Bedding his Innocent Mistress Page 2

  But it wouldn’t.

  He had a new life.

  And he was happy.

  She knew because his fiancé was all over social media like a rash and Ivy wasn’t above a bit of a late night, wine-induced trawl. It was always misery inducing, and she always regretted it the next day.

  So why not have something different to regret?

  Something new and exciting and, she suspected, infinitely more satisfying than stalking her way through loved-up images of the kind of engagement party her Steve would have found insufferably twee?

  She was twenty-four years old, and single for the first time in her adult life.

  And a really hot guy wanted to take her home.

  She stood up straight, and pulled her dark hair over her shoulder. It was a stain on her pale skin and the blood-red dress.

  Without giving herself a moment to question the wisdom of what she was about to do, she strode out of the bathroom and back to the main room of the elite casino, desire and lost-pride firing the urgency of her step.

  He was talking to Lisette. He’d said something that had made her laugh, because her blonde head was tilted back, her big red lips open in amusement.

  Jealousy and uncertainty spread through her gut, but she’d had two glasses of champagne and they were her confidence’s armour. They wrapped her back up, keeping her footing self-assured. When she was close enough, she put a hand lightly on his back. Just enough to draw his interested gaze to her face.

  “Something funny?”

  “Hey! Rafe Santoro, this is Ivy Hennessey, my delightful cousin and occasional partner-in-crime.”

  “Why do I think you two would be quite the formidable crime duo?” He asked with a sexy smile as he reached for a glass of champagne and handed it to Ivy. She took it, purposefully wrapping her fingers across his and enjoying the sizzle of heat that sparked instantly between them.

  It was different to how she’d felt with Steve, but then, they’d been together forever. They were comfortable lovers. It had never been steamy. In fact, with the benefit of hindsight, she saw that they’d been more like friends.

  “Because you’re obviously very smart,” Lisette winked and then threw her scotch back in one go, wincing as it burned through her. She stood, running a hand down her front and smoothing out the fabric of the black bodycon dress. “Ives, a friend just texted to see if I can meet up. I’m going to head off.”

  Ivy shook her head slowly, a smile on her lips. “You really are incorrigible.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Lisette leaned closer, pulling her cousin into an embrace and kissing her cheek. “Be safe,” she whispered. “And have fun.”

  “You too,” Ivy said as Lisette straightened, and could only watch as the blonde sauntered away, her head bent over her cell as she tapped out a reply to whomever this friend was.

  “So…” Ivy looked up at the handsome stranger – no longer a stranger.

  Rafe Santoro.

  The name was familiar to her, but in a foggy way that might have been just because it suited him so absolutely perfectly.

  “So…Let’s go,” he said darkly, his intention formed and set.

  Her laugh was a sexy husk. “You literally just got us drinks.”

  He reached over and took the flute from her, placing it on the table beside them and then chasing her now-empty hand. He laced his fingers with hers, lifting them to his lips. His breath was warm as he placed a single kiss against the back of her hand. “I know. Let’s go,” he repeated, and a frisson of anticipation warmed her from the inside out. This was the time to decide who she wanted to be.

  A woman desperately pining for a man who no longer wanted her?

  Or the kind of woman who wasn’t afraid to enjoy life?

  “Let’s go,” she nodded, and there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind as she said it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “HOLY CRAP,” SHE muttered, frozen just inside the door of his ‘apartment’. Well, that was a misnomer if ever she’d heard one.

  “This is like a … freaking sky palace,” she stood on the spot but did a slow, thorough three-sixty-degree revolution. The apartment hadn’t been ‘just around the corner’. It had been a quick, chauffeur driven ride into the City – a ride in which Ivy was too wound up by adrenalin to attempt more than perfunctory small-talk. They’d parked undercover and caught the lift right to the top floor – level forty-two of what must be The Langton, going from the view she could see through the windows.

  And could you technically call them windows when they formed an entire wall of the apartment and part of the roof? They curved beautifully and she could see the wisps of clouds against the inky black of the night sky. Beyond the glass, at one end of the enormous living space, there were floating lights. A balcony, she guessed. The walls that weren’t made of glass were white. Not warm white. Stark white. And there were dramatic pieces of art splashed loudly across the serenity. The décor was modern, all Scandinavian style timber furniture mixed with more glass and steel.

  “This is where you live?”

  He was right behind her, his body warmth a physical barrier she wanted to fall into.

  “No,” his fingers grazed the flesh on the underside of her arm as he loosened her clutch from its spot, gripped against her side. He took it and strode deeper into the cavernous space, tossing it carelessly on a side table before turning to regard her thoughtfully.

  “No? Are we breaking in?” She responded huskily, slipping her feet out of the wedge-heels she wore, grateful for the vertical-reprieve. She wiggled her toes and the bright red polish she’d had applied winked back at her encouragingly. “Should I be braced to defend us?”

  His laugh sent a throb of something delicious down her spine. “As much as I’d like to see that, no. It’s mine; I own it. But I don’t live here.”

  She regarded him thoughtfully. “Where do you live then?”

  “I have a place outside San Sebastian; that’s home. But I spend much of my time in Madrid… for work.”

  “You travel a lot?”

  His nod was a concession. “You?”

  Steve had been afraid of flying, which, given the constraints of her job, had limited the places they could go. “Only really to France.” There had been a girls’ trip to Budapest one weekend. “Hungary. Not as much as I’d like to.”

  He nodded, and she had the sense that he was reading more from the statement than she’d permitted. That he was analysing her rather than just making conversation. His eyes – they were so distractingly stunning – narrowed, speculation giving them a glow.

  “Why not?”

  Her smile was dismissive. “I work long hours. It’s hard to get away.” Keen to change the subject off anything that might remind her of Steve, she said, “We should have gone to my place. This is too nice. I’ll break something.”

  His laugh was quiet. “I doubt it.”

  “It’s like a photoshoot from an architectural magazine. My purse is completely out of place.”

  He grinned and pushed out of his suit jacket, discarding it messily on the back of a white leather Eames. “Better?”

  “Yeah. I guess clutter loves company.” She moved deeper into the space, still totally overawed by the stunning outlook. “It’s just beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “For London, yes.”

  “For London?” She pulled a face of mock offence. “Careful. That sounds like a bit of an insult to my fair town.”

  He nodded. “As it was intended.”

  He moved into the kitchen – the kind of kitchen that would be perfectly acceptable in a five-star restaurant – and pulled a bottle of champagne from a small fridge concealed beneath the bench top.

  “You don’t like London?”

  He popped the cork quietly, holding it tightly in his hand as he lifted it out of the bottle. “London I can tolerate. The weather on the other hand,” he grimaced as he filled the glasses then skirted around the kitchen, handing one to her.

  Again,
she used the opportunity to let her fingers flirt with his and the awareness here, in his apartment, without the swirling of crowds and the sounds of strangers; here where the promise of what was to come was inherent in every breath she took, there was a powerful arc of sensual need that flamed her nerve-endings.

  “You get used to it,” she said, her mind working on auto-pilot as a separate entity of her brain.

  “Perhaps,” he took a drink of the champagne and his throat moved as he swallowed. It was a thick throat. Strong. Powerful. A kick of desire trembled through her.

  She wanted to see him.

  All of him.

  “But you live one life, you know? And for me, life is not,” he frowned, “This.” His eyes flicked around the room, expressively, distracting...

  “What is then?” She prompted, but she was being pulled into a sticky, threaded web, as if by magic. His words were wine and she was drunk on them, intoxicated by his accent and his thoughts.

  “The sun on my skin. The salt water from the ocean tangy in the air. Food, wine, friends. No smog.” His smile was the last straw. She suppressed a shiver as the image he’d painted danced before her eyes, so real she could almost reach out and touch it for herself.

  Her voice was thick. “Why do I think you’re too busy to enjoy much of that?”

  “You’re right.” A sense that they were connected in a way that defied logic zapped between them.

  She sipped her champagne, aware that his gaze followed the gesture, lingering on her eyes and lips.

  “London always leaves me with a sense of claustrophobia. Like I’m walled in by buildings and land. I don’t like it.”

  “I’d never thought of it like that. Besides, we have the Thames.”

  His laugh was soft. “I wouldn’t brag about that.”

  Now Ivy laughed. “You’re a geography snob, you know that? London is generally thought to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”

  “Most cosmopolitan perhaps; not beautiful.”

  “You don’t think this is beautiful?” She lifted her hand and gestured to the view. Beyond the glass wall of his penthouse, the city was aglow with lights and activity.

  “I think you are beautiful,” he said, and her heart thudded at the compliment. “I think you would find my home beautiful. London is … unique.”

  She swallowed, not sure if she could argue with his assessment; not sure she had any interest in the conversation. Or any conversation.

  Her champagne glass was almost full. She took two large sips, almost draining it, and then put it down on the table. Should she tell him she didn’t do this often? Or was it obvious? What if he decided he didn’t want to sleep with someone as inexperienced as her?

  No.

  He wanted her; the details of her past didn’t matter. This was one night.

  One night out of her life – something she’d always be glad she did because finally she could start shifting Steve into a different box in her mind. His body would no longer be the only body to have possessed hers.

  Determination gave her courage.

  “It’s nice champagne,” she murmured, taking another sip and then deliberately sauntering to the kitchen and placing the glass on the marble bench. “The same as in the casino.”

  She saw him nod in the window’s reflection.

  Ivy turned, slowly, determinedly, and then walked back towards him. Her fingers were shaking slightly but not from anxiety. She was full of nerves – good nerves. Excited nerves. She wanted this with all of her being. She stopped right in front of him, drawing in a shuddering breath and locking her eyes to his. She asked a silent question; he answered resoundingly.

  Ivy fumbled at his top button, loosening it after two attempts. She could feel his eyes trained on her face and her fingers shook a little more, but he didn’t say or do anything to speed her up.

  It was a form of sensual torture. The slowness with which she worked was stirring his blood in his body, making it hot and wild with need. When she reached the last button on his shirt and lifted her eyes to his, as if once again silently asking permission to remove the shirt from his pants, he almost groaned with impatience. He didn’t, though. He nodded instead. A small movement of agreement and then her fingers slid inside his belted waist, pulling the fabric free as her fingers brushed against his flesh.

  His body jerked.

  He wanted to do this. To do it quickly. To take her here, against the wall, or on the kitchen bench; he didn’t care.

  He’d been with enough women to know his impatience was unusual and unprecedented. Seduction was, generally, an art form, and Rafe Santoro had perfected it. He never rushed matters.

  But her innocence was obvious, her inexperience surprising, and he held his breath, keeping still, honouring her uncertainty, allowing her tentative exploration even when he ached to take command.

  Her fingertips glided over his bare chest as she pushed the shirt away, finally, now that each button had been separated from its holster. This she did slowly, too, letting her hands feel him as her eyes ravaged his exposed chest.

  Ivy knew it wasn’t fair to compare this man to Steve.

  She’d never noticed anything deficient in Steve; she’d loved him. But these two men were not of the same species. Rafe’s chest was a testament to one of Da Vinci’s sketches of man, with its ridged muscles and tight contours. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him; he was lean, but he was taut and firm.

  He was male-model-handsome. Hollywood hot.

  She bit down on her lip as she pushed the shirt further apart, until finally she could guide it down his arms and remove it completely, so that it dropped to the floor behind Rafe.

  “My turn.” A gravelled voice that was a tipping point. Her pulse slammed through her body and she waited, her stomach churning, as he pushed at the straps of her dress, lowering them. Not as slowly as she had, but with the same deliberate fascination.

  Heat pooled inside of her as he removed the dress, dragging it down, down, until he reached her breasts.

  “No bra,” he murmured appreciatively.

  “No need,” was the self-disparaging response she issued with a flicker of a smile.

  She didn’t know if he’d heard. Urgency overtook him. His hands dropped to her rear and lifted her easily, as though she weighed nothing. He carried her, her legs wrapped around his waist, the dress making her squeeze him tight, and his mouth dropped to her breast, taking a nipple into his warmth and flicking it with his tongue as he moved through the apartment.

  He pressed her against the wall, her back held while her legs stayed wrapped around him and his mouth tormented her with heat and flame. She dragged her hands through his hair; thick and dark, she pulled at it as he rolled her sensitive nipple in his mouth, torturing her with the ambush of feeling.

  “I want to drag this out,” he groaned and the words swirled around her breasts with heat and flame. “But I need you now.”

  She nodded. She felt the same. And no thought of Steve was on her mind as she agreed. “Me too.”

  She ground her hips, bringing her warm heart close to his length, his hard cock was right there. She could feel it through the flimsy fabric of her underwear and she moved against it hard and fast, writhing as though he was inside of her, trying to satisfy the waves of need that were building within.

  He swore – at least, she presumed he did – in his own language. A harsh, guttural sound accompanied by the clink of his belt as he loosened it, pushing his pants apart and releasing himself so that now only her underwear stood between them. He thrust against her, joining her in simulating the act they both wanted and she cried out, hoarse and loud, as pleasure radiated through her. Now when he kissed her breasts, it was demanding and harsh, almost to the point of pain, and she could feel her world tilting off its axis, splintering into a billion tiny, hot pieces.

  Ivy swore. A sound of total surprise, as though she’d been caught standing in the middle of the train tracks and had no idea how she wa
s there. What was happening to her? Fever was in her blood; a fever unlike she’d ever known.

  “I need … I want … please …” A cry for help, fevered and passionate.

  “This,” he said, and he pushed against her, so that she nodded desperately. “I know.”

  “Please,” she groaned, and when he dropped a hand and pushed aside her underpants, she wanted to take him deep inside. The invasion of his finger was a surprise and at first, she was angry – it wasn’t enough. She wanted him. His length, deep inside of her. But waves of pleasure pushed away that first initial reaction. His finger swirled inside of her, tormenting her pleasure centres, finding her most sensitive cluster of nerves and brushing them again and again until she was incandescent and crying out, pleasure overtaking her completely.

  At the moment she splintered apart, he eased her to the ground. Her dress was a belt around her waist and she was on the precipice of sanity; orgasm rushed through her, reaching the outer edges of her being with determined speed, until all of her was awash with a depth of sensation she’d never known possible.

  She could only lean against the wall, needing its support, her eyes half-shut as she trembled in the wake of the assault on her pleasure centres.

  Rafe moved quickly, slipping a condom over his erection. He was so damned hard it almost hurt to constrict himself in the rubber, but he’d never taken risks when it came to sex and even this stunning woman wasn’t going to make him forget that. But she was such a picture, heavy with desire, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, body limp.

  He swore in his native tongue, a guttural sound of need as he reached for her and lifted her once more, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting into her in one movement, pushing her back against the wall as his body claimed hers. She was so wet, and so tight. Her muscles squeezed around his length and he paused, holding her where she was as he trapped her hands and lifted them above her head, holding them with one hand as he thrust into her again and felt her convulse as pleasure continued to radiate through her.