by Caro LaFever
Intent on falling into the ugly world of crime.
And the inevitable shame which had followed.
Nevertheless, for fifteen years now, he’d paid any price in order to rise above his past, his sins. Forgiveness, relief of his guilt, could not be bought. Still, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had the money to pay penance.
He wrenched the shower off and stepped out, wrapping a warmed towel around his waist. Staring into the mirror, he debated only a moment. No, he would not shave his five-o’clock shadow. Not for the woman in his bed. Ms. Helton had made her opinion of him clear from the moment they’d met.
Predator. Peasant. Playboy.
Being who he was, he'd played to her expectations. He'd whispered sinful putdowns. He’d grinned in the face of her contempt. He’d hid his tough demeanor and sharp mind behind the playboy she’d pegged him as. He'd been exactly what she expected these past two months.
A coarse barbarian playing with his new toy.
He knew what she anticipated. She waited for him to grow bored. However, she waited in vain. The woman had miscalculated. She’d underestimated him.
Vico leaned over the sink and brushed his teeth. Turning off the water, he wiped his face with a towel, grimacing at the tightness of his jaw. He’d been angry for months, though he’d successfully kept his resentment banked until he’d evaluated his enemy and decided how to handle her.
Within a week of his arrival, he’d understood Lise Helton held far more cards then he’d expected. She’d entrenched herself too well. The other stockholders, the employees, and every client spoke of her in a mixture of awe and affection. There’d been no way he could fire her without disrupting the entire flow of the company. He’d taken over HSF thinking he’d be in charge. Not until he’d looked into two frosty blue eyes had he realized where the real challenge lay in conquering this company.
Conquering the Princesse had become the real challenge.
The woman who currently lay on his bed, dead to the world, and in distracting disarray.
Vico chuckled again. The irony delivered a sweet addition to his earlier victory over her today.
Ms. Helton was going to be one astonished lady tomorrow.
Walking back into his bedroom, he stared down at her. She hadn't moved. His gaze devoured her: the angelic beauty of her face, the thrust of her breasts, the long, long length of elegant leg. If he were a gentleman, he would sleep on the sofa.
He was not a gentleman.
Leaning down, he pulled her dainty feet out of somber grey pumps. Without conscious thought, he slid his hand over the arch of her foot.
She murmured, then fell silent.
Her suit jacket came next. Her body lay lax, compliant as he slipped off her shirt.
He was a man. He looked.
The bra didn’t match her starchy, prim outerwear. Glossy pink, lacy. And sexy. The bra plumped her surprisingly lush breasts up and out. One tiny mole lay on one delectable mound, right by the fringe of the bra.
His mouth watered. His semi-naked body went hard in a split second.
Tamping down his urges, he forced himself to focus on her skirt, sliding it down her rounded hips. Over her smooth thighs. Off her body.
Her panties were pink. Hot pink and lacy, exactly like the bra. Another line of lace edged her clingy silk stockings.
His body roared. Vico stepped back from the temptation, his hands shaking in need.
Yet, when she awoke, the woman would turn as cold as the North Sea. From the first moment, Vico had been bemused by his lust for this chilly creature. He’d berated himself more than once as he’d stood in his shower, hot and hard and breathless. Thinking of her. Why did this sexless woman heat his blood to boiling?
He stared down at her, wondering if he’d been wrong. Wondering if her fiancé had gotten the golden ticket instead of the losing hand Vico had assumed.
He took in a breath. A very deep breath.
Gritting his teeth, he slung back the covers and pushed her under them, covering her and covering temptation. He wasn't a gentleman; still, he hadn't taken her clothes off to ogle. He'd taken them off to compound her dilemma when she awakened tomorrow morning.
In his bed. Semi-naked. With him naked beside her.
No, no. He was not a gentleman.
Clicking off the lights, he slid the towel off and slipped into bed. He put his hands behind his head and breathed.
What a fool. The wicked devil inside him hadn't taken into account his wicked body and the lust he'd unwillingly felt the last two months. For an icy Princesse. For the woman who put herself far above him with every look. For a sexless snob of a lady.
His cock twitched and suffered.
But his stubborn pride dug in its heels.
He'd endure this. The morning would finally come.
Then it would be Lise Helton who would suffer.
Chapter 2
The faint smell of almond swirled in her brain; a brain that throbbed. Not enough to pull her out of her favorite dream, though.
The one with him in it.
Her hand smoothed over his hot skin, relishing the warmth, the silky quality. Imagination was a powerful and wonderful thing, she mused in the midst of her dream. All of the details were so vivid, almost real. The heat. The smell of him. The man moved, turning on his back. Her hand slid across his chest, touching the coarse hair and tight nipples.
He muttered under his breath. Italian. Sexy and sweet. Still asleep.
How she loved this dream.
She would be ashamed in the morning. As always. But the knowledge barely penetrated the hazy, lovely imaginings washing through her.
Of being alive. Of being passionately wanted. Of being one with her lover.
Sliding closer to his warmth, her lips whispered across the skin of his shoulder—a shoulder of solid muscle. He tasted of male, salty and musky. Her tongue sipped of him. Her hand skimmed over his collarbone to his neck and then his jaw. Her lips edged along the shadow of hair on his cheek to his chin. To his mouth.
He slept on, his soft lips testifying to the fact.
She didn't mind. Of all the variations of this dream, she liked this one best. Instead of her real self, her passive-lover self, she became the teaser with this dream lover.
The instigator. The aggressor.
She kissed him lightly. Her tongue ran along his lips and into his slightly open mouth. He tasted of mint and man. A subtle combination of dark desire and potent passion.
Murmuring, he turned his head towards her.
She kissed the side of his Roman nose and the memory of his face, in the meetings she’d held with him, floated into her mind. The proud jut of his chin as he disagreed with her. The blaze of his hazel eyes as she fought back. Then his quick grin as he laughed her off. And the disconcerted feeling she invariably carried away from one of their confrontations.
Why are you thinking of this now? Enjoy the dream.
Here, in her dreams, there was no disconcertment, no disagreement. Only a raw and real connection with him. A bond of body and soul. A need to be one that both of them wanted. Only a dream, and, therefore, safe to revel in this make-believe union.
His long dark lashes quivered against her lips as she kissed him there. His big body moved once more, turning toward her. His hands finally slid across her skin, down her sides and then up to her breasts.
She gasped. Arched.
The wisps of her dream world parted, opened. Lise pulled them back, clung to them, clutched at her need for this to be unreal, her need to be with this lover only in her dreams.
The wisps clouded her mind and wrapped around her consciousness.
Quick male fingers dispatched her bra and plucked at her distended nipples. A dampness sprung between her legs as always. Only her dream lover coaxed this response from her. In the daytime, this filled her with horror. At night, it filled her with sweet, relieved pleasure.
His mouth moved down, suckled and sucked until she panted and wante
d. His busy hands swept her panties and stockings off, trailing fire on her skin as he went. Reality parted her dreams once more and tugged her relentlessly to the edge of reason.
She yanked away, ran back into her dream.
His warm hand slid across her belly, to the heat of her—lingering, playing. Precisely as he did in her dreams. The wet cream between her legs wept in need and desire.
Suddenly, her dream lover stilled beside her. His fingers froze in her soft curls.
“Accidenti a te all’inferno e ritorno,” he muttered into her neck, his lips hot on her skin.
An Italian curse. She knew by the way he said the words.
This wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was her dream, damn it. He was supposed to be everything she wanted, not go off-script. Not stop their lovemaking. Not object in his native tongue.
She wanted her dream back.
This is no dream…no dream…no dream…
With a determination borne of desperation, she slid her hand across his flat stomach and grabbed him, tugging his hard length into full erection. Then she smoothed her palm down. Then up.
Her lover gasped. Arched.
She would not let him go and she wouldn’t let this dream go, either. Her hand palmed the softness of his balls then moved to his staff, stoking the fire burning from his skin.
“I want you,” he groaned.
A light film of sweat broke out over his big, hard body. A glossy liquid came from him, filling her hand, making it easier for her to stroke him. He shuddered beside her as her fingers played along his length, plucking at the tip.
“Enough.” He pulled her hand from him and for a moment, she worried he was objecting once more, turning her dream into a nightmare.
But then he lifted himself and slid on top of her.
His heat burned her skin. His hard muscles pressed her down.
Squeezing her eyes even more tightly shut, she let the bliss envelop her. The connection raised her high, far from reason, reality. Every time the passion came like this; a blinding escape into pure glory.
She soared into the ecstasy amidst a joy she never experienced in real life.
Her arms and legs entwined around his. She felt the taut strength of his thighs, the tense fervor of his shoulders, the slick sweat on his neck. She breathed in the scent of him, male and tangy, mixed with the sweetness of almond. Her mouth reached for his, wanting the connection, waiting for the connection.
“Look at me,” he panted above her, his breath hot on her cheeks.
He'd never demanded this in the dream. He’d never said anything. He'd always just taken her, swept her in and over and out.
She frowned.
“Open your eyes, Lise.”
His harsh tone cut through the ecstasy, through the last wisps of a dream she’d known, deep in her heart, could not be merely her imagination.
Her eyes snapped open. To reality.
Her dream lover was no dream. He was real.
Blazing, intense eyes stared into hers. The shadow of hair on his jaw gave him a wild, untamed appearance. His mouth firmed, becoming almost grim.
“Oh,” she whispered.
His hips moved as if he couldn't help himself, bumping his staff on her curls. “I want you,” he rasped. “Do you want me?”
Her brain swam in muddled craziness. Her mind screamed a warning, tried to wrench her totally into this reality, except the noise didn't reach her heart.
None of it overcame what she wanted. “Yes.”
He never broke her gaze. “Beg me, Lise. I need you to beg me.”
Her pride stirred, but he dipped his head and nipped at her chin in an animalistic action she couldn’t deny. She wanted his brute strength inside her, she wanted the smell of him all over her, she wanted to revel in his masculinity, a masculinity that made her feel like a feminine goddess.
“Take me,” she breathed. “I’m begging you.”
His eyes flared in hot need and something else—something primitive and primal. He called to the core of her, pushing her past any reasoning and thought. She shifted her legs wider, opening her woman self to him. The tip of his staff slid through her soft curls to the wet, willing entry into her body.
“Aaah,” he cried, his face grimacing in acute pleasure.
His mouth moved towards hers, yet at the same time, his cock slipped inside, nudging forward into the depths of her. The ache of pure delight zinged along her spine, arching her head back from him, pushing her body into his instead. With one thrust, he pushed all the way in. The heat of him filled her fully. His overwhelming penetration shocked her, yanked her to full awareness. But now she rejoiced in the clear, sweet reality. In knowing this was he, no dream.
Him. Her mate. Her lover.
He surged into her, his pace frantic, pounding. A flurry of mumbled Italian words flowed from his mouth. He groaned, an agonized sound. Her focus stayed on him: the gleaming skin of his chest as he arched over her, the tense line of his shoulders, the bulge of his arm muscles as he moved in and out. His taking of her pushed her, pulled her, ever closer and closer. The need coiled and tightened in the depths of her body. His hard length plunged and plundered.
She wanted this, gave herself to him.
“Lise,” he growled, staring into her eyes. “Now.”
The wave slammed into her and she cried out, a high, wild animal call. Her body rose, her head went back as the power of his loving swept across her skin, her muscles, her being. Her inner heart clenched and tightened around him as the passion enveloped her in its grip.
His hips pumped, pumped once more. Then his entire body stiffened into a taut bow of male pleasure. He threw his head back and gasped as he spilled himself into her. The warm liquid filled her womb and she knew this was true.
Knew this was right.
* * *
The rumbling purr prodded her awake.
Lise opened her eyes to the dim shadows of an unfamiliar room.
The pace of her heart stuttered while a tight feeling of panic crept over her.
Her head throbbed dully. Except this wasn't one of her stress migraines. Different somehow. An unpleasant taste coated her mouth and teeth as if she’d stuffed a musty cotton ball down her throat.
The purr grew and then subsided as a body rolled away from her.
She stilled. A body. Next to hers. She never slept beside anyone. Not all night. Not even Robert. She liked her space and her own bed.
The snore became deep and growly. A male slept beside her. Not Robert. Robert hadn’t made a sound the one time he’d fallen asleep on her sofa.
Lise slammed her eyes shut.
What had she done?
A memory, stark and clear, came to her and blazed like acid across her brain. Tawny eyes. Burning, possessive. Looking down at her. She stifled a moan. No, it must be the dream again. The stupid dream.
The purr continued. Contradicted.
In a stiff, tentative movement, she turned on her back and forced herself to glance across the bed.
The black silk of his long curls covered the pillow. His naked back was a stretch of male perfection. The sheet lay low on his body, covering little. So she did herself a favor and closed her eyes again. Looking at him, invariably, excited her. And look where that had gotten her.
She'd lost her mind. Clearly, utterly lost her mind.
Another memory pounced. Drinking. She'd been drinking. Screaming…
Orgasms.
That's what she'd been drinking. Drinking and then actually getting one. For the first time in her life. With her boss. Her nemesis. Her dream lover who now had become her real lover.
Oh. My. God.
She had to get out of here, wherever here was, immediately. Like yesterday.
Using a stealthy slide, she tried to slip off the bed undetected. However, his sheets were not obliging. They tangled around her legs as if acting on his behalf. With a thud, she landed on the luxurious carpet, on her bum, legs dangling above her ready to be detected.
>
Her heart skittered into a furious jangle of apprehension.
He snorted and stirred.
OMG. OMG. OMG.
The rumble resumed. She let out a sigh of relief and slowly pulled her legs from the clinging sheets. Peering over the mattress, she puffed another breath of release at the sight of his sleeping form.
Then she looked down at herself and relief fled.
Totally naked. Not a dream. Not a fantasy.
She really had lost her mind and had sex with Vico Mattare.
Unprotected sex.
There’d been no condom. There hadn’t been time in the frenzy of lust.
Squeezing her eyes shut once more, she leaned her forehead on the mattress. For all the effort she’d put into her education and all the times she’d relied on her keen intelligence, bottom line, she was a complete and utter idiot. Not only had she not insisted on a condom, she no longer had the protection of taking her usual birth control. She’d wanted to get pregnant as soon as she married.
Married to Robert.
Not anymore.
The memory of her broken engagement came—surprisingly dull. Like her headache. She couldn’t seem to think about Robert. Her entire focus zeroed in on the Italian she despised. And what she’d done with him.
Willingly. Wantonly. What a disaster.
Unprotected sex with a man who bedded women as a hobby. A man who apparently lived to be on the pages of the tabloids with one bimbo after another. The pictures had made her smirk when her PA showed them to her. What a jerk, she’d thought. What kind of woman would want a man like that?
A complete-and-utter-idiot kind of woman. Like her. Lise Helton.
She would have to get checked. She would have to make sure—
Think about this later.
Lise pressed her forehead into the soft mattress and nearly groaned. She could put off many thoughts, but not the thought of what lay in her immediate future. What she would have to deal with when she went to work on Monday.
He would never, ever let her forget this.
Leave. Think about this later.
She glanced over the side of the bed. He hadn't moved. The purr continued its lazy rumble, reassuring her. He was deeply asleep. Giving her a chance to avoid any messy confrontation until she got back to being the real Lise Helton—the cool, contained CFO. Not this naked floozy lying like a sex slave on his floor.
