Rakanti's Indecent Proposition

by Clare Connelly

  She couldn’t give the notion any proper attention though, as her mind began to fog with the now-familiar whirls of desire and lust that he alone could invoke. She dug her nails into his back as an orgasm came at her thick and fast. She lifted her pelvis and he thrust deeper, taking control of her body as though he was designed to do so.

  His hands ran over her skin and he committed every single inch of her to memory. She would be the stuff of his fantasies. When she was long gone, she would fill his dreams. She was perfection. He took one of her dusky pink nipples into his mouth, revelling in her breasts’ sweet fullness. He laced his fingers through hers, lifting her arms above her head as together they rode the wave of release, their breathing in unison, their voices raised.

  It was perfect.

  He fell onto her afterwards and through his chest he could feel her heart racing like a panicked sparrow. He liked that he could do that to her. She had the experience and confidence of a woman who did this often, but he didn’t care. Her heart was racing for him and he knew that she was as driven wild by their coming together as he was.

  He pulled out of her with a sense of regret, already anticipating their next union. He stared down at her, adding her sweet face to his collection of memories. “I’m starving.”

  She grinned. “Same.”

  His smile was, without a doubt, the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. His face was … strong. The word came to her out of nowhere, and it was perfectly apt. From his square jaw to defined eyes and the confident set of his mouth, he was a man so obviously in control that it took her breath away.

  He stood and held a hand out for her. She put hers in it and followed him into the kitchen. He slipped into a door to his left and returned with a couple of white robes.

  “You’ve thought of everything,” she said with a shake of her head, pressing her arms into the sleeves he held aloft.

  He bit back the statement that had tickled his tongue: It’s not my first time. He sensed the words would hurt her, and worse, they’d ruin the atmosphere that was building around them. These were absurd considerations for a man such as Christos Rakanti, yet still he stifled the response.

  Elle reached down to cinch her waist and then, halfway through spinning to face Christos, she froze. Her eyes hit the piano like a tennis player might dash a ball. She stared at it for several beats and then began to move. It must have been there earlier, when she’d crept down to make her tea, but she’d been so focussed on staying silent that she hadn’t seen it.

  Her mouth was dry, her heart racing, her blood pounding through her body as she took in the details of the piece. Christos, curious, followed, unable to take his eyes of her wrapt face.

  “You’re looking at my piano like you were staring at me last night …”

  Her eyes shifted to him self-consciously. “And how exactly is that?”

  “Like you would do anything in the world to touch it.” He put a hand casually on the top, his expression a mask of undisguised curiosity. “Do you play?”

  “A little,” she lied, her fingers itching with the spirit she could rarely contain. And because it would be a form of torture not to acknowledge her feelings, she lifted her eyes to his face. “It’s … a Schott-Casson Steinway.”

  Both of his brows moved towards the heavens. “Yes. Only three of them were ever made. Don’t tell me you have a matching one?”

  She shook her head. “No.” It was a whisper, so soft he barely caught it.

  Carried by the winds of fascination and with an air of apology, she pressed her own fingers lightly to the keys. “Look at the arched brass lyre, and the mother of pearl detail, the hand-carved legs … I’ve read about them, of course, but I never thought I’d see one.” She ran her hand over the detailed lid and appreciated the shiver that ran down her back.

  “Play it,” he urged, fascinated by the change in her demeanour. He felt, inexplicably, as though he was watching something brilliant and unique. He couldn’t have put into words why her behaviour moved him so, but he had the strongest sense that he was about to see something special.

  As Elle took her seat at the keys, he sucked in a breath and held it. She played Rachmaninov, though he didn’t know it then. Her fingers glanced over the keys like leaves in the breeze. She closed her eyes as she played, and her face seemed to dance with the emotions of the song alone. He stood perfectly still, like a rock, watching her intuit the piece and weave it through the atmosphere. She did it effortlessly, as he might breathe or run or talk. She turned tiny muscular movements into an expression of song that touched him at the centre of his being.

  She played as though there was no one in the room and yet she should have been in front of an audience.

  He made not a single sound so as not to disturb her performance. As the song shifted down, slowing towards its conclusion, he leaned forward, his eyes glued to her face. She pressed the keys and then sucked in a deep breath and fixed her eyes on him. “This piano is … a beautiful instrument.”

  “Apparently.”

  She stood with obvious remorse, running her fingers over the lid one last time. “Why do you have it if you don’t play?” She asked, tightening the belt of her robe for something to do.

  “I collect beautiful things,” he said, his eyes clinging to her face. “And it’s a good investment.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’re not serious?”

  He lifted a brow, silently urging her to continue.

  “Oh. It’s just such a shame. A piano like this … it deserves to be played. To be adored.”

  He laughed cynically. “It’s not a child.”

  “It’s better.” She flashed him a teasing smile. “It can’t answer back.”

  “True.” He put a hand casually in the small of her back. “I’m afraid my culinary skills are practically non-existent. I can offer you toast or toast. And coffee.”

  “Toast would be great,” she said with a shrug of non-concern. “I’m not a huge breakfast girl.”

  “Coffee?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not a coffee girl either.”

  He stared at her as though she’d started to count backwards in Chinese. “You don’t drink coffee?”

  Her eyes were huge in her face. “Nope.”

  “Ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “No coffee?”

  Her laugh tinkled around the kitchen. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  He lifted a small metallic pot onto the bench. “Because coffee is what fuels me. Or one of the things, at least,” he grinned. “I don’t know how I’d live without it.”

  “Then you have coffee, and I’ll make another tea.”

  “Sit. I’ll make the tea.”

  “Yessir.” She pulled a mock salute. “You’re very bossy.”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “And you don’t care.”

  “Why would I?” He shrugged. “I am as I am.”

  She swallowed. “Yeah.” And what was he? Was he the kind of man who would be compassionate to her brother’s circumstance? Would he understand why she’d stooped so low to help Filip? Or would he judge her for the morally-questionable decisions she’d made?

  “Are you a professional musician?” He asked, placing the silver pot onto the stove and then filling a mug with boiling water.

  “No. Not really.” She bit down on her lip, willing her heart not to ache so badly. “I just like to play.”

  “You’re exceptionally gifted.”

  Her head jerked towards his and then she smiled, a forced gesture to cover her first reaction. The letter had said that. ‘Exceptionally gifted, a musician of rare promise.’

  “It’s just a bit of fun,” she lied with an awkward shrug.

  “If you say so.” He pushed the tea towards her and she murmured her thanks.

  “So if you are not a professional musician, and you are old enough to vote, I presume you are old enough to work. What do you do?”

  “How do you know I do any
thing?” She prompted curiously, giving nothing away.

  He expelled a low, soft sigh and moved around to her side of the kitchen island. He spun her on the stool, so that he stood between her legs. “I can torture the information out of you, agape mou, if you insist on being secretive.”

  “How?” She asked, her breath snagging in her throat.

  His laugh was like warm caramel on her skin. “How do you think.” He untied her robe, exposing her nakedness to him. “I know what you like,” he flicked her breast with his finger, and she shuddered. “I know what drives you crazy.” He ran his finger down her flat stomach and teased the curls at the apex of her thigh. She moved her legs wider, desperate for him to do something to calm the raging fire.

  He understood and pressed his finger into her core, just far enough to make her moan softly. “You are so wet, Elle.” He moved his finger in slow, torturous circles and she moaned louder, pushing her hips forward to take more of him. Only he shifted backwards, intent on teasing rather than relieving.

  “Please,” she husked, reaching for his wrist to guide him deeper.

  He made a tsk-ing noise and shook his head.

  “How old are you?”

  It was a battle of their wills, and one she no longer cared to win. She cared for nothing but relief. “Twenty one.”

  He moved deeper, momentarily giving her a hint of what she wanted. “You are ready for me again,” he said with a shake of his head. “I had no idea you would be so willing when we met last night.” He strummed her body, and she began to make little sobbing sounds of desperation.

  “I need you,” she said honestly, tilting her head back and groaning.

  “I can feel that you do.” He kissed her neck, and she moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist and leaning further back. There were several stools in a row but they were hardly supportive. She didn’t care. She just knew that he would support her and keep her safe. That he was in charge.

  “Not here.” He lifted her and carried her upstairs, as he had the night before. He took her to the bedroom they’d shared and eased her to the floor and gave her a look of impatience. “Stay.”

  As though she had any thoughts of moving. She heard the water running a moment later and anticipation slicked through her. With one finger crooked, he urged her to join him. She walked across the carpeted floor and into the ensuite. The shower was enormous. It stretched the length of the bathroom, with no barrier between it and the rest of the space. There were two enormous shower heads and a heavily tinted window showed the view of the city beyond.

  “Is it private?” She asked and he nodded.

  “Of course.”

  “Not necessarily ‘of course’,” she murmured, though rational thought was difficult. “You could be some kind of pervy show off.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  He gripped her hips and lifted her once more, and she noticed he’d remembered protection, even then. Thank goodness. If it had been up to her she would have been too caught up to think of such practicalities. He pressed her against the glass; it was cold and she made a noise of complaint. It was quickly silenced as he eased her onto his length. Standing, with the water pounding over them, he was so deep inside of her that she felt like she was experiencing something completely new. It was all different. Her hips rotated and her arms wrapped around him. He kissed her and their tongues fought with the shower water. She was suffocating and drowning; desire was coating her insides with a whole new sense of self.

  She’d had sex before, but she’d never felt this shift. It was an enormous change. Being made love to by this man was making her feel like a goddess.

  “I can’t get enough of you,” he groaned, ripping his fingers through her hair and staring down at her face. It was flushed from the orgasm that was shredding through her. He thrust once more and released himself with a guttural cry, pushing her head against his chest and holding her tight as the enormous burst of sensual fever burst through them.

  He laughed throatily when they had begun to feel like themselves again. He laughed, because what they shared was so unique and so baffling. He laughed because he hadn’t expected to meet a woman he desired so fundamentally, who would desire him just as often and as intensely.

  “I don’t know what brought you to my bar last night, but I’m as glad as hell something did.”

  The words were perfectly formulated to swap her sexual heat for guilt. How could she possibly blackmail this man? She couldn’t. Ever. She couldn’t hurt him. She had to find a way to tell him the truth and just hope that what they’d shared would be enough to make him take her request seriously. At least to understand how high-stakes this was for her. It was the only explanation to justify the amoral path she’d walked: how close she’d come to blackmailing.

  He placed her carefully back on the ground, waiting until her feet took her weight before stepping away. He stepped out of the shower, reaching for a fluffy white towel. “Take your time,” he said, his voice a rich, deeply accented invitation. “I’ll get toast and tea.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. He would hate her! No matter what she said, he’d despise her.

  With a sinking feeling, she reached for the loofah and began to lather her body in a wash that smelled like coconuts and dishonesty.

  Christos didn’t bother to dress; he didn’t see much need for clothes while Elle was around. He could not quench his need for her. She was a drug and he was completely hooked.

  The guest rooms were stocked with a minimal supply of clothes, and he pulled an over-sized t-shirt out for her. It would swim on her petite frame, he thought with a smile as he placed the clothes on the edge of the bed.

  A familiar iPhone message sound rung out in the room and he moved to the bedside table. Her phone was face up; she must have checked it through the night as he didn’t remember it being there when they’d gone to sleep. He was about to step away when the words of the text permeated his sex-addled brain – the message was right there, so clear he couldn’t help but read it.

  Well? What’s going on? Have you got the dirt on Mr Moneybags yet? Is it enough to hang him out to dry *evil laugh*. Seriously, E, just let me know you’re okay – and when we can start working out the details of Operation Blackmail.

  He stared at the message as his whole world began to tilt in a strange fashion. He read it again. Surely it was a mistake.

  He sent a look towards the bathroom and then back at the phone. Another message buzzed through. It was a photo, and unmistakably it was him and Elle outside the nightclub the night before.

  He had no idea what was going on, and uncertainty didn’t sit well on Christos Rakanti’s broad shoulders. The shower was still running and she’d started to hum. He ignored the way her voice seemed to be wrapping invisible chords of appreciation through his body. With a grim expression, he began to type. “I’m fine. In his house.” He paused, thinking of what he could send back that might elicit some more information. “What should I do?”

  It took only moments for a return text to beep into his hand. “Anything that will make it impossible for him to say no ;) I know you don’t want to blackmail him honey, but you need this money, E. And he has got a shitload of cash!”

  It was odd that he hadn’t pegged the beautiful blonde as mercenary in the slightest. Sexy, beautiful, interesting, enigmatic: she was all those things. But a woman who would sleep with a rich guy to weasel funds from him? If he hadn’t seen the proof for himself, then he’d never have believed it.

  He replaced the phone and stepped away from the bed, the bedroom, and mentally from the situation.

  If she thought she could cross swords with him and win then she had no idea who she was dealing with.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He had been right.

  Dressed in his boxers and shirt she looked absolutely beautiful. But she wasn’t. She was a manipulative bitch. Having seen the texts for himself, he felt very little tug towards her. Christos was great at that too – sw
itching off. When something ceased to please or interest him, he simply turned his attention elsewhere. After all, what was the point in mourning something that was no longer an option.

  He watched as she padded into the kitchen, her face a study in innocence as she took the seat opposite him.

  “Déjà vu,” she remarked with a smile. But even her smile he mistrusted.

  How much money did she want from him? And why?

  “We should talk.” He placed two pieces of toast onto a plate and handed it to her, then nodded towards a tray of spreads.

  “Should we?” She bit down on her lip. Another gesture designed to portray innocence when she was anything but. “But we’ve discovered other things are much more stimulating.”

  “Mmm,” he nodded. “True.”

  He sipped his coffee, waiting for the throbbing rage to calm itself. “It’s funny. I almost felt like you were looking for me last night,” he said, his eyes boring into hers with the incisive attention he was renowned for in the boardroom.

  He saw the way her pupils dilated and her cheeks flushed with the smallest hint of colour; the way her lips tightened momentarily and her fingers fidgeted with the knife. “Maybe I was,” she said with a shrug. It was an entirely too-clever answer, designed to evade the question, tell him nothing, and it wasn’t actually a lie.

  “Did you know I would be there?”

  She licked her lower lip and pretended to concentrate on spreading jam over the toast. “That’s … a little arrogant, isn’t it?”

  “Not if it’s correct.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his whole body vibrating with disgust now. How had he fallen for it? He was so careful when he took women to bed! He chose women who were wealthy and high-profile, women who were looking for a quick romance and wanted nothing more from him. Women who were as well-served by discretion as he was.

  “I heard kómma was the place to be in Athens. I wanted to see it for myself.”

  It was all a lie. Why didn’t he see it last night? She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d flock to the latest nightspot. “You were so quick to find me, though. So quick to invite yourself to my home.”