle, loving the groans of pleasure she was making him deliver.
Fumbling, she undid his shirt all the way down to the waist, until the twin panels of fabric opened to reveal a golden chest dusted with hair that narrowed down into a single dark line, swallowed up by the waistband of his trousers. She pulled the shirt from his trousers, her eye la
nding for a moment on the huge hard ridge at his groin, and she bit back a groan of anticipation.
She had seen countless male bodies—men at the peak of physical fitness, slick with sweat and shaved clean of hair. But none of them had proclaimed their masculinity like Matteo as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders and drank in the sight of his magnificent naked torso.
She bit her lip and then looked up at him, smiling a dark, devilish smile.
‘What’s going through your dirty little mind?’ he whispered, leading her to the bed and pulling her down on top of him.
She pulled her skirt up round her waist and sat back on her heels, straddling him. ‘You,’ she said, rocking slightly back and forth.
His erection throbbed between her legs in response. Her panties were thin and the sensation of his arousal was almost too much to bear. She rocked against him again. It felt heavenly. He watched her closely, and the thrill of seeing him and feeling him sent wave after wave of pleasure through her.
But as he reached his hands up to touch her she stilled his wrists. ‘Don’t move,’ she said.
She closed her eyes and rubbed again. She was so close to orgasm.
‘Please don’t move.’
He didn’t move a muscle but he grew harder.
‘You dirty, dirty girl.’
She stared down at him...at every gorgeous masculine inch of him. She rocked again, staring into his eyes.
‘You want me to lie here between your legs and not get to touch you, but you can pleasure yourself against me until you come? Is that what’s going on here?’
She threw her head back and rubbed harder.
She felt his hands close around her arms. ‘There will be hell to pay for this, Ruby.’
‘Yes—yes!’ she cried, rubbing herself harder still.
In the quiet of the night she could hear the rustle of her dress and feel the friction of her bare feet on the smooth cotton sheets. And she heard the sounds of their flesh touching, hot and wet and insistent. And his breath. And his passion. And the knowledge that she could do this.
‘Come for me Ruby. Now.’
And she did.
The huge, hot orgasm burst forth, and she was aware of him lying there, telling her to keep coming.
Then she collapsed on his chest. His heart was pounding. A cry had died somewhere in her throat. His hands soothed her back, coiled round her hair, and then in a heartbeat he had flipped her over.
‘Glad I could be of some assistance there. And, now, if you don’t mind...’
His fingers hooked around her back and instantly found the top of the zip. With one hand he tipped up her chin and held her gaze, and with the other he slowly drew down the zip, all the way to the waistband.
Then he bent forward, kissed her lips, and with a final tug pulled the dress all the way down. She lay there, warm in her post-orgasm glow, naked apart from her black panties and her shameless desire. And it felt good. It felt wonderful to know how much he was loving her body and how much she was loving his.
‘You know you’re even more beautiful than I imagined,’ he whispered, unfastening his trousers and slipping them off.
The sight of him sent flames dancing all over her skin. She reached up to touch him but he grabbed at her wrists and gently pushed her down.
‘Oh, no. It’s my turn now.’
In seconds she was warm in his arms as his head dipped to place kisses on her mouth and then in a trail down the centre of her chest. Her back arched as she thrust her aching breasts forward, desperate to feel his lips there.
‘Please, Matteo...’ she breathed, staring down at his dark head outlined against her white skin.
He looked straight at her with devilish intent, holding his mouth in place for long, excruciating seconds as she tried to jerk her breast towards him.
‘Now, now...you’ve got to learn patience,’ he said, and smiled as he held her fast and then finally, slowly, brought his mouth down to hover over one pink nipple, his tongue dipping low until he finally closed his lips around it and tugged.
‘Yes...’ she breathed, her eyes scrunched up with pleasure, her back arching further towards him. ‘Yes...’
‘Oh, yes,’ he whispered into her flesh.
He teased and tugged and suckled her nipple until he’d had enough and then moved to the other. Instantly the cool air clenched around her damp skin and she looked down, held his head in place as he drew more and more pleasure from her with his lips.
In seconds he’d scooped his hands under her shoulders and lifted her gently further back onto the bed. ‘Do I have to be careful with your knee?’ he whispered. ‘I can’t hurt you, can I?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Only if you throw me across the room or drop me.’
‘I don’t plan on that. I’ve got much better ideas.’
‘Like what?’ she breathed, loving the way he was dipping his head to take care of one throbbing pink nipple and then the other in quick succession.
‘You’ve got too many clothes on,’ he said, kissing his way down to her navel, putting his hands under her bottom and holding her up like some sort of precious object.
‘I’m a feminist,’ she said, hooking her hands around his neck and pulling him down on top of her. ‘What’s good for you is good for me.’
‘You are strong, aren’t you?’ He smiled, circling her arm in his hand. ‘I probably wouldn’t mess with you.’
‘We can arm wrestle later,’ she said as she ran her hands over the satiny skin of his back and down to his shorts and began to tug them off. ‘Let’s have more fun first.’
But before she could grip them he’d rolled her onto her back and they were kissing. And kissing. And kissing.
More than anything else she wanted to feel every inch of him. With expert hands he pulled off her pants and his, and reached into his bedside table for a condom. She lay back on the bed watching as he held himself in his hand. He was long and thick, and she bit her lip with longing.
‘Open your legs for me.’
His voice was almost hoarse, and she could see just how close to the edge he already was.
She lay back and stared at the ceiling, feeling the seconds slip past, but he was there, cradling her in his arms as he moved her exactly where he wanted her. Then, with his lips on hers and his hands on either side of her head, he positioned himself and slid deep inside her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RUBY WOKE IN the night. She was in a strange bed, in a strange room, and every single fibre of her body tensed in alarm. She was in complete darkness, silent apart from the breathing near her face, Matteo’s breathing.
Matteo Rossini, CEO of Banca Casa di Rossini, Love Rat, sponsor of the British Ballet. The last man on earth she should be lying beside.
What had she done? What on earth had she done? How had she ended up here in his bed?
Her mind sped through the events of the night, landing on the moments that had led to this. There had been too much emotion, too many memories unwrapped and unravelled. Far too much champagne and wine. Definitely that was to blame.
She tried to remember how many glasses she’d had. Two? Maybe three? Half a glass when she’d got here?
Was it really the booze that had done for her?
This felt worse than any hangover.
There wasn’t any point in lying to herself.
She should never have agreed to stay the night. She felt as if she’d given something away that she’d never get back—let the genie out of the bottle, let herself down. She knew the other dancers thought she was weird because she made a point of setting herself apart. But it wasn’t because she thought she was better. It was because she was afraid she was worse...
She had to get out of here—now. She couldn’t face herself, never mind anyone else.
But suddenly the strong, heavy weight of
his arm landed on her waist.
The urge to roll over and slide out of bed was almost unbearable, but she didn’t move. She lay still. She had to stop and think—not bolt for the door.
Waking up in a man’s bed was not the worst thing in the world. Other people did it.
But his arm was so heavy and he was so close. She could scent their night together—feral and musky. She breathed deeply, feeling her chest fill with air and then slowly empty. What a night. She’d done things she’d never done...feeling and giving pleasure until she had fallen into a deep sleep.
And hadn’t he been every bit as amazing a lover as she had thought he would be? And considerate. And kind. She didn’t have much to compare him with, of course, but she knew that she’d never been made to feel this way before.
The memory of him finding his release inside her sent echoes of pleasure pulsing through her body and she gave an involuntary sigh. Beside her, Matteo gave a sleepy grunt in response, and once more she had to stifle the urge to move.
Why was she like this? Why couldn’t she just lie there in a post-orgasmic glow like everybody else and enjoy it? There was something wrong with her—she knew that. She’d been told by both the men she’d slept with. She could have sex—just about—but staying the night was a complete no-no, and had been the undoing of each of her previous relationships.
I need to get an early night. Her get-out clause of every situation.
But to slope off out of Matteo’s bed? After what they’d shared that seemed—wrong.
In the darkness of the room gloomy shapes began to form and make sense—a chair here, a table with the round glass vase, the edge of a huge photograph of an island.
The slash of light from below the doorway spilled a silvery glow onto the discarded clothes on the floor. She could just make out the scarlet dress where it lay draped over a chair, its stiff petticoats giving it an air of waiting impatiently to be worn again.
She had enjoyed wearing it last night. Had had so many compliments about how it suited her. But when was she likely to wear a dress like that again?
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