Behind her, he discarded his coat and tie, tossing both toward a chair without breaking her gaze. His belt whistled free and then thumped into the chair. Each movement stirred the air around them and teased the fine hairs on her body. He unbuttoned his cuffs and then his shirt and tugged his shirttails free, but didn’t remove the garment. Part of her wanted to turn and examine him as he had her, but the governing part of her stood transfixed, muscles locked and rigid.
“Tu es très sexy, Stacy.” His hands, shades darker than her pale skin, curved around her waist.
Her lungs failed, but whooshed back into action when his palms splayed over her belly, one above her navel and one below. An unaccustomed urge to shift until his hot hands covered more intimate territory percolated through her, but she remained as still as a statue.
“Your skin is like ivory. You do not sunbathe?” he whispered against the sensitive skin beneath her ear a second before his lips made electrifying contact.
“I d-don’t have the time. When I’m not working I volunteer my time mentoring at-risk teens.” Kids who were lonely outsiders like she’d been.
His gaze searched hers for a moment and then lowered to the tiny birthmark above her right hip bone. He traced the small reddish splotch with a fingertip. The delicate caress made her feminine muscles clench.
His mouth opened over her skin, laving her pulse point. At the same time he pulled her back against his bare chest. She hardly had time to register the heat of him seeping into her or the tickle of his chest hair before his hands swept upward. His thumbs stroked beneath her breast once, twice, three times. Her nipples tightened painfully. She mashed her lips on a whimper.
Involuntarily, her head tipped back against him. He trailed kisses down her neck, across her shoulder and back to her jaw. She shouldn’t be enjoying this. She didn’t know him and wasn’t certain she could trust him, but the rasp of his hands across her skin aroused her unbearably.
And then he covered her breasts. His fingers tweaked her nipples and something inside her detonated, radiating a delicious sensation from her core. A moan slipped between her teeth.
Franco murmured words in French as he caressed her, words she was too distracted to translate. Stacy squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to maintain control, to remember this was a business transaction, and then Franco’s hand slipped into her panties and his fingers brushed over her most sensitive spot. Her thighs automatically clamped together against the intrusion, but Franco continued to stroke. He delved into her wetness and plied it over her flesh again and again. Circling. Tormenting. Tempting her to let go.
His foot nudged hers apart, opening her for deeper access, and his fingers plunged inside her. Her lungs emptied. Warmth expanded in her belly and her body trembled with need—need she fought to restrain. He pulled her hips flush against his. The length of his erection nudging the base of her spine fractured what little control she had maintained. And then suddenly the tension snapped and orgasm washed over her in waves of pulsing heat, buckling her knees and making her clutch Franco’s arms to keep from falling to the floor. His caresses slowed, easing her though the aftershocks buffeting her.
So that’s what all the fuss is about.
Winded and stunned by the intensity of her response, Stacy forced her lids open and met Franco’s gaze in the mirror. Questions filled his eyes and her skin baked with embarrassment. Feeling raw and exposed, she ducked her head. He must think her totally shameless.
But then shameless is what he’d bought.
Five
Franco could not believe the evidence before him, but the wonder on Stacy’s face and her current embarrassment could only have one cause. “Your first orgasm?”
She winced and dipped her chin in the slightest of nods.
Franco swiftly withdrew his hands. Not because her revelation repulsed him, but because her confession sent a volatile cocktail of emotions through him. Anger rose swiftly toward those who’d misused her, and possessiveness wasn’t far behind. Stacy would be his, certainement, but only temporarily. The third and possibly the most dangerous reaction was understanding. Inexperience, not manipulation, explained the mixed signals she’d been sending him. None of those responses had any place in this relationship.
“Stacy.” He waited until she eased open her eyes again. “Your first, but not your last.”
Her lips parted and then relief replaced the surprise in her eyes. Had she thought he would reject her because her past lovers had been selfish bastards? She might be a pawn in the game with his father, but she would not suffer for it.
He turned her in his arms and covered her mouth, gently this time. Seducing instead of taking. Sipping, suckling her bottom lip and teasing the silken inside with his tongue instead of ravaging her as he’d done earlier.
He still desired her, still hungered for her, but for her sake, he would dull the sharp edges of his need and make this good for her. Good for both of them. By the end of their month Stacy would be a sexually confident woman. She would not forget the lessons he taught her. That other men would benefit bothered him marginally, but he brushed the concern aside.
Inexperienced or not, she accepted your proposition. That makes her like all the others.
Stacy clutched his waist, bunching his shirt in her hands. He wanted her hands on his skin. He released her long enough to rip off the garment and cast it aside.
Stacy’s breath caught. Her pupils expanded as her gaze explored his torso, following the line of hair to his waistband. He captured her hands and spread them over his skin and then glided their joined hands over his burning flesh. Her fingers threaded through his chest hair, tugging slightly, and sending electrifying bolts of pleasure straight to his groin. Her palms dragged across his nipples. His whistled indrawn breath mingled with her gasp as hunger charged through him. He released her hands and fisted his by his side, fighting the need to crush her to him.
She tentatively traced the lines defining his abdominal muscles, and his flesh contracted involuntarily beneath her curious fingers. His control wavered like tall trees in the hot sirocco winds.
What is this? You are no boy.
And yet he trembled like one.
“Unfasten my pants,” he rasped.
She hesitated and then slipped her fingers between fabric and flesh. His stomach muscles clenched and his groin tightened as she fumbled the hook free and then reached for his zipper. Franco gritted his teeth as she lowered the tab over his erection.
Perhaps all women are born knowing how to torture a man.
When she finished the task, she paused, bit her lip and looked up at him though her thick lashes. His control frayed.
Franco moved out of reach, ripped back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. He swiftly removed his shoes and socks, letting his gaze rove over her as he did so. Stacy did not have the stick-straight model figure to which so many women aspired these days. Her breasts were exquisite, round, the perfect size to fill his palms, and tipped with dusty-rose aureoles which he could not wait to taste. Her waist and hips curved nicely. Who would have guessed that she hid such an alluring body beneath her sedate clothing?
“Remove your panties.” He didn’t dare touch her. Not yet.
Her breath hitched and then her thumbs hooked into the black, shiny fabric and slowly pushed it over her hips and thighs to encircle her ankles. She toed them aside and crossed her hands in front of her dark curls. He shook his head. “Let me look at you. Next time I will taste you.”
Her eyes closed. She swallowed.
Franco extended his hand. “Come.”
Watching him warily, Stacy shuffled forward.
“Sit.” She turned as if she were going to sit beside