by Lucy Ellis
‘Dinner and a movie?’ he echoed. ‘They’re your terms, kisa?’
Clementine wanted to flap her lashes and tell him yes, but she’d been shaken up by what had just happened and it wasn’t fair to Serge to keep up the flirting when she so clearly wasn’t going to follow through.
‘Not terms. I just thought it would be nice,’ she offered. ‘Normal.’
Nice. Normal. Serge was trying to get his head around what had just happened. One minute he was being lured by a siren into the bedroom, and the next he was shipwrecked on the rocks—an uncouth oaf who had come on too strong and not taken no for an answer.
He was thrown back to that café in Petersburg, feeling like a thug for upsetting Clementine. She was either playing a very clever game or he had got this all very wrong. If he had it wrong, and this less than sure of herself Clementine who kept appearing at inopportune times was the real deal, the traditional Russian male that lurked not far below his modern sensibility was going to have a field-day. And he needed to keep that firmly in check.
He knew which way that led.
Either way, he wouldn’t rush her. It would do both of them a disservice. Especially if what was between them turned out to be as incendiary as he suspected it would.
Clementine decanted her clothes into one of the guest bedrooms, wondering what on earth she thought she was doing. Serge had got changed and told her he was going down to use the gym for a couple of hours. He would return to take her to dinner at seven.
She had hoped to spend a little time in his company beforehand, but given her actions this afternoon she hadn’t felt in a position to try and dissuade him. He’d said something about having some excess energy to work off, which she might have interpreted as flattering. Instead it had just fallen flat.
Folding the last of her T-shirts away, she plopped down on the guest bed and smoothed one hand over the gold satin quilt. She was definitely in luxury land, with a man she didn’t know nearly enough about, but there was a huge part of her that was singing out squeee as she threw herself down the rocky, rushing ravine she just knew this week with Serge would be. He’d almost pulled her over into the rapids with him this afternoon, but she’d balked at the last minute.
Cautious Clementine. She grimaced at Luke’s nickname for her and checked her watch. Serge had been gone barely an hour. Smiling to herself, she began peeling off her clothes.
Serge repetitively drummed the gloves into the bag, feeling the shudder through his arms, relishing the impact. He couldn’t believe the scene he’d had with Clementine. It took him back to being seventeen and not sure if it was all right to put his hand under a girl’s top if she hadn’t explicitly given permission.
Sweat blinded him and he pulled the punches, stepped away from the bag and reached for a towel, rubbing his face. As he slung it over his shoulder he reached for his bottle of water.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Clementine stood in front of him, offering up the bottle with a little smile.
She was wearing a tiny pair of red shorts and a white tank top, and she’d tied all that hair back in a ponytail.
‘Thanks,’ he said, almost by rote, as every male cell in his body sat up and saluted.
‘Can I have a go?’ She indicated the punching bag.
‘It might be a bit hard for you,’ he responded, trying not to ogle her. Something Clementine was clearly aware of, judging by the little smile she was wearing.
His knowing, provocative little Clementine was back.
‘Just give me some gloves, Slugger.’
He fetched a smaller pair for her hands and attached them himself, watching her expression as she tried not to stroke his body too obviously with her gaze. The urge to haul her against him and take what he wanted was very strong. ‘Go in close,’ he instructed. ‘Little jabs. Keep your elbows up. That’s it—don’t pull back.’
Her concentration was absolute. She was really taking this seriously. His gaze dropped momentarily to the superlative curve of her bottom in those little shorts. Had she purposely come down here to shred the last fibres of his self-control?
She gave an oomph as the bag swung back and knocked her onto that bottom. She lay back laughing on the mat, looking up at him towering over her. As she watched he stripped off the sweat-soaked T-shirt he was wearing and stood there in only a pair of baggy long shorts that were barely holding onto his lean hips. There was something else stirring that made Clementine’s laughter trickle into a deep sigh of feminine satisfaction. His shoulders and chest and back were powerful and heavily muscled, and there was a haze of dark hair arrowing down below his navel she longed to run her hands through. But after her little performance earlier in the day she didn’t feel entitled.
He offered her a hand and she took it. One-armed, he literally pulled her off the ground and to her feet. As a display of strength it was breathtaking. But what really took her breath away was standing up so close to his barely clothed body, with her own hardly left to the imagination. He ran those green eyes over her face and then lower, to where her nipples were very clearly making themselves known.
‘Are we really waiting until after dinner and the movie, dushka?’
His voice ran over her like rough velvet.
She licked her lips. No was on the tip of her tongue when other voices interrupted and Serge turned away, cursing under his breath.
‘A public gym,’ murmured Clementine. ‘Whoops.’
Three men had come through the doors at the other end of the weights room.
‘I’ll hit the shower,’ said Serge. ‘You go on up. But keep the little outfit on.’
She narrowed her eyes and gave him a push to one rock-hard bicep. ‘Dinner, Slugger. But I’ll give you a raincheck for the movie.’
Clementine was surprised when Serge insisted on walking her out before returning to change and shower. He really was an old-fashioned guy in so many respects, and that was playing nicely with her inner princess. He wasn’t just muscles and testosterone; he had some stellar qualities—manners being one of them.
She showered herself, and put on a red and gold kaftan dress that wrapped around and tied at the waist. It was simple, but she could dress it up with heeled sandals and she swept her hair up, attaching a red silk flower behind her ear. She layered on the kohl and the false eyelashes and painted her lips ruby-red.
She heard Serge’s sports bag drop and scooted out to meet him. He took one look at her outfit and put up his hands. ‘I surrender, Clementine. Dinner.’
She grinned.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY dined not in the hotel but at an exclusive restaurant on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The menu was contemporary French cuisine, but frankly, Clementine thought, she could have been eating sushi and she wouldn’t have noticed.
The man opposite her in a suit and tie, all elegant Manhattan urbanity, fixated all of her attention. He hadn’t rushed her off to bed, he hadn’t pushed anything, and now he was dining with her in the most civilised surroundings imaginable. Their conversation ranged over her life in London, his here in New York, current events. But every time she allowed her gaze to settle on him—whether it be the breadth of his naked wrist beneath the fabric of his sleeve, the wide column of his strong neck so snugly contained in a collar and tie, the faint cleft in his chin that she imagined was tricky to shave—she kept picturing him standing over her, half-naked, dripping sweat and testosterone in that gym. Exactly as she had fantasised about him the first moment she’d clapped eyes on him.
Warmth pooled low in her pelvis and had been there for much of their meal. The wine and the soup and the main course and a blackberry dessert had all slid down, and her cheeks grew pink and her eyes sparkled as she listened to the deep, rhythmically accented voice stroking her senses, watching the changing colours in his sea-green eyes like the tides. She knew she had made the right decision in coming to New York with him.
No more cold showers, thought Serge as he helped Clementine out of the cab. His lib
ido stretched and did a few push-ups in readiness.
They could have taken a town car, but she had wanted the ‘fun’ of riding in a New York City taxi cab—and who was he to spoil Clementine’s fun?
Half of the sheer enjoyment he was having with her was watching her reactions to little things. She had the most expressive face he had ever seen, and it was because of that he knew her skittishness earlier had not been part of some ploy to stoke his desire for her or even some odd kink of her own. She genuinely hadn’t been ready. But she was ready now—or his reading of female arousal was completely off-kilter.
Given the woman he was with, that was always possible.
So they were back to square one as the lift flew them skywards to the fifty-third floor, but he didn’t attempt to touch her. He wanted to be very sure Clementine was on board with the programme. He also wanted to discuss a few terms of his own. He didn’t want there to be any ‘misunderstandings’ when this was all over—and it would be over at some point. But thinking about the end before they even really began pulled him up short.
With another woman he would have discussed this long ago, but with Clementine he had delayed. Now there was a certain necessity in the moment to rush her into bed and to hell with everything else.
He hesitated to call it romanticism, but Clementine had early on introduced a certain element of that into their situation—he wouldn’t call it a relationship—when she’d made herself so elusive in St Petersburg. He wanted to do this right. He wanted to do it the old-fashioned way and sweep her off her feet.
Which he did—after opening the door, gathering her into his arms and enjoying her gasp of surprise. Women loved to be carried, and Clementine was no exception to the rule. She wrapped her strong slender arms around his neck, her soft hair tickling his chin. What was different was how good it felt holding her this way. It probably had something to do with her elusiveness again. She couldn’t run off, and all the muscles in her body seemed to dissolve as she submitted to his superior strength.
He’d never thought of himself as the sort of man who got off on proving himself to women, but her reaction to him lifting her off the floor this afternoon—a spontaneous gesture—and again being carried now was doing a power of good to his ego. Which boded well for tonight.
The lights in the suite were sensor-activated, and they showered across them as he carried her into the living area and she wriggled out of his arms. His intention was to take her off guard by kissing her and letting things run from there. And judging by his hardening body they’d be running pretty fast.
‘Let’s make some coffee and a little chat,’ she suggested, tugging on his hand and taking a few backward steps, intending to pull him with her.
‘Let’s not.’ He hauled her back in with one hand and she looked up at him, faint apprehension behind those steady grey eyes. Then her lashes dipped down and she seemed to make up her mind.
Slowly, cautiously, she reached up and wound her arms around his neck. But before she could press those soft lips to his he reached down and made short work of the bow at her waist, letting her go only to unravel the fabric that tied her kaftan together. He’d been studying that bow all night, in preparation for this moment, and the effect was well worth it as Clementine gave a shocked little yelp.
But she didn’t try to cover herself, and when he began pulling the dress gently down off her shoulders she wriggled to give it a hand, pressing up against him in nothing but her sheer black bra and knickers. He fancied she was trying to shield herself. He felt rather than saw her step out of her heels.
She suddenly felt much smaller and somehow less assured in his arms. The dress slid down at his third tug and pooled on the floor. He ran his hand along her spine, coming to rest on the curve of her delectable bottom.
‘I’m feeling a bit naked here, Slugger,’ she said, but it was the nervous laugh that took him off guard. He hadn’t expected her to be uncertain. ‘Can’t we do this in the bedroom, like normal people?’
‘What is this “normal” you keep talking about?’ he teased, his voice heavy with his arousal. ‘This feels normal to me, kisa.’
‘Not all of us normally swing from chandeliers,’ she prevaricated, but he noticed she began pushing his jacket over his shoulders, and he helped her. Then she was pulling at his shirt-tails, but he wanted to see her face.
He tucked a finger under her chin, drew her eyes up to his. ‘I promise no chandelier-swinging—even if you beg.’
Her grey eyes grew unbelievably soft, her whole expressive face somehow radiating a warmth and trust he knew he didn’t deserve. For a moment he was distracted with the thought that the woman in his arms was taking all of this far too seriously for his comfort.
But his blood was pumping, and if he didn’t learn every inch of her body tonight he was going to explode.
Clementine made his decision as she reached up and wound her arms around his neck. He gave way to the rush of desire he had to possess her, to know her.
Clementine heard him murmur something in Russian and his hands spread over her hips, moving down to cup her bottom as he drew her up to kiss her. His mouth was everything she remembered, hot, but tender this time, stealing her breath and any free will she had left. He seduced her with his mouth, kissing her mindless, until it was his body, hard and muscular, she began to explore helplessly.
She reached for the button and zip on his trousers, slipping her hand inside. She gave a little murmur of surprise. She gently learned his size and shape as he breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling with flattering intensity.
‘Keep that up, kisa, and this may be over before we know it,’ he murmured, his voice deep and dark in her ear.
‘I don’t believe that,’ she whispered back, but he scooped her up and finally carried her through the other rooms and into the bedroom, lying her down on the slippery white satin quilting. Then methodically he began to unbutton his shirt.
Clementine lay back, biting her lip as she watched his big shoulders emerge and then his chest, broad and heavy with muscle, hazy with the dark hair she remembered, his powerful arms next, his waist, lean and defined.
Then he shucked off his trousers and boxers and long, muscular hair-roughened thighs and calves came into view, and what she’d had her hand on only minutes before. And then he came down onto the bed with her.
His hand cupped her face and he turned her mouth towards his before his lips brushed over hers, and then he was kissing her slowly, sensuously, dragging his fingers through her hair, loosing it so that it toppled down, a heavy mass that swam across his shoulder and bicep as he supported her.
His big rough hand curled into the underside of her left knee, stroked her there, moved up under the length of her thigh to squeeze the lush curve of her bottom.
Clementine trembled as his fingers pushed up the delicate silk of her knickers, anticipating every move he was making. But when his hand continued its exploration over her hip, dipping into her waist and smoothing up over her ribs, covering her breast encased in the same silk of her knickers, it wasn’t familiar. He wasn’t going for broke. He was taking his time.
His thumb made a slow perambulation of her nipple and his mouth caught hers again in a slow, sweet kiss as he gently handled her body.
‘I knew you would have an amazing body,’ he told her appreciatively, ‘and it’s more beautiful than I imagined.’
She reached behind and unhooked her bra for him, baring her breasts and trying not to show the faint ripple of anxiety she was feeling.
‘It just gets better,’ he murmured, that flaring gaze sweeping over her. He framed one breast with his hand, exploring the shape of her, bending his head to take her nipple into his mouth.
Clementine made a helpless noise and arched her back, the rhythms of her body taking over. She knew how to do this, or thought she did, but Serge seemed to know her body better than she did.
When she was almost crying with need and distraction he lifted his head, only to abrade
her nipple lightly with the bristly skin along his jaw, watching her shudder. It had never been like this for her before—the want, the magic of having one hundred per cent of a man’s attention on her pleasure. This man’s attention—knowing, practised, skilled—was beyond her experience.
His hand slid down over her hip and he hooked a thumb under her knickers, and then he was sliding down the bed, settling between her thighs, and with a wink he applied his mouth to the heart of her.
Clementine threw back her head and whimpered as little starbursts of sensation blurred her vision. She felt swollen and ultra-sensitive, and when his tongue swiped over her clitoris she went with it, her cries filling the warmly lit room.
Serge shifted up over her, pausing only briefly to don a condom. Then suddenly he was inside her. He only gave her a moment to adjust before he was moving, and the sensations began to build again. She found her own body matching his rhythm. She clasped him around the neck and he forged his mouth to hers in deep open-mouthed kisses that mingled their breath and tongues with Russian words Clementine didn’t understand but knew had to do with how good this was. His eyes were dark with pleasure and he kept making eye contact with her, as if testing the depth of her enjoyment but also letting her see his.
She could hear his deep rasping breathing, the heavy thump of his heartbeat, smell the warm musky scent of his male skin. A light sheen of sweat had broken on the broad expanse of his back and she luxuriated in that too, loving the intense maleness of him. Then it happened. An unexpected series of sweet, unending undulations crashed through her pelvis, spreading all the way out to her fingers and her toes, making the hair on her head stand up.
‘Serge!’
‘Da—Serge.’ In response he thrust harder and faster.
Her orgasm met her and she rolled with it. She was contracting around him, and with a deep groan he released into her. It went on and on, spiralling through her body as she unravelled. As he subsided she sank back into the mattress, taking him heavily down on top of her, loving the sensation of being utterly consumed by him.
