by Zee Monodee
He heard the soft patter of shoes landing on thick carpet, and he glanced up.
As his gaze roamed from the tip of her toes up to her eyes, his lungs stopped taking in air.
Silver straps hugged her feet in the low-heeled sandals she wore. Up a stretch of legs that simply wouldn’t end, the hem of her dress ruffled just above her knees. A silver chain was tied low on her hips, and the neckline slid more towards one shoulder, baring the delicate line of her collarbone. The sleeves were long, and she clutched a small metallic-grey bag in her hand. The fabric of the dress didn’t cling to her body. It simply settled and draped on her curves, suggesting her frame more than showing it.
Enough to make any man’s blood pressure hit the roof
She kept her gaze lowered, and he couldn’t see her eyes. Jane didn’t wear much makeup. He saw smooth, pale gold skin, and a light tinge of gloss on her lips. He trailed his eyes over the graceful line of her neck. She’d gathered her hair in a low, twisted bun and had parted it on the side in front. A few loose locks that she had curled framed her face.
He wanted to touch those strands, smooth them between his fingers.
She still looked down, though. Why?
He stepped closer to her until they were barely inches apart. Then he touched her chin with his knuckles and made her look up.
Her eyes were wide when she finally stared at him. Her eyelids closed, then opened again, and her lips parted.
Don’t look at me like that.
*
Jane was at a loss for words. Michael standing before her every day in a suit or casual clothes was enough to make a bumbling idiot out of her, but Michael in a midnight-black dinner jacket with a crisp white shirt and black bow tie proved enough to kill every functioning neuron in her brain.
He was gorgeous. His face was freshly shaved, and she could almost imagine the cool feel of his skin as the elusive scent of his aftershave tickled her nostrils.
“You’re beautiful.” His whisper caressed her cheek.
She felt her eyes grow wide. Or would have, if they could get any bigger. She was already drinking in the sight of him by the gallon.
She’d been right to get that dress. He had actually noticed her in it, hadn’t he?
“Thanks.”
Heat crept up her face, and she was glad she hadn’t worn any blusher. She would’ve looked like a painted doll with all the colour staining her cheeks.
“Let’s go.” He turned abruptly and headed towards the garage.
She followed a few paces behind. He held the door of the newly-returned-from-the-dealership silver Aston Martin open for her, and when she was settled in, he eased into the driver’s seat.
The drive to Mayfair and the hotel where the gala was taking place happened in heavy silence. The air was tense, but not uncomfortable. She didn’t know how to explain it, as if expectancy bristled in the confines of the car. Her breath was coming in rapid, short bursts. She tried to ease the sound so it wouldn’t alert Michael. He’d probably think she wore a too-tight bra or something like that.
The Aston Martin drew up in front of the hotel. He cut the engine at the same time a liveried valet opened the door on his side. He stepped out, tossed the keys to the young man, and came around the car to open her door.
He held her hand when she exited, and he placed his arm around her waist as they ambled up the red-carpeted stairs leading to the hotel.
She walked as if on a cloud and on broken glass at the same time. Flashes blinded them, and were it not for Michael’s hand steadying her, she would’ve lost her footing and tripped under all the dazzling light.
People called their names as she walked up.
He spoke in her ear. “Reporters. Just smile and keep moving.”
Goodness. They never let up, did they? Their picture would, again, be on every front cover tomorrow.
They reached the relative safety of the hotel reception. Michael presented their invitation card to the usher who stood next to the door of the ballroom, and they paused on the threshold and scanned the crowd.
Jane didn’t realize she’d gasped until Michael drew closer to her, closing his arm around her waist.
“Take a deep breath. Everything will be fine.”
If only she could believe him. She caught sight of a tall, solidly built brunette walking their way, and she clasped Michael’s sleeve.
He groaned. “I see her, too.”
“Michael!” Marisa Verholden exclaimed. “It is such a pleasure to see you again. And this must be Jane, your lovely girlfriend. Welcome, my dear.”
The older socialite was renowned as a diva, and just one look at her prison-warden build had many cowering in their shoes.
“Congratulations for the baby. When are you due, dear?”
Jane pasted a smile on her face. How did one answer such an indiscreet question?
“Sometime in summer.” Michael coming to her rescue. “You did a fantastic job again organizing this. We don’t want to be rude, but if you’ll excuse us, Marisa, I think I spotted my mother.”
“Oh, yes. She came with that very elusive Sir Charles. I have to congratulate her for getting him back into society.”
“Excuse us.” Michael smiled as he steered Jane away from the lady and farther into the ballroom.
“I know.” He spoke without looking at her. “That’s why I hate ‘proper’ society, too.”
Startled that he would admit this in a social setting, she looked at him, and they both exchanged a laugh.
“My, you two sure are in a good mood today.”
Olivia drifted over to them in a stunning gown of blood red satin. Next to her stood a very debonair-looking Charles in his white dinner jacket. He did, however, still sport his signature stubble.
Jane embraced both of them. Michael hugged his mother and shook hands with Charles. They exchanged small talk among themselves, oftentimes joined by acquaintances who flitted about the big room.
At one point, she found herself alone when Olivia and Charles excused themselves to go talk to another couple and Michael went to get her something to drink.
A tart voice spoke behind her. “If that dress is supposed to hide your belly, it isn’t doing a very good job.”
Jane froze, then forced herself to regain her calm before turning.
“If that dress is supposed to cover your body, Marenka, it’s doing a damn bad job.” She paused, cocking her head to one side. “Was it spray-painted on you?”
Her mother gave her a glare that would wither flowers in the full of spring, seemingly not happy that her only child had grown a backbone recently. “Is that Charles I am seeing over there?”
She’d bet she’d heard a catch in Marenka’s voice.
“Where?” She injected extreme sweetness into her tone.
“With that blonde near the pillar, speaking to Judge Grimes.”
Jane made a show of looking in the direction.
“Oh, actually, yes. It is him. He is with Olivia Whitmore-Rinaldi, Michael’s mother.” She turned back to Marenka. “They go a long way back. He escorted her to her debutante ball.”
She could swear Marenka’s face twisted under the Botox mask.
“Is he seeing her?”
“What’s it to you, Marenka? You have Damian. Isn’t he enough?”
“There you go, Jane.” Michael placed a tall, cold glass in her hand. Then, as if on second thought, he added, “Oh, hello, Marenka.”
“Good evening, Michael.” The older woman spoke through gritted teeth and with an utterly fake smile on her cat-like face. She turned and left without another word.
“I hope I got here in time.” He took a sip of champagne. “How much damage has she done?”
Jane shook her head. “Not much. But she’s about to do a good deal now.”
Marenka had grabbed hold of Damian’s arm and was heading towards Charles and Olivia.
Jane reached for Michael’s hand. “Come on. She’s on the warpath.”
They threaded their way to C
harles.
“Marenka is here, and she’s coming to talk to you,” she said as soon as she was close enough to be heard without needing to shout.
Charles sighed. “And I bet she’s going to flaunt her latest bloke in my face.”
And speaking of the devil …
“Why, Charles, darrrling.”
At the same time, Jane caught sight of a couple who had just passed the door. The man scanned the room with his eyes before his stare landed on Olivia.
Jane pressed Michael’s hand hard. “Do they have a fire extinguisher around? Umberto just got here.”
***
The evening proved to be one of the longest of Jane’s existence. In between Marenka trying to make Olivia burst into flames with her eyes, and Umberto looking like he could throttle Charles to death and back again, she’d had a lot on her plate. The whole night had felt like negotiating a setting more perilous than the Gaza Strip.
She’d been sure she would expel herself on the sigh of relief she breathed once in the car and on the way back to Hampstead.
Michael remained quiet for the drive. Strange, for he had been quite animated at the gala, helping her with quick strategies to defuse any potential bomb blasts between their sets of parents. In fact, she could almost say he’d been having fun.
At home, she dropped into a heap on a couch in the lounge and took off her shoes. Her feet were killing her. She let the top of her head touch the back of the sofa and closed her eyes.
The cushion dipped next to her, and Michael’s voice tickled her ear.
“If someone isn’t in your shoes, it can almost be said that your mother is one heck of an entertainment package.”
She made a soft hmmpf sound. “It’s always funny after the episode. Living hell when you’re going through it.”
The seat next to her sagged further as he settled more comfortably. He remained silent, but she felt his intense gaze on her, making her squirm.
“What?” She didn’t open her eyes.
“You always try to keep the peace, don’t you?”
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up straighter, frowning as she eyed him.
“You try to smooth everything for everyone,” he added.
She shrugged. It was true. Otherwise, she’d know no respite. Also, if she didn’t smooth things out, she’d end up making everything more of a mess. Her mother’s words telling her this too many times to count when she’d been growing up came back to haunt her.
Michael touched her hand. “Who’s there to smooth things for you?”
She gasped. The question had taken her unawares, and the way he was looking at her made her extremely self-conscious.
Without a second thought, she darted the tip of her tongue out to wet her parched lips. She tasted the cherry flavour of her lip gloss, the hint of sweetness in the glaze tickling her senses. A shroud of quiet hovered above her and the man sitting beside her.
She saw his gaze dip to her mouth, and he scooted closer. His knee pressed against her thigh, and he brought a hand up, his fingers first playing with the locks of hair on her forehead before he settled his palm on the nape of her neck.
Their gazes locked, and they remained like this for an eternity, she’d say.
“Undo your hair,” he said softly.
“What?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper, so low she wondered if she’d even said the word.
The pads of his fingers inched along the nape of her neck. Tingles shot down her spine, and she didn’t know if she should sigh or tremble.
He continued running his touch along her scalp. When his fingers met with a pin, he pulled it out. One by one, he removed all the pins that held her hair in the bun. The locks twisted down her back, straightening when he ran his fingers down their length.
He brought his other hand up, this time to brush at the hair on her forehead.
“Those curls were driving me crazy,” he said with a soft sigh.
Instead of croaking a stupid line, Jane remained silent. She would give everything for this moment to last, to never end. One word from her, and the ethereal atmosphere would shatter.
When he had smoothed her hair and tucked it behind her ear, he stilled his hands, keeping her face and head captive in his palms.
“One kiss,” he murmured.
Then he bridged the distance between them and placed his lips on hers.
Warmth spread through her like wildfire on dry forest. She moaned against his lips. A sound rumbled in his chest, and his kiss grew deeper, his mouth parting over hers, coaxing, teasing, nipping. When she’d had enough of the blissful torture, she opened her lips and let the tip of her tongue trace the outline of his mouth.
If she’d thought he’d been kissing her all this time, she was wrong. The kiss Michael gave her at her subtle invite could scorch the living daylights out of her. His tongue delved into her mouth, duelling with hers, playful one moment, and demanding and insistent the next.
Kissing him was like drenching one’s thirst at a fountain of rebirth. Every nerve ending in her body sprang to full alert. And to think he hadn’t even touched her yet.
As if he had come to the same conclusion, he broke away from her. Taking her hand, he made her stand up.
“Come.”
She followed him. They needed no words, the expectation between them binding them like a magnet called to metal, without any hope of breaking free from the attraction.
Up the stairs they went, and he led her into the master suite.
She didn’t have time to look around or even grasp the full implication of being in this very private sanctuary.
He pulled her to him, and his mouth sought hers again.
She brought her hands up and grabbed at the collar of his shirt, hanging on for dear life as she pressed her body to the length of his and felt his hardened arousal against her belly.
He wanted her. A surge of feminine power went through her at the realization. This man was sexy as hell and as gorgeous as the devil himself, and he wanted her.
She needed no further encouragement. She released his collar to run her hands down and lift the lapels of his jacket. With a not-so-gentle thrust, she pushed the coat off him and attacked his bow tie.
She felt him smile against her mouth, and she laughed. It broke the kiss, and she threw her head back … but the laughter strangled in her throat when he placed his lips on her neck, the tip of his tongue grazing her throat.
She would meet her death and come back to life in his arms. A fevered moan escaped her as his hands roamed on her waist, her hips, clasping her buttocks before he bundled the dress up, his fingers running along the back of her bare thighs.
He tugged on the chain but couldn’t pull it loose, then made his hot demand in her ear. “Take this off.”
She fumbled with the clasp all while his mouth continued to devour the skin in the dip of her collarbone.
The chain hit the floor with a heavy clang, and his hands came up along her hips. Then, before she could grasp what he was doing, he had clutched the fabric on her shoulders. With a sharp pull, he ripped the dress down her body, the material tearing.
“Michael!”
“Forget it,” he growled. “Hmm, no bra. Perfect.”
He closed his mouth on a sensitive nipple, and she cried out.
He pulled away. “Did I hurt you?”
Still floating from the pleasure, she gasped. “Don’t stop.”
He obliged her, his arms closing like tight bands around her waist, his mouth on her breast. She arched against his warm kiss, her body pressing into his, the tiny buttons on his shirt eating into her flesh.
Without releasing her, he started walking. She had no other option but to step backward, until the back of her knees touched the edge of the bed, and he then gently pushed her onto the mattress.
He left her when her back touched the soft quilt. Jane looked up at him standing in front of her nearly naked body. She reached for his shirt.
He stepped
away. “I’ll take care of that.”
Pulling the shirt from the waistband of his trousers, he opened it, seeming even to rip some of the buttons out. Next, he undid his trousers and pulled them off.
He wears boxers. She trailed her gaze over the perfection of his chiselled body and sighed as heat built low in her belly and diffused none too gently throughout her system.
“Come back,” she whispered.
He removed the boxers and slid on the bed next to her. She placed her fingers on his chest, relishing the springy texture of the hairs dusting the wide expanse.
Michael kissed her again, and this time, she was left in no doubt that making love with him would lead to nirvana. If he could do this to her with his tongue, what would he do when he really took her?
His lips trailed low, down her neck to again latch at a nipple. The small of her back left the bed in response to the demanding caress, and by the time his mouth had reached the inside of her thighs and he’d removed the thong she wore, Jane knew she would die if she didn’t have him right then.
“Michael, please, now.”
He pulled up on top of her, propping himself on his forearms. He kissed her as he tenderly parted her thighs with his knee, settling between them.
Then, with a gentle push, he was inside her.
His hand stilled on the side of her face. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She pressed her cheek deeper into his palm and closed her eyes as her hips moved to further accommodate him.
Slowly, he took her, again and again, leaving her quivering with every successive move of his body against hers.
And then pleasure was flooding her, racking her from her core to the rest of her body, and bright sparks burst behind her closed eyes.
“Michael!” Her body arched into his.
She rode the wave for ages before she heard his breathing pick up and then he, too, groaned.
Her name on his lips was the last thing she heard before white light shattered her brain.
His weight was pinning her down when she came back to her senses. When she opened her eyes, he was still propped on his elbows, watching her.
“What?” She was suddenly nervous under his insistent stare.
He didn’t reply, simply rolled over onto his side, taking her with him, then stood, leaving her alone.
