by Lucy Monroe
“I... No...it’s not something...”
“You are so experienced, then,” he gently mocked.
She had no thought to lie. “No, I’m not in your league.” Her heart rate sped up as his fingers rubbed over her clitoris in the slippery water. “I think we both know that.”
“We’ve already discussed this.”
“And you pretended ignorance to what I meant, but be real. You’re a player.”
“I am not.” He sounded affronted. “In fact, I never have more than one sex partner at a time.”
“Serial monogamy.” She’d heard the term before, but never known someone it fit.
“If you like.”
“And right now, I’m it?” she asked with disbelief, even as her body warned her that logical reasoning was going to shut down soon in the face of abject ecstasy.
“Sí.”
“No woman back in Spain?”
“None.”
“I’m not seeing anyone, either.”
“That is good to know.”
Something in her instincts told her he was the type of man who would have checked before bedding her the first time. Why hadn’t he? Had he been as lost to physical sensation as she?
Her thoughts scattered as his touch changed and the orgasm she’d thought was well off was suddenly right there. Spasms of pleasure rolled through her as he continued to stimulate her to the point just short of pain.
She grabbed his wrist, holding it tight. “Too much!”
He let his fingers slide away, wrapping her in a tight embrace she realized she needed desperately to keep her connected to reality. She’d never climaxed twice in one night and she had the distinct feeling they weren’t done yet.
As her body eventually settled, Randi’s breaths returned to normal and her heart scaled back from a beat that felt like it was coming out of her chest, she became aware of the hard length pressing against her back. An erection she had every intention of doing something about.
She turned in his arms, letting herself rub against him before coming to rest with her arms crossed on his sculpted chest. Satiated and lethargic, she still smiled up at him with invitation. “You’re still hard.”
“I like a little self-denial.”
“Why?”
“It makes the eventual climax all the stronger.”
She stared at him. “I think I don’t even know as much about sex as I thought I did.”
“You know what you need to.” His return gaze was filled with heat and maybe approval.
Did she? So far she’d been a very passive partner, and that didn’t cut it for Randi. She might not be as experienced as he was; she might not have even realized some people did that thing with putting off their pleasure to make it stronger later, but she was not a selfish lover.
“I believe I do,” she agreed. “Will you sit on the edge of the tub?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to taste you.”
His jaw hardened at her words, the muscles in his neck straining as he swallowed, his gaze going molten with lust.
Right. He liked the idea.
If there’d been any doubts, the swiftness with which he moved to a sitting position, with his legs the only thing in the water, settled them.
Randi pressed his legs apart and moved to kneel between them, her own womb contracting in remembered pleasure at the sight of his tumescent flesh.
Reaching out, she took him in her hand, her fingertips not quite touching. “You’re thick,” she murmured huskily.
“I’m extremely turned on. Touch me like that and you’ll make me come.”
“That’s the idea.” Before he could retort, she dropped her head forward and took the tip of his erection in her mouth.
He muttered an imprecation, which she took as approval.
Licking him, she took in his taste, all male and exactly what she craved, the pearls of pre-ejaculate almost sweet. Randi suckled his tip while running her hand up and down his length, loving the feel of his silky uncircumcised flesh moving over his hard column of flesh. Muttering something in Spanish she did not recognize so assumed was blue language, he settled one of his hands on her head. He did not press for her to take more of his big sex into her mouth, but his hand completed the circle of their connection.
If she didn’t watch herself, she’d nuzzle into the hold, exposing more than she wanted.
His hand in her hair excited her, but she wasn’t getting sidetracked from her final goal of bringing him the ultimate pleasure. She caressed his balls with the hand not around his penis, very careful not to press too hard on fragile skin, reveling in the spate of Spanish curses that touch elicited.
He gave a hoarse cry. “Yes, keep touching me, mi hermosa. Que es tan bueno.”
She didn’t need words telling her how good it was, not with his reaction, but she enjoyed the fervent Spanish anyway. She would have smiled if her mouth wasn’t full of him, her heart warmed at his approval. Doing her best to take as much as she could of him into her mouth, Randi stretched her lips wide, pressing forward of her own volition, very mindful of her teeth. She’d no desire to cause even the slightest pain to her temporary lover.
She didn’t know how long she was lost in pleasuring him, but suddenly he was pulling her head away with the warning, “I’m coming. Diablo, sí, ya voy.”
He wrapped his hand around hers, guiding her to take a tighter grip on his column of flesh and increase her pace on the up and downward strokes. There was something really sexy about having his hand wrapped around hers, controlling his pleasure even as she gave it to him. Then he was shouting as he climaxed in her hand, barely missing her head with jets of his spend.
“You definitely have all the experience you need.” Baz’s voice, warm with approval and deep with sexual satisfaction, washed over her after he had regained control of his breathing.
Randi felt utter satisfaction that she’d brought him to this place.
* * *
Basilio woke with one arm under the head of his bed partner and the other wrapped snugly around her waist, barely stifling the instinctive curse the situation warranted.
He did not cuddle. Not even with lovers of what was for him long duration. Yet he’d spent the entire night either having sex with the woman in his arms, or holding her. They’d coupled twice more after her inexpert, but mind-shattering, blow job the night before.
He was the one that was supposed to be seducing her, bringing Miranda Smith, née Weber, around to his way of thinking in regard to doing that exposé interview. However, he’d been seduced himself by her innocent sensuality, her sexual candor, her enthusiasm for life and her understated beauty.
There was something about the sweet twenty-four-year-old that got under Basilio’s skin.
He didn’t give the emotion a sentimental name. It was just another aspect of sex he had not yet experienced. Basilio had promised himself at a tender age, he would never fall into the disastrous morass that romantic love and its companion emotions caused.
He’d seen the effect on his father of following that path, had felt those effects in his own young life as stepmothers changed too frequently for stability.
Nevertheless, he had a difficult time reconciling the woman in whose body he found such satisfying pleasure with the hard-hearted bitch that wanted to tear apart his family’s peace.
While that did not change his plans to seduce her into agreeing to cancel the interview, it did have him wondering if there was an aspect to what happened five years ago that Basilio did not understand, or know about.
He needed to get her to talk about the past and why she thought going on television would help her own cause when he could only see heartbreak ahead for her. She’d done something many would find unforgivable. In a moment of inattention, she’d hit a child with her car. And while the consequences could
have been worse, they’d been bad enough.
His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts, and Basilio carefully eased himself away from Miranda, her sleep so sound, she didn’t so much as stir. He tucked the blankets around her, not wanting a draft to disturb her slumber.
She made a soft sound and snuggled into her pillow.
He allowed himself a smile of pure male satisfaction. He’d worn her out and he liked knowing it. Some might call him a throwback for his attitude, but he didn’t really care.
He was who he was. And in other circumstances, Miranda Smith would be his ideal bed partner.
He grabbed his phone and swiped just before it went to voice mail. “Wait a moment,” he instructed his brother while moving into the living room of the spacious suite.
“Baz?” his brother demanded impatiently, without waiting as Basilio had asked. “It’s Carl.”
“Sí.” His phone had already told him as much.
“Have you talked to her yet?”
“I met her. I have not broached the subject of the interview.”
“Why not?” his brother demanded, his tone caustic. “We’re running out of time.”
“There is still more than two weeks until she’s scheduled to go on air.”
“You need to take care of this now. We can’t wait until the last minute.” Carl could certainly be strident, but he failed to understand the dynamic of the situation.
“You asked for my help. You will take it as I offer it,” Basilio informed his brother.
“Baz, have you forgotten who the younger brother is here?”
“Have you forgotten that you already managed to instigate a restraining order?” If his older brother hadn’t screwed up, Carl wouldn’t need Basilio’s help.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“That resulted in legal action. It must have been a rather large misconception.”
His brother huffed. “Look, just get her to agree. Tiffany can’t take any more from this tragedy.”
“Why wasn’t there legal action taken at the time? Miranda was guilty of negligence in her driving at the very least.”
“I don’t know. That was a decision the DA made. Maybe it had something to do with her connections.”
That did not ring true, and his brother should know it. “She has only recently discovered she’s related to the wife of Andreas Kostas.”
“Like I said, I don’t know.” But something about his brother’s words did not have the feel of veracity.
“What about civil action? If you had sued her, she wouldn’t be doing this supposed tell-all now, would she?” His brother’s lawyers would have made sure part of the restitution would have been no publicity or book deals based on the tragedy Basilio’s nephew had suffered.
“We were too distraught at the time. Now it is too late.”
Basilio was pretty sure both of those claims were lies. So what was the real reason his brother had refused to take civil action against Miranda Smith?
Perhaps this was something Basilio needed to look further into. He’d never considered that there were extenuating circumstances to his nephew ending up in the hospital in a coma for two weeks, then needing to learn all over again how to speak. Even now he could not imagine what they could be, but one thing was certain.
Carl’s attitude was off for the injured party.
Basilio acknowledged his cynicism could have something to do with the fact that he’d never trusted the brother, or sister, for that matter, who dismissed their Spanish roots so completely they’d taken on their stepfather’s name and preferred the American versions of their own. The fact they had always treated Basilio like an unwanted distant cousin importuning them for favor, rather than a brother, wasn’t in Carl’s favor, either.
But family was family and Basilio never let his down. He wasn’t about to start now.
His father had drilled family loyalty into Basilio his entire life, but more important, Basilio knew that his father would probably still be married to his first wife had it not been for the fact that Basilio’s mother had gotten pregnant with him. Fidelity had never been Armand Perez’s thing, but loyalty was. And he’d remained loyal to his wife until he had another child on the way at risk of becoming a bastard.
Basilio carried the weight of his family’s dynamic on his shoulders.
Even if he was inclined to let his brother swing in the wind, Basilio would always protect the children of the family with the same commitment his father had shown Basilio. Armand Perez had given up the stability of his marriage, virtually lost all contact with his firstborn son and his precious daughter whom he still adored with a father’s unconditional love, having to stand by while they took on another man’s name. He’d lost the connections his wife’s family offered to him and Perez Holdings, which had harbingered the beginning of the company’s decline, and weathered scandal fueled by his wife’s fury and desire for revenge.
All for the sake of an unborn son that Armand had never once laid any blame on, no matter what his first wife said in her more caustic moments, or Basilio’s own brother and sister had on the few times they visited during his childhood.
While Armand still grieved the loss of his relationship and parental status with his two older children, he had never made Basilio feel like he was not enough, that his father had ever regretted, even for a minute, that he’d lost so much in order to claim Basilio.
It was a standard of adult commitment to the children of the family Basilio would live up to. Jamie and Grace were entirely innocent and deserving of every bit of Basilio’s effort on their behalf.
“How are my nephew and niece?” he asked.
“The entire family is under stress.”
“You have kept your children from the media, surely?”
“Jamie is in school. Other children talk.”
“Well, keep him home until the furor dies down.” Basilio knew his admonishment was too late in coming as the media furor was already on the wane, and Jamie must have already been subjected to it.
Basilio had had his own PR people apprise him of the latest mini-storm of media attention due to the reporter discovering Miranda’s connection to a billionaire businessman.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carl said dismissively. “We’re not calling him home and disrupting his schedule on account of that woman.”
That was right. Jamie attended boarding school. Something Basilio’s father had not wanted for his own children, despite his wealth at the time of their childhood and his preoccupation with his paramours. “I would have thought it would be on his own account.”
“Don’t get sanctimonious with me,” Carl barked. “He’s my son and I’m doing my best to protect him.”
“Are you?” Because from where Basilio sat, it seemed he was the one intent on protecting the child.
Carl hung up and Basilio put his own phone down with indifference.
His willingness to help was not reliant on his brother’s warm regard.
Basilio was embarked on his current course for the sake of both his nine-year-old nephew and two-year-old niece. While Grace was unlikely to know what was happening, her home life wouldn’t be pleasant if Miranda did the interview, and poor young Jamie would be subject to all sorts of scrutiny and comments at school. Again.
CHAPTER FOUR
STILL REELING FROM their whirlwind meeting and the amazing, unexpected, explosive, impulsive all-night sex marathon at one of Portland’s most luxurious hotel suites, Randi waited impatiently for Basilio to pick her up so they could go look at properties for the second shelter site with his broker.
How had this billionaire, business shark, super-good-looking guy come into her life?
Really, what were the chances she would nearly mow down the guy of her dreams?
The fact he wouldn’t make those dreams come true was something she w
as used to and not about to complain about. Randi practiced living in the moment these days, without too high of expectations for the future. She’d learned her lesson five years ago.
However, his insistence on helping her find a property? That was white-knight stuff she couldn’t ignore.
Apparently, the Realtor she had been working with was not up to snuff as far as Baz was concerned and he’d ensured her that his recommended property broker would be happy to donate his commission on the sale, too. Impressed, she ran a mental list of the properties the broker had found already, properties the other Realtor had been convinced were not available at the price Kayla’s for Kids could pay.
Her phone buzzed with a text. He was on his way up to her apartment. He could have just told her to come down, but not Basilio Perez. He knew how to treat a woman like she mattered, even if she was a very temporary fixture in his life.
Randi opened the door and looked down the hall toward the elevator just as Baz came through the door from the stairwell. Of course.
No elevators for only a couple of stories up for this man. He was just that guy. Doing everything better, stronger and faster than other mere mortals.
He’d changed into another tailored suit, his shirt now a deep burgundy instead of the traditional white he’d been wearing the day before. His lack of tie and the five o’clock shadow from his dark beard gave him a rakish air not quite fitting with the head of a multinational real estate conglomerate.
But really, what did she know?
Maybe modern-day businessmen were just the new era of pirates?
He slipped the phone he’d been texting on into his suit pocket. “You have a strange expression on your face, cariña. What is that about?”
“Um... I was picturing you as a pirate.”
He startled, his dark eyes widening in surprise, but then his head went back and he laughed. Long and full, the sound was filled with genuine mirth.
“You don’t think you’re a pirate?” she asked with her own smile.
He stopped laughing, his expression going more serious than the thought warranted. “I’m sure there are several business rivals, small property holders and employees that would say that is exactly what I am.”
