Mistress for a Month

by Miranda Lee

  Because this wasn’t him, this dark and domineering master who was already planning more things to do to her, with only one ultimate aim in view: to coerce her into agreeing to be his permanent mistress, not just a passing one. If she wouldn’t let him love her, then by God he was going to own her. He’d become a predator, a primitive, primal animal who’d found his mate and wasn’t about to let her go. He had a month to stake his claim, to brand her, so to speak, to show her that he and only he could totally satisfy her. He would appeal to her dark side, and her intelligent side, but especially her female side, which seemed extra-vulnerable to his being a forceful lover. He must have tapped into some secret fantasy of hers, because a woman like Renée would not normally be so submissive, or co-operative. Yet not once had she said no to him this afternoon.

  Oh, yes, soon he would have her exactly where he wanted her. Maybe not in love with him, but seriously in lust. Lust was almost as powerful as love, Rico believed. Sometimes even more powerful.

  The water stopped running in the bathroom and his insides immediately tightened. Rico snorted in disgust at himself. So much for all his dark vows. He was the one who was afraid. Afraid of losing her.

  What to do for the best? he worried. More sex at this juncture seemed like overkill. Better she be made to wait a while. Restoke her fires. And his fuel. He was just a man after all, not a machine.

  He would take her out to dinner somewhere. That would kill two birds with one stone. Give them both a rest and force her to make small talk with him.

  Talking could be just as effectively seductive—and as intimate—as lovemaking. Talking broke down defences, created bonds, dispensed with misconceptions and brought about understanding. Rico was dying to find out more about her. Maybe this was his chance, whilst she was all soft putty in his hands. Or she had been before he’d foolishly fallen asleep.

  Yes, a good strategy that, taking her out to dinner.

  He reached for the bedside phone and made a booking for seven-thirty at a nearby seafood restaurant where he was well known and wouldn’t be turned down, regardless of his call coming so late on a Saturday afternoon. It was just a short walk away, down on the waterfront. He wouldn’t have to drive, or worry over having a couple of glasses of wine.

  By the time the bathroom doorknob turned ten minutes later, Rico was feeling reasonably confident about his plan of action for this evening. No sex for a while, just dinner and chit-chat. A good plan, till she actually walked back into the room, wrapped in one of his thick, thirsty navy bathsheets and looking like a bride the morning after her wedding night. Glowing was the word that sprang to mind. Glowing and gorgeous and, oh, goodness, there he went again.

  She spotted the movement under the sheet straight away and shot him a shocked look. ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said as she stared at the phenomenon. ‘That’s impossible!’

  ‘Apparently not,’ he said drily, hauling himself up into a sitting position against the headboard then lifting his knees to hide his erection. ‘Just ignore it for now. I’ve booked us a table for dinner at seven-thirty. That gives you over an hour to be ready.’

  ‘Ignore it,’ she repeated, clearly agitated. She gave a little shudder and lifted her eyes back to his face. ‘What was that? Oh…oh, yes, dinner. I…I don’t have to get dressed up, do I? I’ve only brought casual clothes with me and I don’t want to wear that black dress again. Or these,’ she added, bending to scoop up the corset, stockings and killer shoes from the floor.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘You know why not,’ she snapped. ‘Wearing them did things to me. Bad things.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the idea when you bought them?’ he commented, thinking ruefully that she was back. The old Renée.

  ‘No.’ She dumped everything on the chair next to the bedside table, the one he sat on to put on his shoes every morning. ‘They were supposed to only do bad things to you!’

  He laughed.

  ‘You can laugh. All that sexy stuff cost me a bomb.’

  ‘I did offer to recompense you but you refused. Now, do stop complaining. You’ve been enjoying the after-effects of your purchases all afternoon. So I’d say they were a good investment, wouldn’t you?’

  Oddly enough, she aroused him more in what she was wearing at this moment. Just one snatch of an outstretched hand and she’d be standing there stark naked. Rico had found earlier in the afternoon that he preferred her that way. That corset had been a real turn-on, no doubt about that. But nothing beat having access to all of her body, every dip and curve, every erogenous zone, every intimate, deliciously responsive part. He loved stroking her smooth, soft stomach and kissing it and, yes, rubbing his stubbly chin over it. And elsewhere. She liked that, too. It had driven her wild.

  Hell, stop thinking about sex, you fool, he ordered himself, painfully aware of the worsening situation in his nether region.

  ‘You never did answer my question,’ she said impatiently as she stood beside the bed and shook out her damp hair with her fingers, making it more tousled and incredibly sexy-looking.

  ‘What question was that?’ Rico replied coolly whilst his lower body raged white-hot. That short nap had certainly revived him.

  ‘Can I wear trousers and a jumper to this place you’ve booked?’

  ‘Sure. It’s only casual. And it’s only a five-minute walk from here. We won’t have to leave till nearly half past seven.’

  ‘Good. In that case, I’m going to go make some coffee before I get dressed. Would you like some?’

  ‘Not right now. I’m heading for the shower myself.’ A long cold one.

  ‘Fair enough.’ She turned and padded from the room in her bare feet, shaking her hair some more with her fingers as she went.

  Rico bounced out of bed as soon as she was out of sight and headed, post-haste, for that hopefully life-saving shower. Five minutes later a teeth-chattering Rico switched off the icy water and grabbed the one remaining bathsheet, aware that the cold shower had worked all right. He’d not only lost his erection but everything else down there as well.

  It seemed, however, that his neutering was only temporary, everything gradually dropping back to normal by the time he’d dried himself, sprayed on deodorant, combed his hair and cleaned his teeth.

  ‘Now, I want you to behave yourself for a while,’ he lectured his still twitchy penis as he slipped on the navy towelling robe he kept hanging on the back of the door. ‘I’m trying to get to know the woman for the next few hours. And I’m not talking biblically here. So just cool it, will you?’

  Rico was surprised when he re-entered the bedroom to encounter Renée there, standing over at the French doors, her hands clasped around a steaming mug of coffee, staring out at the view. An innocent enough sight. The trouble was that darned towel had slipped. Any more and her breasts would pop right out over the top, nipples and all.

  ‘Down, boy,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘I’d go outside on the terrace,’ she said on seeing him, ‘and enjoy more of the views. But it’s too cold. Nicely warm in here, though.’

  And getting warmer by the minute, Rico thought irritably.

  ‘I took myself on a brief tour around the other rooms after I made my coffee,’ she went on. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  ‘I really like what you’ve done with the place. Your choice of furniture, I mean. I can see you haven’t changed the wall colours or the carpet. But creams and greys go with just about anything, anyway, don’t they? That red leather in the living areas looks fantastic, but I really love the rich, warm-coloured wood you’ve used in here,’ she raved on, walking back to the bed, where she held her mug in one hand whilst she ran the other over the curved headboard. ‘So much nicer than the bland cream-painted stuff Charles had.’

  Rico blinked, then stared at her. It had never occurred to him till that second that Charles might have been one of Renée’s past lovers. Yet, once it had, he could see that it was a distinc
t possibility. Till Charles had met and fallen in love with Dominique late last year, he’d been somewhat of a man about town. Frankly, he’d had more women than Rico, who was not the playboy Renée had always believed.

  ‘Was Charles one of your lovers?’ he asked, a huge lump forming in his throat at the thought of it. Please, anyone but Charles.

  ‘What?’ She glanced up from where she was caressing that stupid bloody headboard, her eyes momentarily off in some other world. Probably thinking about the last bed that had stood on this very spot, and the last man she’d screwed in it. His best friend!

  Her dreamy expression cleared to one of exasperation. ‘Oh, don’t be silly. Of course not.’

  ‘Then how come you know what this bedroom looked like when he lived here?’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Rico, I’ve been here several times over the past few years. To parties and to Charles’ wedding more recently. I’m a woman, which means I’m a snoop. I peeked in here, all right?’

  Sounded reasonable. Brother, was he relieved! ‘I guess so. So why did you say of course he wasn’t your lover. Is Charles too old for you, is that it? You like your lovers young, I suppose. Young and randy. They’d have to be to keep up with you.’ As the jealous and insecure words tripped out of his mouth, Rico would have given anything to take them back. But too late. The damage had been done.

  She took another sip of coffee, then sighed. ‘Look, could we possibly not get into this kind of conversation? It’s such a waste of time. I’m here with you now, and I’ll be here whenever you want me to be here for the next month. I’m your mistress for that span of time. But that doesn’t give you the right to give me the third degree about what lovers I’ve had in the past, or anything else. I’m happy to chat with you on a wide range of topics. Work. The weather. Religion. Politics. Your decor. And, of course, sex. But I will not discuss my personal life. Which includes my past.’

  ‘I see,’ he bit out, frustrated on all levels. Taking her to dinner clearly wasn’t going to achieve what he’d hoped. Not if she stubbornly refused to open up to him on a personal level. They still had to eat, but no way was he going out with a hard-on like the one he was trying to hide. His masochism where Renée was concerned was now over. For the next month at least.

  ‘OK,’ he said, adopting a cavalier attitude. ‘If that’s the way you want it. In that case, put down that coffee, take off that towel and get your sweet fanny around here to me. Pronto!’

  He enjoyed her shock, then took advantage of her hesitation, disposing of his own towel and showing her what was waiting for her. She stared. No doubt about it. Then swallowed convulsively. He could see the movements in her throat. When she licked her lips, he knew he had her.

  ‘Do you do this to all your women?’ she threw at him angrily.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Corrupt them.’

  He had to laugh. ‘No. Only green-eyed witches who’ve given me curry for bloody years. Now, put down that mug and do as you’re told, mistress mine!’

  She didn’t move a muscle for a long moment. Then slowly, haughtily, she put down the mug and removed the towel, tossing it well away from her. It was the first time he’d seen her standing up in the nude. Heavens, but she was lovely. Tall and sleek, with long, elegant curves. A thoroughbred through and through. If she’d been a horse paraded around a sale-yard, she would have commanded top dollar.

  What a pity he couldn’t actually buy her.

  Suddenly, he hoped that report would show she was in some financial difficulty. Then he might have some bargaining power to keep her in his bed. But somehow he doubted it. All he could count on with Renée was the next month, and this moment.

  ‘Now come round here,’ he commanded, his voice as thick as treacle.

  She obeyed, walking as he imagined she’d once done on the catwalk, with long, slow strides and that snooty look on her strikingly sculptured face. She came right up to him, her lovely green eyes locked to his, flashing fire and defiance and, yes, hatred still.

  ‘So what do you want me to do, lord and master? Should I just lie back, or do you want me on my knees, perhaps? I’m sure you’d like that. But lo and behold, he’s suddenly not saying anything. Can’t make up your mind, lover? Let me make it up for you.’ And she dropped to her knees before him.

  He watched, fascinated and appalled, as she stroked him with one hand whilst she cupped and squeezed him with the other. The pleasure was electric. Blinding. Compelling! When her head bent and her lips made intimate contact, he gasped, then groaned. How easy it would be to let her do this, take him all the way. He almost let her. He did let her for a while. Too long, almost. But at the last second, he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet. Was it decency? Or despair which stopped him? He wasn’t sure. He just knew that he could not let her do that to him in anger. He only wanted that from her in the heat of her passion.

  ‘No,’ he growled when her stunned eyes questioned him. ‘Not that. And certainly not like that. I…I want to make love to you, don’t you understand?’ he said, shaking her. ‘I want to take you in my arms and kiss your breasts and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. I want…I want…’

  He broke off his impassioned speech and just kissed her, kissed till, yes, she moaned and melted in his arms. They fell back onto the bed together, mouths still fused, limbs tangling, hands frantically seeking intimate places. There was no skilled foreplay on his part this time, just wild, urgent action. His mouth abandoned hers, only because he needed air. She seemed just as desperate, her legs lifting to wrap high around him, opening her body wide to his. He slipped inside her like a knife through hot butter, her muscles grabbing at him and pulling him in deep.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she groaned. ‘Why am I letting you do this to me?’

  ‘Do what?’ he ground out through gritted teeth. ‘What am I doing to you?’

  ‘You’re driving me insane,’ she panted. ‘This is crazy. I can’t. Not again,’ she moaned, but she grabbed at his buttocks, digging her nails in hard as she pulled him in even deeper, her rocking hips driving him on and on. ‘Yes, yes,’ she urged. ‘Like that. I…Oh…’ And she came with a rush.

  He gasped, then tore her hands away and lifted them high, high above her head, stretching her upper body tight, then tighter. With a raw moan, he lowered his full weight onto her, his chest crushing her breasts flat between them, their straining stomachs glued to each other. Inside her, he forced himself to be still, wanting to wallow in her abandoned surrender. Why, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps because this was the only moment when he felt superior to her.

  But all the while she kept spasming fiercely around him, taking him inexorably closer to his own climax. It was a fight to the end, but she won, her name bursting from his lips as his body exploded, his heart bursting with emotion at the same time whilst his head whirled with dismay.

  Driving her insane, was he? How ironic. Didn’t she know that she’d driven him insane eons ago? Why else did making love to her never satisfy him? Why did he start thinking about the next time almost before this time was over? What name did you give such a self-destructive desire? Addiction? Obsession? Love?

  He didn’t know what to call it any more. All he knew was that Renée was going to be his woman. Not just for this weekend. Or this month. For a long, long time. He wanted her here, under his roof, in his bed, every night, and he would do everything in his power, use every trick in the book, by fair means or foul, to achieve that end.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘I’M NOT going to let you go, you know,’ he told her as they sipped the very nice Chablis he’d ordered, and waited for their barramundi in lemon butter to arrive. They’d skipped the entrée and gone straight to the main course. Renée had claimed she never ate entrées. Rico just wanted to get her straight back home to bed, where at least he always felt on top of things. Once she’d put her clothes on—the classy but conservative ones she normally wore this time—she’d immediately changed back into the Renée he had difficulty handling
.

  ‘You’re mine now, Renée,’ he added with considerable bravado. ‘All mine.’

  Her wine glass had stilled, mid-air, for a moment, but then she laughed and took another sip. ‘Watch it, Rico. Your Italian blood is showing.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ he snapped.

  ‘Meaning Italian guys, I’ve noticed, have this tendency to be excessively jealous and possessive over the women they’ve—er—been with.’

  He glowered over the table at her, feeling exactly what she accused him of feeling. Yes, he was jealous, and possessive. She’d given him her body so completely and with such intense passion that surely he could be excused for thinking she could never have been quite like that with any other man before.

  Soon, she’d realise that he was as special to her as she was to him. Meanwhile, he simply had to find out more about her. He couldn’t wait for that stupid report. Despite her proclaiming she would not talk about her personal life, she’d just given him an opening.

  ‘You’ve had an Italian boyfriend before, have you?’ he asked.

  She sighed an exasperated-sounding sigh. ‘Might I remind you, Rico, that you are not my boyfriend? See what I mean? Spend one night or two with an Italian and they think they own you. Now, could we change the subject, please?’

  ‘You brought it up. Look, we have to talk about something. So you had an Italian boyfriend once. Big deal. Tell me about him.’

  She sighed again, and started twisting her wine glass round and round in her hands. ‘His name was Roberto,’ she said at last. ‘He was a model, like myself at the time. He was very handsome. Like you,’ she added with a rueful flick of her eyes at him. ‘And good in bed. Like you.’ Another dry glance. ‘And a total, total bastard.’