by Abby Green
Her green dress had spaghetti straps. With a lazy finger, he pushed the left strap out of his way and kissed her shoulder, a long, lingering kiss. She felt his tongue, licking her, sending hot shards of pleasure radiating out along her skin. And then his teeth … oh, those teeth. He nipped her, but carefully, tenderly.
They had stopped dancing. They stood in the shadow of a potted palm, in a corner of the terrace. He eased the side of her dress down. She felt the sultry night air touch her breast.
And then he kissed her there. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked it, rhythmically. He whispered her name against her skin.
She cradled his head, close—closer, her fingers buried in his hair. The heat of him was all around her, and down low, she was already liquid, weak, yearning. A silver thread of pure delight drew down through the core of her, into the womanly heart of her, from her breast, where he kissed her endlessly. He drew on her eager flesh in a slow, tempting rhythm, making her bare toes curl on the terrace flagstones. She moaned, held him closer, murmured his name on a slow, surrendering sigh.
And then he lifted his head. She blinked, dazed, and gazed up at him, feeling like a sleepwalker, wakened from the sweetest dream.
“Inside.” He bent close again, caught her lower lip between his teeth, licked it, let it go. “Let’s go in …”
She trembled, yearning. Her nipple was drawn so tight and hard, it ached. It ached in such a lovely, thrilling way. “Yes. Oh, yes …” And she tried to pull her strap back up, to cover herself.
“Don’t.” He caught her hand, stilled it, then brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Leave it.” His voice was rough and infinitely tender, both at once. “Leave it bare …” He bent, kissed her breast again, but only briefly that time. “So beautiful …”
And then he swept her up as though she weighed nothing and carried her through the open door into the sitting room, pausing only to turn and slide the door shut. A new song began.
He stopped in midstride. Their gazes locked. “‘Lady in Red,’“ he whispered.
“Not tonight,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter, whether you happen to be wearing red or not. To me, this song is you. This song is yours. You’re my lady in red …”
“Oh, Rule.” She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. His fine tanned skin was slightly rough with the beginnings of his dark beard, slightly rough and so very warm.
He took her mouth again, in a hard, hot kiss. She surrendered to that kiss. She let him sweep her away with the heat of it. She was seduced by the carnal need in it.
And he was moving again, carrying her through the door that led to his bedroom. The bed was turned back. He bent to put her down on the soft white sheets, so carefully, as though she might break, as though she was infinitely precious to him.
He laid her down and he rose to his height again. Swiftly, without ceremony, he took off his shirt, undid his belt, took down his trousers and his briefs. He sat and removed his shoes and socks. And then he rose once more to toss everything carelessly onto the bedside chair. The view of his magnificent body from behind stole every last wisp of breath from her body.
And then he turned to face her again. His eyes were molten.
Naked. He was naked and he was as beautiful—more so—than she had even imagined, the muscles of his chest and arms and belly so sharply defined. His legs were strong and straight and powerful, dusted with black hair, black hair that grew dense and curly where his big thighs joined.
The proof that he wanted her jutted out hard and proud. She dragged in a ragged breath and let it out with care.
And then he came down to her.
More kisses. Long, deep kisses, until she was pliant and more eager than ever. Until she whimpered with need. He took down the other strap of her dress and he kissed her right breast so slowly and deliciously, with the same erotic care he had lavished on the left.
By the time he eased her to her side facing away from him and took the zipper of her dress down, she was ready.
For him. For the two of them. For whatever he might do to her, do with her. Ready for tonight. And tomorrow night. And all the nights to come.
With him. Beside him. Always.
Was this a dream? If it was, she prayed she might never wake up.
Tucked close behind her, his front to her back, he eased the dress down, gently, carefully, making the simple act of peeling the fabric away from her body into a caress. A long, perfect thrilling caress.
She lifted enough that he could take the dress down over her thighs and off. She wore no bra. She didn’t need one.
He cupped her breasts, one and then the other, his hand engulfing them. He whispered that they were beautiful. “Delicate,” he said. “Perfect.”
She believed him. Seduced by the magic of his knowing touch, she had relinquished everything, even the wisdom of a little healthy skepticism. She believed all the things he whispered to her. She believed every last rough-tender, arousing word. Every knowing, skilled caress. He touched her face and she smelled the tart sweetness of blood oranges on his fingers. And it seemed to her that the scent was his scent—sweet, tempting, ruby-red.
His hand moved downward, over her breasts again and lower, along her belly. She gasped as his fingers eased under the elastic of her panties.
He found the feminine heart of her. He whispered that she felt like heaven there, so wet and hot and slick for him. He stroked her, a touch that quickly set every last nerve she possessed ablaze. Her whole body seemed to be humming with excitement, with electricity, with heat. She was liquid and burning and close to the brink.
She wanted it to last, wanted the climb to the top to go on forever, wanted to hold off on completion until she had him within her. But in no time, she was shuddering, going over the edge, moaning his name, working her hips against his fingers—oh, those fingers of his: magic, just … magic. She cried out.
He whispered, “Yes, like that. Just like that.”
And then she was sailing out from the peak, into the wide open, drifting slowly, slowly down into her body again, her body that had his body wrapped around it.
“You feel … so good,” she murmured, lazy. And she took his hand and tucked it tenderly close to her heart.
But he wasn’t through yet.
Which was totally fine with her. She could go on like this, touching him, being touched by him, forever.
He was moving, shifting her onto her back, resettling himself close against her side. She sighed and let him do as he wished with her. She was drifting, satisfied, deeply content, on the borderline of sleep.
“Sydney …”
Reluctantly, still lost in the echoes of so many beautiful sensations, she opened her eyes. He was up an elbow, gazing down at her, his eyes liquid, black as the middle of a very dark night.
She reached up, touched his mouth. “So soft. You’re such a good kisser …”
He bent near again, kissed her with that mouth of his, her fingers still on his lips, so he kissed them, too. “Sydney …” He kissed her name against her mouth, against her fingers.
“Mmm.” She eased her hand away, parted her lips, took his tongue inside. “Mmm …” Maybe she wasn’t so sleepy after all. She clasped his hard shoulder, loving the rocklike contour of it, and then she let her hand glide around to his strong nape. She caressed the amazing musculature of his broad back. “I just want to touch you …”
He didn’t object. He went on kissing her, as she indulged herself. She wanted to touch every inch of him—his back, his powerful arms, his fine, strong chest. He had a perfect little happy trail and she did what a woman tends to do—she followed it downward.
And when her fingers closed around him, she took great satisfaction in the low groan he let out. She drank in that groan like wine.
Was there ever a guy like this? She doubted it. Every part of him was beautiful, her fairy-tale prince made flesh.
She closed her eyes again and reveled in the feel
of him. She wanted … everything from him. All of him. Now.
She whispered in a shattered sort of wonder, against his beautiful lips. “Oh, Rule. Now. Please, now …” And she urged him to come even closer, all the way closer, opening her thighs for him, pulling him onto her, so eager, so hungry.
More than ready.
“Wait …” He breathed the word against her parted lips.
“What?” She moaned in frustration. “No. I don’t want to wait.”
“Sydney …” He took his mouth from hers.
And again, she lifted her heavy eyelids and gazed up at him, impatient. Questioning. “What?”
He gave her one of those beautiful, wry, perfect smiles of his. And he tipped his dark head toward his raised hand. She tore her gaze away from all that manly beauty to see what he held.
A condom.
“Oops.” She felt her cheeks flush even redder than they already were. She let out a ragged sigh. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t even think about that. How could I not think of that? I’m never that foolish, that irresponsible.”
His shining midnight gaze adored her—and indulged her. “It’s all right. There are two of us, after all. Only one of us had to remember. And I haven’t minded at all seeing you so carried away that you didn’t even think about using protection.”
“I should have thought of it.”
He shook his head, slowly, lazily, that tempting smile of his a seduction in itself. “You are so beautiful when you’re carried away.” His smile, his tender words, the hot-candy sound of his voice. She was seduced by every aspect of him.
Seduced and loving it.
Still, she tried to hold out against him. “I’m not beautiful, Rule. We both know that.”
“You are beautiful. And please give me your hand and stop arguing with me.”
Really, the guy was irresistible. She held out her hand.
He put the little pouch in the center of her palm. “Do the honors?”
She laughed, a soft, husky laugh, a laugh that spoke so clearly of her desire. “Now you’re talkin’.”
He lay back on the pillows and watched her, his eyes so hot now, molten, as she removed the wrapper and set it aside.
She bent over him, kissed him, in the center of his chest, on that silky trail of hair, not far from his heart. His skin was hot. He smelled so good. She rained a flood of kisses on him, to each side of his big chest, over his rib cage, on his ridged, amazing belly, all the way to her goal.
When she got there, she kissed him once more, a light, feathery breath of a kiss. He moaned. The sound pleased her. She stuck out her tongue and she licked him, concentrating first on the flare, then centering on the sensitive tip. And then, at last, taking him inside—then slowly, by agonizing degrees, lifting once more to release him.
A strangled sound escaped him. And he touched her hair, threading his fingers through it, lifting himself toward her, begging wordlessly, on another groan, for more.
She gave him what he asked for. She took him in again slowly, all the way, relaxing her throat to accommodate him, and then, just as slowly, let him out. She used her tongue on him, licking, stroking, swirling, teasing.
His moans and his rough, ragged breathing told her that he couldn’t take much more. Good. She wanted to lead him all the way to the brink. She wanted to make him go over, into a perfect satisfaction, as he’d done to her.
But then he caught her face between his hands and he guided her up his body again, until she was looking right into those beautiful eyes.
“Put it on,” he commanded in a rough, hungry growl. “Put it on now.”
And she realized she was fine with that. More than fine. She rolled on the condom carefully. Once it was on, she rose onto her knees, intending to take the top position.
But then he reached for her, and he lifted up from the pillows and she happily surrendered as he guided her so gently down onto her back again. He eased her thighs wide and settled between them, his arms against the mattress to either side of her head, his fingers in her hair.
“Sydney …” His mouth swooped down to claim another kiss. Deep and hot and perfect, that kiss.
And she felt him, nudging against her, so slick and hard and wonderfully insistent. He pressed in slowly, filling her. She opened for him eagerly, her mouth fused to his as he came into her.
Oh, it was glorious, thrilling, nothing like it.
Not ever.
Not ever in her life before.
He began to move, rocking into her, his hips meeting hers, retreating—and returning. Always, returning.
She lifted herself up to him, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, clasping his strong neck, her fingers clutching his hair.
She was lost, flying, burning, free. There was nothing, just this. This beauty. This magic. The two of them: her body, his body—together. One.
Retreating. Returning. Over and over. Wet and hot and exactly as she’d never realized she’d always wished it might be.
Nothing like it.
Not ever.
Not ever in her life before.
“Sydney …” His voice in her ear. His breath against her skin. “Sydney …”
She sighed, turned her head away, so luxuriously comfortable, only wanting to sleep a little more.
“Sydney …” He nuzzled her temple, caught the curling strands of hair there between his lips, gave them a light, teasing tug.
She kept her eyes stubbornly shut, grumbled, “I was sleeping …”
His mouth on her cheek. Warm. Tempting. His words against her skin. “But you have to wake up now.”
Wake up. Of course. She knew he was right. She turned her head to him, opened her eyes, asked him groggily, “What time is it?”
“After three.” He was on his side, braced up on an elbow, the sheet down around his lean waist, clinging like an adoring lover to the hard curve of his left hip.
With a low groan, she sat up, raked her hair back off her forehead, stretched and yawned. Then she let her arms drop to the sheets. “Ugh. You’re right. I do have to get home.” She started to push back the covers.
He caught her hand. “Wait.”
She smiled at him, searched his wonderful face. “What?”
“Sydney …” His mouth was softer than ever and his eyes gleamed and he looked so young right then. Young and hopeful and … nervous.
He did. He actually looked nervous. Prince Rule of Montedoro. Nervous. How could that be? He really wasn’t the nervous type.
“Rule?” She laid her palm against his beard-roughened cheek. “Are you okay?”
He took her wrist, turned his head until her hand covered those soft lips of his. And he kissed her, the most tender, sweetest kiss, right in the heart of her palm, the way he had done the night before when he asked her if she would prefer him to be cruel.
A shiver went through her, a premonition of …
What? She had no idea. And already the strange, anxious feeling had passed.
There was only his mouth, so soft against her palm. Only the beauty of the night they had shared, only the wonder that he was here with her and he was looking at her like she hung the moon, as though she ruled the stars.
He lowered her hand so it no longer covered his lips. And then, raising his other hand, he put something in her palm, after which he closed her fingers tenderly over it.
And then he said the impossible, incredible, this-must-be-a-dream-and-can’t-really-be-happening words, “Marry me, Sydney. Be my bride.”
Chapter Six
Still trying to believe what she thought he’d just said, Sydney uncurled her fingers and stared down in what could only be called shock and awe at the ring waiting there.
The brilliant emerald-cut diamond was huge. And so icily, perfectly beautiful. Flanking it to either side on the platinum band were two large, equally perfect baguettes.
She looked up from the amazing ring and into his dark eyes. “Just tell me …”
; “Anything.”
“Is this really happening?”
He laughed, low, and he brushed the hair at her temple with a tender hand. “Yes, my darling. It’s really happening. I know it’s crazy. I know it’s fast. But I don’t care about any of that. In my heart, I knew the moment I saw you. And every moment since then has only made me more certain. Until there is nothing left. Nothing but absolute certainty that you are the woman for me.”
“But you … I … We can’t just—”
“Yes. We can. Today. We can fly to Las Vegas and be married today. I don’t want to wait. I want you for my wife now. I have to return to Montedoro on Tuesday. I want you and Trevor with me.”
“I don’t … I can’t … Oh, Rule. Wait.”
He shook his head. “My darling, I don’t want to wait. Don’t make me wait.”
“But, I mean, I have a c-career,” she sputtered. “I have a house. I live in Texas. Can you even marry someone from Texas?”
“Of course I can. As long as that someone will have me.”
“But you can’t possibly … I mean, now that I think about it, well, don’t you have to marry someone with at least a title? A duchess. A countess. A Lady Someone-or-Other?”
“My mother married an American actor and it’s worked out quite well, I think. Times change. And I’m glad. I can marry whomever I choose, Sydney. I choose you—and I hope with all my heart that you choose me.”
“I can’t … I don’t …”
“My love, slow down.”
“Slow down? You’re telling me to slow down? You just asked me to marry you and you meant today!”
He laughed then. “You’re right. I’m no position to talk about slowing down. But I do think it wouldn’t hurt if you took a breath. A nice, deep one.” It was pretty good advice, actually. She drew in a slow breath and let it out with care. “Better?” he asked so tenderly.
She looked down at the ring again. “I think I might faint.”
“No.” He chuckled. “You are not a woman who faints.” Still, he pulled her against him. She went, leaning her head on the hard bulge of his shoulder, loving the warmth and solidness of him, the scent of him that was so fine, yet at the same time so undeniably male. Loving everything about him.
