He frowned. She barely even looked around. It was like she'd seen dozens of these sorts of rooms before--and like it was no different to her than the interior of a McDonalds. Frankly, he wasn't sure whether he was intrigued or aghast. But one thing he knew for sure--he liked it.
He followed her inside, closing the door artfully before pulling out his phone and letting his security detail know where he'd gone.
When he got to the sunken living area, he sat across from her and gestured to the wall behind her. "What do you think of the art?"
The hotel had gone on about the original Manet for a solid twenty minutes after he'd checked into the room, but she only shrugged one delicate shoulder. "I never really 'got' art. There're flowers and sometimes there're people. Sometimes there's nothing at all. Personally, I prefer when I can identify what I'm looking at."
"I couldn't agree more," he said, then gestured toward the ice bucket and bottle on the long oak dresser. "Would you care for a glass?"
She glanced at it, apparently noticing it for the first time. For a slightest instant, he thought he'd gotten some surprise from her--perhaps she noticed that the brand cost the same as a small car--but instead she said, "You bring women up to your room so much that you order champagne for when you eventually get them up here?"
He chuckled. "Not exactly."
"You're just...what? Like a Boy Scout? Always prepared?" She raised her eyebrows, but said, "Well, I won't look a gift drink in the mouth."
"Good." He crossed the room, popped the bottle with ease, and poured them each a glass. "So, what is it exactly that you hate about these events?"
"Besides everything?" she asked as he handed her a flute.
"I suppose."
"Well, if I had to pick one thing..." She scrunched her luscious, full lips to the side, then said, "I guess it's because it's not like everyone is ever gathered for a good reason."
"I see." He nodded.
"It's always, like, raising money for a rich family so that they can afford a painfully expensive campaign so they can lie to more people." She took a small sip of her drink.
"Not a fan of politicians?" he asked, taken aback despite himself.
"No, not exactly. But, really. Take tonight for example. We're all herded into this ballroom to celebrate a prince. A prince. You don't think this guy has had enough grandeur in his life to go without the state spending all this money to amuse him?"
She couldn't be serious. Not truly.
He'd thought, when she'd asked her questions and made her jokes that she'd known.
How could she not know? His face had been in the paper for weeks.
Was she testing him?
But when she spoke again, he knew that this time it was no joke. "And what do you think a prince is actually like? I mean, I highly doubt he's some Princess Diana type. More likely, he's just some spoiled, entitled jerk like the rest of them. So, you know, they throw him a party." She tossed the rest of her champagne back, blinked, and then her cheeks flooded with color. "I'm sorry. I guess I sort of rambled there, huh?"
He didn't say anything. Or perhaps he simply couldn't.
She had insulted him, sure, but that barely fazed him. No, more important was the simple fact that she had absolutely no clue who he was. Had he ever been with a woman--or anyone, for that matter--who didn't know the truth about him?
Who had no preconceived notions or expectations?
Hope floated up in his chest, and he surveyed her again, this time with brand new eyes. She was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She was his one and only chance to be himself without his title.
But then, didn't he have a duty to tell her the truth?
Didn't she have that right?
No more than his right to know her. He didn't know her name, after all. Maybe if he just--
"I'm, um, sorry. Is the prince a friend of yours or something?" she asked, and he brought himself back to the present.
"No, no. Not a friend. I'm sorry. I was just distracted by your beauty," he said.
Her blush deepened, and she answered sarcastically, "Yeah, I get that a lot."
"I'm sure you do." He lowered his voice, his gaze dropping again to the swell of her cleavage. Her dress looked so soft, so touchable. He couldn't wait to glide his hand down her stomach, grip the hem, and then find out exactly how soft and touchable she was beneath it.
And with only one night to take advantage of this new found opportunity?
There was no time to lose.
This was beyond crazy. She was with a virtual stranger in his hotel room, only inches from his all-too-kissable looking lips while he sat there and complimented her. This was the stuff dreams were made of. In fact, she had a very real urge to pinch herself.
She shifted, wondering if she could somehow manage to discreetly check the fabric of her own existence, but he followed suit. He was close, so close that his cologne clouded her senses again and she could feel the warm fan of his breath against her cheek.
She licked her lips, suddenly aware of how incredibly dry her mouth had become.
God, this man was gorgeous. And he was staring at her like no man had ever done before--like he wanted her for dessert.
"I..." she started, but there were no words, no protests.
He seemed to figure as much, because in a moment his huge, warm hand was on her cheek, stroking along the line of her jaw and sending goose bumps up her spine.
He was inching closer, and with every inch her heart rate hitched up until it was a consistent, thundering pulse. He was so close, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath against her lips--
"Wait," she breathed, "you can't, I mean, we can't..." She didn't know how to finish.
"And why can't we?" The low rumble of his voice was almost enough to push away any thought of protest. Almost.
"You don't even know my name," she rasped.
"I don't have to know your name to know that I want you. Besides, isn't it more fun this way...more exciting?"
"I..." she started, but he saved her the trouble of coming up with something to say when his lips closed the space between.
However good he had smelled before, he tasted ten times better. The warmth of his hand on her cheek was nothing compared to the scorching heat of his lips against hers, and the second she kissed him, she could think of nothing else.
She didn't care about her family or society parties. Didn't care about what anyone down there had to say about her and her life.
Because no matter how they felt? This man wanted her, and as far as she could tell he was better than all of them combined.
He nibbled her bottom lip gently and she let out a little moan despite herself. He smiled against her lips, and then his tongue brushed against her teeth, begging entrance she couldn't possibly deny. She opened her mouth to him, breathing in his musky scent as he pressed her back against the sofa cushions and explored her mouth.
She swirled her tongue with his, pushing and pulling until she couldn't keep track of the actions anymore. All she knew was how she felt, and what he felt like. That it was good, too good. And that she needed more.
His hand traced the column of her throat, and then he was cupping her breast, finding the space where her nipples were pulling to tight, sensitive peaks, and pinching them between the layers of fabric.
God, the fabric. She needed it gone, needed to feel his heated skin against her aching nipples...
But then...could she?
Men had touched her there before, but only a few times, and never more than that. She'd known this man for little more than three hours, and she was already scrambling to undress for him?
As if in answer to her unspoken question, his fingers moved lower, trailing over her stomach, then gripping her thighs gently, moving slowly but steadily to their ultimate target...
Her heart beat that much faster with every inch he gained. She couldn't deny that she wanted it, wanted to know what it felt like to touch and be touched. To feel the weight of a ma
n's body against her. To be filled with a man's thick heat.
Then he was dragging the hem of her skirt up, up, up, and she never made a sound to stop him. Her head was spinning, her breath was ragged, and for the life of her, she couldn't think of a reason to pull away.
She considered telling him she was a virgin, letting him know to go easy, but if she stopped now, there was no guarantee that things would go on. He might think she'd fall instantly in love with him or that she was weird for never having slept with someone before at her age. It was risky not to tell him, she knew.
But if that was the only way to be with him? It was a risk worth taking.
Lightly, he rubbed against the lace of her panties, and she deepened their kiss, begging him with her tongue to go further, to test her limits. But he didn't. Instead, he toyed with the hem of her panties, teased her, and then pulled away.
"Before we go on, I want you to stand up," he said.
"Uh, yeah, okay." She did as he asked, though her thoughts were too hazy with lust to understand why.
"Now," he said, "I want you to turn around."
Again, she followed his command, and for a moment nothing happened.
Then, slowly and surely, one warm finger traced the line of her spine from her lower back up to the base of her neck where her tiny halter button was fastened. A chill ran through her at his touch, and it was all she could do not to shudder again.
Then the tight fabric of her dress released and, with a whoosh of air, her gown was a puddle of silk at her ankles and the warmth of his finger was replaced by the wet heat of his mouth trailing kisses from the shell of her ear, down her neck, to her shoulder.
As he went, he circled his arm around her stomach, and pulled her flush against him. Then, when her bare skin finally met with his body, she felt the stiff outline of his erection pressed against her back.
Oh god...
Her core ached just at the heat, and he pressed her to him harder, sucking at the space just below her earlobe.
"I..." she whimpered, but she didn't know what to say. She wanted him naked, wanted to be the one to undress him. And then?
She wanted him. All of him.
Luckily, he saved her from finishing the thought. With another flick of the wrist, her bra slid away, and her already-stiff nipples tightened to near painful peaks as the cool air greeted her sensitized skin.
"Bed," was his raspy command and she heeded it all too quickly.
In the moment he'd taken to rip open the condom packet and roll it over himself, Antone surveyed the beauty laid so willingly across his bed.
She was stunning. That mild chestnut mane was spread across his pillow like a silk halo. Her face, with her pouting cherry mouth and bright lurid blush might have been enough to distract him. That was, if her ragged breathing hadn't drawn such stark attention to her heaving breasts and her tight, pink nipples.
Unfortunately, her knees were closed. She was shy.
Odd. He hadn't pegged her for the shy type. Still, there was no denying the way she quivered at his touch.
Or how incredibly hard that quivering made him.
"What?" she said, perching herself on her elbows as she looked up at him through thick, curled lashes.
"Nothing. I was just thinking about how wet your panties were when I touched you. I wonder if you're even wetter now?" He smiled as her blush flamed a brighter shade of scarlet, then crossed the space to the bed.
As the mattress creaked beneath him, she slid her legs apart for him, revealing the prettiest pussy he'd ever laid eyes on.
"Christ." He breathed, and without thinking, he caressed her there, and pushed one finger inside.
The way she felt made him swear again. She wasn't just tight...she was something else. Something there were no words for. Almost like...
He looked up at her, and she met his gaze steadily, hungrily.
No, she couldn't be a virgin. No virgin had ever looked at a man like that before. She would be in pain, surely.
"Are you ready for me?" he asked, then pushed another finger inside of her.
She let out a little gasp, and he nearly pulled back, but then she whispered, "Yes, please. I need you."
3
"This can't be right." Tess stared down at the tiny stick on her white, porcelain sink stand and then down at her fluffy orange cat and back again.
"It could be the brand, right?" She glanced at Arnaldo, but he was too busy licking his paw to bother with her.
"It could be. It's possible." She closed the toilet seat and then plopped on top of it. She'd taken both of the tests in the kit. The first she'd chucked directly in the trash, thinking it must have been defective.
After all, what were the odds of a virgin getting pregnant on the first time? She'd taken health classes and knew it was possible of course, but it had to be unlikely. Weren't there all those diagrams about the miracles of life and the unlikelihood of conception in the first place?
Besides, they'd been safe. She'd seen him put on the condom. He'd even done it the way they teach you in health classes with the whole pinching-the-tip thing.
They'd followed every precaution.
But there it was, the result of her one night of letting go. Like everything else, it had backfired. Epically.
Arnaldo jumped onto the sink and knocked the test onto the ground, and Tess simply sat there and stared at it, allowing her reality to seep in one piece at a time. First, what her mother would say...
Mother.
She was going to be a mother. She was pregnant. Pregnant.
And she didn't even know the name of her baby's father.
She scooped Arnaldo into her arms, then stepped into the bathtub and sank into the basin. She lay her head back on the cool ceramic tile, stroked his plush fur, and closed her eyes.
What was she going to do about him?
What if he didn't want to keep the baby? Even in such a short span, she knew that wouldn't be an option for her. Come hell or high water, she was having this baby. And she was going to give this baby the childhood she'd been denied--one with milk and cookies and overalls instead of scratchy dresses and state dinners.
This baby was going to have a normal life, even if she had to raise him or her on her own.
It might be better, really, if the baby's father never knew. He lived in that circle her parents traveled in. If this baby were going to stay out of the spotlight, it would probably be best if she did this all on her own.
But then...what if he did want the baby? After all, she was only one half of the equation. Could she deny him the right to be a father simply because he wasn't the one carrying their child inside of him?
She cracked open one eyelid to stare down at Arnaldo, stretched lazily across her stomach, and said, "What should I do, man?"
He mewled something, which sounded like the cat equivalent of an eye roll.
"You're right." She sank deeper into the basin; already hating herself for the step she knew she had to take next.
For the next twenty minutes, she paced her living room so many times that she was shocked she hadn't worn down the fake wood floor. Each time she passed her cell phone on her tiny, refurbished coffee table, she reached for it, then pulled back, shaking her head.
When, on her millionth lap, she nearly tumbled over Arnaldo, and she decided to take the plunge. With one sharp inhale, she dialed Lydia's number and waited while the line buzzed against her ear.
It was like the tone sounded forever, goading her to hang up, move to Canada, and forget the whole thing. She was on the brink of doing just that when the line finally clicked to life and her sister's cheery, professional tone sounded on the end of the line. "Tess, I'm so happy you called."
"I'm glad to hear it." Her words came out in a jumble, and she tried to take another deep breath to steady herself.
"I wanted to talk about what happened at the party a couple weeks back. Look, I know I'm late making this call--"
"Actually, I called you," Tess shot back,
then, catching herself, took another deep breath and added, "but that doesn't matter, and neither does what happened at that party."
"I'm thrilled to hear you say that. Now, why did you call?"
"Um, it was actually about the party, but it wasn't about what you meant. I was wondering, well, more like hoping..." she could practically hear Lydia moving on with her day as Tess stumbled over the words, so she just blurted it out. "So, I met this guy. At the party, I mean. He said he was staying in room 235. Do you have a list of who stayed where or anything like that?"
"Well, no," Lydia said, and Tess' heart plummeted so deep in her stomach that she was shocked it didn't fall out.
"But," Lydia's bright voice went on, "I do know who was staying in 235, and I'd suggest you give up." There was a strange note of something like laughter behind her sister's voice.
Tess' eyebrows pulled together. "What do you mean? Who was it?"
"Well, the whole party was for him. Room 235 belongs to Prince Antone Salvatore."
"P-p-p..." She stammered, and then hung up before the whole story came gurgling out. She had slept with--and gotten pregnant by--none other than a royal prince? A prince, if she recalled correctly, she'd made fun of directly to his face.
She took two slow steps toward the sofa, wondering vaguely why the world suddenly seemed so fuzzy. Why her breathing came so short. Why her ears were buzzing. And then?
A whoosh of air and total blackness as she fell back onto the cushions below.
When she found herself on the couch an hour later with her cell phone on the ground at her feet and Arnaldo curled into a ball on her stomach, she still could hardly believe what had just happened.
Still, there was no time to adjust. If she did that, she might have to come to grips with the fact that she was having a baby, too. A real live person that'd call her "mom".
She shook her head.
First things first.
Seduced by the Stranger Page 2
