by Dani Collins
“The condoms are all the way over there, cara.” He dipped one finger, letting her clasp him, which was only a tease, making her whimper. “But if you ask me nicely, I’ll lick you.”
“You’re being a bastard,” she told him.
“Close enough.” He grasped her panties at her hip, giving them a yank to snap them, then released her hands and slid down the bed.
She didn’t fight. In fact she groaned in abandonment as he pleasured her. It had been too long since he’d done this and he was very, very good at it. Inhibition disappeared as she said things and he did things and the energy building in her coiled to unbearable tightness. With her heels in his back and her hand in his hair, she let go with a scream that she muted with her wrist, completely lost to the moment.
She came back to a state of lassitude that was buttery and sweet.
He dragged himself to his feet and stood to strip, gaze raking her sprawling body. She was nude but for the bra that was askew across her chest. His expression tightened to stark possession and inexorable intent. He reached into the drawer of the night table without looking away from her.
She teased him, crooking her knee, letting her fingertips run up the inside of her thigh to where he couldn’t seem to remove his attention.
And there, for just a second, she saw his composure start to fracture. A shudder ran through him and he dropped the condom.
“Roll over,” he ordered.
“Make me,” she invited.
His stomach muscles tightened as though she’d punched him. He flared his nostrils and did it, upper lip shiny with sweat, hands shaking as he rolled her over and arranged her on her knees before he scooped up the condom and knelt behind her, one hand staying heavy on her lower back as if he wanted to be sure she would stay there.
It was a power position for him, but she felt as if she held a lot of it as he knelt behind her, gripped her hips and entered her. She groaned unreservedly and held nothing back as she relinquished herself to their raw lovemaking.
It was glorious and it affected him.
She heard it in his voice and felt it in his grip on her hips, hearing it in his curse as he fought his release. He was trying to wait for her, but it was a struggle and she loved it. She met the buck of his hips and said, “Don’t stop. Keep going. It’s so good, so good.”
“Now,” he growled, reaching to stroke and incite her. “Come with me. Now.”
His release arrived a panting breath before hers in a guttural, almost defeated cry and a rush of heat that was as heart-poundingly satisfying as the orgasm that rocked through her like a blast wave.
As he folded over her and crushed her into the mattress, she smiled.
CHAPTER TEN
THE LIMO DROPPED them in front of the grand entrance to a mansion on the outskirts of Valencia, Spain—just about the last place Alessandro had ever wanted to show his face.
As their host and hostess greeted them, Bree was directed to take Lorenzo to an upper floor on the condition, Sorcha said, that they take the correct baby with them when they left. She wore a shimmery green gown that set off her blond hair and smiled with as much joy as Octavia did.
Sandro found a pained smile of his own. It went unseen as Sorcha hugged his wife as though they were reunited twins, leaving him to introduce himself to Cesar. It was a thankfully brief handshake since guests were arriving in a steady stream. They were invited to move inside and partake of the food, dancing and the silent auction tent.
Sandro let Octavia lead, since this was her idea, and wondered again why he had agreed to come here.
Well, he knew why he had agreed. She had come into his office a week ago, set her hip on his desk, let the slit in her wrap skirt fall open and batted her lashes.
He had leaned back in his chair, far too experienced with women to fall for any sort of sexual manipulation, not that he said so, but he had admired the effort. He was partial to those thighs of hers and when she adjusted the fall of floral fabric so he could see her hip was bare of underthings, she’d had his full attention.
“I don’t ask for things very often, do I?” she’d said.
“You asked me to get up with Lorenzo this morning,” he’d countered.
“I said it was your turn. That’s different.” Gone was the mousy wife of his first year of marriage. Octavia was much more sure of herself now, not just in her sexuality—which she used unreservedly by leaning on one arm and offering him a delicious view down her top—but in ways that kept him on his toes. She voiced her opinions and woe betide the man who questioned her judgment where her son was concerned.
He would never have expected to like having a spitfire for a wife, but it was nice to be able to let loose with some of his own forceful personality without fearing he’d flatten her.
Case in point, he took his fill of the swells of her breasts, then dragged his gaze upward without making any effort to hide his instant, rapacious desire. “Are you asking me to make love to you? I have rather a lot of work today, but for you, I can spare the time.” He tossed his pen onto the desktop beside her hip.
She set the heel of her shoe, a sexy, strappy red one, on the arm of his chair, parting her legs slightly as she did. Her tongue wet her lips as though she was deciding whether to butter him up with sex first, or get his agreement before she gave him access to the sensual banquet she presented.
Either way he was enjoying the show so he was more than happy to be patient while she made up her mind. He toyed with the strap of her shoe, seeing if he could hurry the process along.
“I want to take Lorenzo to Spain,” she finally said.
“Alone?” His hand instinctively closed around her narrow ankle.
“I’d prefer it if you came with us.”
And he had thought, Well played, knowing he was done for, but he’d forced her to work for it. The shoes had stayed on and they’d brushed his ears a few minutes later. He would never again sit down at his desk without thinking of their erotic hour upon it.
But he hadn’t wanted to come here. Not really. “Sorcha needs moral support. It’s her first formal party,” Octavia had explained when they were straightening their clothes.
Alessandro looked around. The event was as polished and successful as any he’d seen. The house and grounds were ideal, the necessary elements of band and bar in place. Octavia led them out to a tent that held the silent auction items Sorcha had solicited to raise money for the excellent cause that Octavia had mentioned and now slipped his mind.
Sandro was always willing to write a check for sick children or cardiac wings, but he hated like hell to face down his own failure. He and Octavia had managed to distance themselves from the conflict of London and Primo and the baby swap. They were in a good place. His desire to revisit reminders of it was well below zero.
But he had agreed to accompany her and she, well, she’d been glowing like Christmas was coming ever since.
And her wedding rings were back in place.
Watching her as they moved through the gardens after the auction tent, he admired the way the pinprick lights in the trees made her hair and gown and eyes sparkle. The light breeze pressed the silk of her amethyst skirt against her thighs and he liked the look of it, but when she shivered in the salt-scented breeze, it was a good excuse to tuck her closer to his side.
He couldn’t regret being here when he was so intensely proud to be with her no matter where they were. Pausing, he turned her, thinking a kiss in the moonlight was in order.
“Octavia,” Sorcha called, interrupting. She crossed toward them with her husband. “Let’s sneak away for five minutes to check the boys.”
Octavia nodded enthusiastically, then glanced up at him. “Do you want to come?”
She looked very sincere, which almost made him laugh. “I have three sisters, cara. I know what gi
rl talk is and when I’m likely to be in the way of it.” He kissed her temple and let her go.
Then turned to face his host, a man of his own height who wore his tuxedo and old-world surroundings as comfortably as Sandro did. He suspected that, if things had been different, he might have liked Cesar Montero.
“Thank you for coming,” Cesar said and canted his head toward the tent where Sandro had left a number of exorbitant bids. “And for your generosity. My wife invited you because she was anxious to see Octavia, not so we’d break records for our fundraising.”
“Penance,” Sandro dismissed with a shrug, accepting a glass of sangria from a passing waiter.
“Penance?” Cesar repeated with a frown. His face cleared as understanding dawned. “For the mix-up at the hospital? It was your cousin who caused it. I’ve read the full report from the hospital and police.”
“I still feel I owe you an apology,” Sandro said, hiding his discomfort behind a flat smile. “I’m very sorry your wife and son were affected.”
“I wouldn’t know I had a son if it hadn’t happened,” Cesar said bluntly. “Don’t apologize. I’m grateful.”
It was straight talk without sentimentality, exactly the kind that appealed most to Sandro. He nodded, trying to take in that his habit of self-blame wasn’t required here.
“The ladies have plans to lounge by the pool tomorrow, but I’ll be spending the morning in our vineyard. I understand you have a private label, as well? Would you like to join me? Our head vintner would love to pick your brain on your methods.”
Sandro had planned to work out of their hotel room, but it was the weekend and he found himself agreeing.
An educational morning—Cesar was a chemist with an experimental nature—was followed by a lazy few hours beside the pool, sampling from Cesar’s cellar. The infants had splashed and gummed whichever finger was offered and slept side by side on a blanket in the shade. It was relaxing and very pleasant.
Later, they brought Lorenzo back to the hotel for siesta, and, once the nannies came back from their day of shopping, the Monteros would be joining them for a late dinner.
“You’re spoiling me,” Octavia said as she shrugged into her dress, having just fed Lorenzo and tucked him in. The sea-foam-green of her dress was paler than Sandro would have chosen for her, but the silvery shimmer made her fresh tan glow. The flouncy skirt was cute as hell, too, showing off her toned legs.
He realized she was looking at him as she put earrings in her ears, waiting for him to respond.
Spoiled? He was the one who’d just woken from an afternoon delight that had knocked him out cold.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“You didn’t want to come to Spain at all, but you invited them for dinner.”
“I drank half his cellar,” he retorted. It wasn’t true. They hadn’t finished any bottles, but Cesar had generously opened several. “That man knows what he’s doing.” Not just in the vineyard either. As Sandro had suspected, Cesar was the sort of savvy businessman he most enjoyed working with. They’d already touched on several areas with potential for partnerships. He looked forward to exploring opportunities with him.
“Well, I’m glad you’re over your reservations about talking to them. I told you Sorcha didn’t blame us.”
“He said he wouldn’t have known about his son if the baby swap hadn’t happened. That he was grateful, if you can believe it. I thought I’d be squirming, but I enjoyed myself today. And since we came all this way so you could spend time with Sorcha, I thought we should do that. But I didn’t expect anything good to come out of such an aggressive act,” he admitted.
She stepped into tall sandals and straightened, much closer to eye level now and rather solemn.
“You and I are better because of it,” she said. “If I hadn’t been pushed so far by Primo and everything that happened, I don’t know if I ever would have stood up for myself. I wouldn’t be as happy as I am now if I still felt like you held all the power in our relationship.”
“Are you happy, cara?” He tucked the fall of her hair behind her ear, subtly holding his breath as he waited for her to answer.
She took her time, thoughtful for a moment before allowing, “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” There was no subterfuge in her expression. The windows to her soul were completely unguarded, open, letting him see to the dark, reverberant, vulnerable depths inside her.
She had a way of looking at him sometimes. It wasn’t hero worship. He’d seen that along with avarice and possessiveness in other women’s faces. Octavia was good at disguising her feelings, but had never been motivated by anything so base. But sometimes, when she met his gaze like this, with her expression so defenseless, he had the strangest feeling she was asking something from him.
He understood now that she wanted a better life with him than she’d had as a child. He fiercely wanted to live up to whatever it was she was seeking. He’d thought he’d managed to at different times, giving her what he thought she wanted: marriage, orgasms, a baby. Spain to see her friend. Not spoiling, but meeting her needs.
At this moment, however, he wasn’t so sure she wanted any of those things. What she wanted, he suspected, was love.
His heart stuttered.
He had deliberately chosen an arranged marriage to keep their hearts out of traffic. Surely this, what they had, was the perfect balance of friendship and respect, loyalty and regard, physical gratification and warm affection and the shared adoration of their son?
Her lashes swept down, hiding her eyes, but her mouth seemed to soften with disillusion. “We should go down.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and enjoyed touching her as they walked to the elevator. He felt pride when men turned their heads to covet his beautiful wife as they moved through the restaurant and admired her beauty himself when she smiled brightly at Sorcha and Cesar as they arrived. He even felt a measure of relief, suspecting they’d nearly detonated a land mine of some kind upstairs, but managed to step over it.
But deep, deep down, as they bantered with the other couple, touched knees, stole from each other’s plates and finished each other’s sentences, he felt as though they were acting. He felt like a coward.
* * *
Time marched on and Spain became a dreamy weekend Octavia hoped to repeat soon while consistently turning from that disturbing moment at the hotel, when Sandro had asked her whether she was happy. She had chosen to be honest and in being honest, she’d realize how far short from happy she really was.
Which was stupid. Her life was incredibly blessed. Ermanno was sweet and encouraging. They laughed regularly as he gradually transferred running the estate onto her shoulders. She loved this new responsibility! She’d never found a career that appealed, but every day on the estate was different yet comfortingly routine, giving her a sense of purpose and the satisfaction of contributing to things that impacted her and her family directly.
Around her, the flowers were blooming and the weather was fine. Her son was healthy and more adorable every day. He was even sleeping better and sitting up, almost six months old already. Ysabelle flew in for the occasion, bringing her count and a suitcase of gifts for Octavia along with her usual dose of exuberant energy.
She had insisted a half year birthday party was required for her grandson and summoned Sandro’s sisters. They’d arrived with their children last night, surrounding Octavia in a warm, noisy way that she was beginning to cherish.
Octavia had even invited her mother and Trista had agreed to come. She’d been a different woman since Octavia had cut ties with her father, most notably because Octavia had offered her baby bonus to her mother to buy herself an apartment and she’d accepted.
As much as Octavia was enjoying a new and warmer relationship with her mother, however, she kept wondering if she’d somehow wind up just like her after all. The
ir circumstances were different. Their husbands were different and Octavia had told herself from the very beginning that her marriage would be different.
But lack of love was lack of love.
And she kept thinking of something her mother had said when they were signing the final papers for the apartment. “He wasn’t always so bitter, you know. The first miscarriages were hard on him and I think he forced himself to stop caring after that.”
Octavia wasn’t in a mood to forgive her father, or even try to understand. She definitely didn’t want to compare Sandro to him.
But she couldn’t help thinking that if her parents had married for love rather than progeny, their relationship wouldn’t have been so empty when the babies failed to arrive.
Once that hard fact had occurred to Octavia, she hadn’t been able to shake it. She and Sandro had married to make a life together and they had a good one, so it wasn’t fair of her to change the rules midstream and expect love.
But she did. Because she loved him.
It wasn’t the nascent, immature infatuation of their first weeks of marriage, either. It was admiration for the man he was, joy at being near him, lust for his body and love, love, love of the rest of him. The emotion filled her up to overflowing, seeking expression.
She’d been working up the courage to tell him, but what she really needed courage for was hearing—maybe seeing—that he didn’t love her back.
Time, she kept telling herself. He would come to love her in time.
Meanwhile, she would enjoy the growing love that his family seemed to reciprocate. The day was glorious so she asked for the lunch to be served alfresco. Her mother wasn’t here yet, but Octavia had just finished feeding Lorenzo and left him with Bree to dress for his big day. She broke into Sandro’s Fortress of Maternal Avoidance and said, “We’re all on the front terrace. Will you come join us?”
He kept typing then moved the mouse, clicked and sat back in his chair. “Did I hear correctly that she’s ordered a cake? He doesn’t eat real food yet.”
