Hidden Paradise
Page 13
* * *
Mac
SHE LIKED HIM TO TALK DIRTY and she shivered with pleasure when he pulled her mouth from his and asked her roughly if she wanted to be fucked. Her eyes were wide, face flushed, her chin abraded from his stubble.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, squirming beneath him. He had her wrists in his hands now, fragile and pale, the knobs of bone touching and vulnerable.
“Yes, what?”
She burst into laughter. “Now?”
“Very funny.” He lowered himself over her. Shit, the condom. He’d almost forgotten. He reached for the foil package and tore it open. “For that, you get to put it on me.”
“Yes, O master,” she replied with a flutter of eyelashes, and tipped the condom onto the palm of her hand. He’d never found a condom sexy before, just a necessity, a gesture that combined courtesy with common sense. He didn’t think he could get any harder, but when she touched him, stroking and smoothing the condom on his dick, he caught himself making a pathetic little girly whimper and she looked up at him, eyes shining with amusement. But he was beyond embarrassment now, torn between wanting to watch her slender fingers on his sheathed dick and wanting to plunge inside her.
Question was, who wanted whom the most? Who could hold out longest? He lowered himself onto her, nudging her thighs apart with his hips, stroking his cock down that sweet wet cleft. She gasped a little and squirmed, her hips tilted to receive him. He moved back.
“Meanie,” she said, and nipped at his shoulder.
“Yeah, I can be real mean.” He lowered his mouth to her nipple, sucked and swirled his tongue. Her wrists, held tight against the pillow, tensed. “Should I tie you up, Lou? Couple of neckcloths should do it.” He blew on her nipple. “Make you put on those breeches and tie you up and flip you over and fuck you in the ass?”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, and I thought you were so masculine.”
“I am,” he growled, and nudged his cock at her again. “Feel that?” This time, he pushed inside her a little and she was so warm and luscious he couldn’t bear to withdraw, but he did.
She sucked in a breath. “You want me to beg?”
“Yeah.” He stroked up and down her cleft, lingering at the hard ridge of her clit and lowered his head to her moist, parted lips. Her tongue flicked and tangled with his and she made a deep, surprised sound in her throat as her legs quivered against him. He moved his mouth to below her ear, to the moist fragrance of her neck and the tickle of her hair.
“Stop teasing me,” she said. “Fuck me now.”
He slid inside her and she cried out in surprise, tightening on him so that he had to stop and growl out how good she felt, fighting for control. He still held her slender wrists, his hands dark against her skin that almost matched the cream of the pillow.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” he asked, conscious once more of her pale fragility.
Her breasts rose and fell, round and plump on her slender torso and he bent to kiss them, and then her armpits, burying his nose in the fragrant wisps of hair to snuff her scent.
She giggled. “Tickles.” She wrapped one long leg around him, foot planted on his ass, and drew him forward. “Now.”
Oh, now, absolutely now. Now as they joined and plunged and surrendered to each other but he wanted to please her, hear her cry out and shudder under him; now roll her over so she sat astride him and he clasped her to him and kissed her, drowning in her mouth, her scent, her taste.
* * *
Lou
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN JET LAG OR something else, but she found herself suddenly wide-awake, confused by her surroundings, her heart thudding fast. She sat up, eyes adjusting to the dark, and reassured herself. Yes, she was at Paradise Hall—and a clock struck three, answering the next question; and this was Mac beside her; and the muscles of her legs were a little sore from riding, and from her enthusiastic lovemaking. The sweet scent of rain drifted in through the open window. Everything was okay, wasn’t it?
Or was it? What was she doing, throwing herself into such an intense emotional experience when she’d come here to find Julian? This increasing closeness with Mac, whatever else it might become, had the potential to cause trouble, she was sure of it. Before she became more entangled with him, she should end the relationship. As great as the sex was, she really couldn’t continue anymore. The intensity scared her. This wasn’t what she needed right now.
She didn’t think, with his history, that he’d be particularly upset.
* * *
Mac
OUTSIDE, THE RAIN CONTINUED AS a gentle patter. Mac stood, looking down at her. She looked vulnerable and innocent in sleep, sheets beneath her chin in her fist, one long, pale leg exposed. He wanted to kiss her and tuck her in and make sure her feet were warm enough. Every woman he’d ever known had been very fussy about the temperature of her feet in bed. He rearranged the bedclothes over her, and she gave an annoyed grunt and that leg emerged again. She’d probably bite his nose off if he tried to kiss her.
He retreated into the bathroom, wondering if the sound of running water would wake her, but she was in exactly the same position as before, deeply asleep, when he emerged. Seated at the desk in the room, he drew a sheet of paper toward him and viewed with distaste the quill pen, which had proved a natural enemy when he’d tried it before, scattering random blobs and ripping into the paper. He settled for the rather primitive pencil and scribbled a note.
Lou, bathhouse at 4?
Love,
Mac
Love? Just a figure of speech. His ex-wife Jennifer still signed her emails that way when she reported on Rosie. It was an English thing.
He considered leaving the note on Lou’s pillow, but folded it and left it on the table instead. He’d already made one grand romantic gesture of climbing the ivy into her room; two in one night might be setting a precedent he’d find himself unable to fulfill.
With great caution, he sat on the bed and leaned to sniff her sleepy, sweet smell. He didn’t think he’d ever met a woman he quite liked smelling as much as this one. Sometimes he felt like a dog sniffing at her, wanting to bury his face in her warm, fragrant spots. He kissed her cheek, the only part of her face visible beneath the bedclothes.
She rolled toward him, the sheet falling away, and smiled. “Julian,” she murmured, and her eyes flew open, her expression fading to disappointment when she saw him.
Shit, this wasn’t what he wanted to hear or see. What had happened?
Neither of them said anything for a long, awkward moment and he had the sensation of something precious slipping away, leaving him empty and angry.
She had her thinking expression on again. This wasn’t good.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she said finally.
“You’ve been thinking in your sleep,” he said, trying to make a joke of it.
“The sex is great but what I feel—what I could feel—for you scares me. I think we should back off.” She lay her hand on his arm. “You’ve been terrific. So generous.”
“So terrific and generous I’ve scared you off?”
She looked away. “Maybe. You’ve really helped me put things in perspective.”
She patted his arm and looked at him with such sweetness and reason he wanted to— Well, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. Stomp out in a masculine rage, cry, tell her he wasn’t that crazy about her, anyway… Not true and she would know it. Instead, he said, “Glad to have been of service.”
He got off the bed fast. “Sorry I can’t compete with a dead guy.”
He didn’t want to look at her face and he wanted to get out before she saw his.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mac
“’Ere, Mr. Salazar. You ain’t keepin’ up your left like I fuckin’ told you.”
Mac raised his left arm and tried to focus on Billy Blue the boxing instructor. Billy Blue, where the hell had he got a name like that? The guy looked like a manic leprechaun hopping around in front of him, head bobbing at the level of Mac’s shoulder. Half the time, he couldn’t understand what the guy was saying, his quick Cockney patter full of glottal stops with fuck and fuckin’ exploding like gunfire.
“Come on, then. Ain’t got all fuckin’ day, sir.” Billy’s gloved hands waved around vaguely in the vicinity of Mac’s chest. “Give it me.”
Mac welcomed the invitation to hit something. He stepped forward, swung a right, missed, lost his balance, staggered. He ducked away from Billy’s whirling fists. Billy was the help, though. He wouldn’t actually hit guests, would he?
“I gone easy on you up to now,” Billy said as though reading his mind. “Keep your fuckin’ guard up, Mr. Salazar, or I’ll pop you one, innit.”
What?
Speak English, you little fucker, or I’ll pop you one. Yeah, good idea. ’S’all in the (fucking) footwork (innit) as Billy had said on the first lesson, so he executed a set, or balance, or whatever that dancing step was called (one-two-three) and lunged at Billy, a good, clean fast hook—
Except, Billy wasn’t there anymore and something exploded at his temple and against his back.
The ground.
Shit.
“Sorry, Mr. Salazar.” Billy leaned over him, hands on knees, contrite and worried. “Never saw you fuckin’ comin,’ mate, you goes and runs right into my left, innit.”
How the hell did anyone understand this guy? “Huh?”
Alan and Ben, who shared the boxing lesson with him, stared down at him.“You’re bleeding,” Ben said. As usual, he had few words and most of them stated the obvious.
“Blimey, I was fuckin’ scared for a minute. Thought I’d really hurt you, innit. You okay, are you?”
People still said blimey? Mac sat up, aware that his bare back had come into contact with damp, muddy grass; he and the others were stripped down to breeches and boots. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t sure it was true. This day was going to hell in a handbasket.
A woman ran from the house toward them and, for one moment, Mac thought it was Lou and that she would throw herself into his arms. But it was Di, the lady’s maid, with a large first-aid box under her arm.
“I did emergency training,” she said, and thrust an object under Mac’s nose that had him coughing and spluttering.
“What the fuck’s that?” Mac said.
“Smelling salts. You look a bit pale.”
“I feel a bit pale now.”
“Sorry, Mr. Salazar. Look, this is a cold pack. You’d better put it on your eye, but first…” She rummaged in the box and ripped open a small packet. She pressed the contents onto his eyebrow.
“Shit!” It stung like hell.
“Sorry. It’s antibacterial.”
“Can I help?” Now it was Rob who joined them—of course, the small grassy area set aside for training was just outside the kitchen area, and probably the entire staff was watching.
Mac turned away, stripping off his gloves, and reached for his shirt, hung over the fence. He raised his voice, a little too loud, the gentleman talking to his underlings. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.” He shrugged his shirt over his head, aware of tender patches on his back—he must have landed on some stones—and replaced the cold pack on his eye before heading back toward the house.
“Where you goin’, Mr. Salazar?”
“I’ve had enough,” Mac said, adding for effect, “innit.”
“Mr. Salazar!” Since it wasn’t Billy who called, he turned. One of the footmen hurried after him with a small silver tray, which he offered to Mac. A folded and sealed note lay on it.
He nodded his thanks and pocketed the note, waiting until he was out of sight to open it. Apparently, he had a complimentary massage at three—in fifteen minutes—which would fill the time before dinner nicely. And today, everything felt like filling time.
Lou had the ability to turn him inside out and cause him no end of disturbance, and he really didn’t like it. He should get over her and have fun. There were plenty of ways, and willing people, around here to have fun with, and there wasn’t much to get over, anyway, was there?
After all, she’d used him like some sort of therapeutic fuck machine, and told him his services were no longer needed. The day had started so well, watching her sleep and planning a sexy rendezvous in the bathing pool. He remembered, with some embarrassment, the note he’d left on her table.
He’d looked forward to getting naked in the pool with her and allowing her to use him as much as she wanted. And if he’d had any idea that she was thinking of backing out, he would have dropped the bombshell himself—afterward, of course—and told her it was over. Except, perhaps it wouldn’t have been a bombshell for her. She was so cool about everything, maybe she’d just shrug those bony shoulders and agree that it was a sensible and rational decision. He didn’t see any way he could extricate himself from the situation without feeling, and probably appearing, dumb. But it was done now. It was over before it had hardly begun.
Besides, in his new identity as a Regency gentleman, he wasn’t meant to treat a lady like that, even if he had screwed her ass off.
As he neared the bathhouse and spa, he realized he was striding with clenched fists and muttering to himself, but a good massage would work out the tension in his shoulders and the sore muscles of his back. He removed the cold pack and touched a fingertip to his eyebrow, relieved to find the bleeding had stopped.
He stepped through the doorway into the twenty-first century, the anachronism of a modern spa that Chris and Peter had decided would attract modern women to Paradise Hall. It didn’t quite work. The receptionist—or whatever you called her equivalent when she wore a print gown, cap and apron—checked his appointment on her laptop and suggested in a polite English way that possibly he would like to shower first and relax. She snorted back a giggle as she spoke and he wondered if he was catching her in the middle of watching something funny online.
Another staff member, also looking as though she enjoyed some sort of hidden joke, showed him into a room that appeared to be a cross between a brothel and a hospital facility. The shower was stainless steel and powerful, in an alcove decorated with handmade, expensive tiles—his second wife had taught him all about Italian tiles—and a ridiculous assortment of shampoos and soaps. Orchids and ferns stood on ledges and in huge earthenware pots on the floor.
The room was furnished with a chandelier and a red silk couch, which he assumed was merely decorative, since a sturdy modern massage table was also provided. More orchids, quiet piano music playing through invisible speakers, a clean, fresh scent in the air, quite unlike the rusticity of the bathhouse. Wrapped in the bathrobe the facility provided, he settled on the massage table.
Someone tapped on the door and Mac sat bolt upright as it swung open and he saw who it was. “What the hell are you doing here?”
* * *
Peter
THEY’D SET UP THEIR DESKS IN the office so they sat back-to-back to avoid distraction. But now the distraction of Chris, even out of his sight line, was more than Peter could bear. He found himself making stupid mistakes on the accounts as he sat, fine-tuned to every breath, sigh and movement Chris made. Now and again he’d receive a gust of Chris’s lime-scented aftershave and want to weep with loss and misery.
Why had he done it? Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut and suffered in silence? His suffering now was overwhelming. He looked back almost with nostalgia at the romantic, sighing yearning he’d had for Rob before he’d spoken and screwed all three of them up. At the time, that was unbearable, too, but in a sort of juvenile, romantic way.
A clatter at the door leading into the yard announced the arrival of the mail. Peter, facing the screen, watched from the corner of his eye as Chris picked up the letters from the mat. He wore those tight, tight trousers hugging waist to ankle that Peter adored—he himself was a little too thick around the middle to carry them off—and a coat of gorgeous dark gray wool that clung to his shoulders and waist, flaring out to brush his knees. He tried not to watch as Chris removed the coat, laying it carefully on a spare chair, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, a lovely dark red-and-gold-silk creation.
Peter ached to touch him. Chris had taken to sleeping on the couch in their living room. Peter, sleepless, in the dark hours of the night, would silently stand in the doorway watching him, hardly daring to breathe. Did Chris really sleep so soundly? How could he?
Paper rattled in the recycle box: junk mail.