Bedding his Innocent Mistress Read online

  “So,” he turned around, his hands on his hips, drawing her attention to his neatly muscled waist, to the strength of his physique. As if she needed any further reminders.

  “So,” she repeated, a frown pulling at her lips.

  “What happened?”

  Her frown deepened. “When?”

  “You were gone when I woke up. Why?”

  “Oh.” She pushed her door shut, leaning against it for a moment, hoping to receive some strength from its solid structure. “I left.”

  If possible, the glint of mockery in his face grew. “Yes. I just said that. Why?”

  She shook her head, and stood up, taking a step into her office. “Isn’t that how those things work?”

  “What things?”

  She blushed. “One-night stands.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, unable to hold his gaze.

  “I don’t generally have one-night stands, Ivy. I wouldn’t know.”

  “You don’t?” An absurd burst of hope shot through her, like fireworks and magic.

  “No.” He drawled the word slowly. Electricity seemed to arc between them. “I have lovers. And they do not sneak out on me in the middle of the night.”

  Her stomach churned. “I didn’t sneak out,” she demurred. “I left. And it was early in the morning.”

  “You wish to discuss semantics?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Because it doesn’t matter. It was just one night. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “And that’s what you wanted,” he prompted darkly, propping his hip on the edge of her desk and crossing his arms over his chest. A chest that was broad and strong, that was warm and roughened by a line of dark hair that spiked all the way down to his pants. Oh, she couldn’t see that now, but in her mind’s eye, it was all too easy to picture him as he’d been that night. Crap.

  She swallowed; it did nothing to dislodge the visual.

  “Ivy?” She jerked her head up, meeting his eyes. The way he’d said her name had been tortured. Frustrated. Annoyed.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t lie to you, Rafe. About what I wanted or what that night was. And you didn’t lie to me either. You told me you live in Spain. That you don’t like London. We both knew what we were doing – it was just one night.”

  His scowl was like a thundercloud above them. “I don’t recall us delineating that boundary.”

  Ivy’s breath was locked inside of her. She was finding it hard to concentrate. “I don’t understand.”

  “Apparently not.” He straightened, and she waited, her lungs burning with the deprivation of air. Her body prepared for him, knowing he was going to reach for her, to touch her. But he didn’t. He spun around and lifted the picture frame from her desk, studying it as though he had every right. “This is him?”

  She nodded, but he wasn’t looking at her, so she said, thickly, “Yes. Steve.”

  “The man who left you?”

  “Yes.” She swept her eyes shut, the pain still a pointy, sharp blade inside of her.

  “You’re still in love with him.”

  It wasn’t a question, and yet Ivy asked it of herself anyway. Was she?

  “I…” she shook her head, and her gaze was unknowingly bleak. “It’s complicated.”

  Something seemed to glow from within the embers of his eyes. Challenge? Determination? “How is it complicated?”

  Ivy shrugged her slender shoulders. “We only just broke up…”

  “Six months ago,” Rafe interrupted, showing that he had an excellent recollection of their night together.

  “Right. Nearly seven.” She winced at the way that sounded, as though she was counting off every day on a sad little calendar somewhere.

  “And you were together how long?”

  Ivy was deflated. “Does it matter?”

  “Answer me.”

  Her gaze flew to his face, surprised by the command in his tone. But this wasn’t Rafe Santoro as he’d been in that exclusive casino, nor the Rafe Santoro who’d made love to her and told her he loved the way she looked when she was falling apart in his arms. This was Rafe Santoro, billionaire tycoon, used to commanding a room of far more intimidating people than her.

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business,” she said quietly, moving towards her desk and taking the seat. On the one hand, she knew she should stay standing, to maintain some semblance of strength and power. But her legs were weak and she was tired.

  “If you think that, then you are stupid.”

  She drew in a pained breath. “How dare you?”

  He leaned forward, so his face was only an inch from hers. “I dare, Ivy Hennessey, because you have taken over my mind. Because I have not been able to think of anything but you since that night. I dare because you left with no way of contacting you, no way of finding you, no way of ever seeing you again.”

  His words were pouring warmth and confusion through her, making her blood gush and her eyes glow.

  “I dare,” he said, leaning closer still, “because I don’t believe it’s an accident that our paths have crossed once more. Call it fate, coincidence, stupid dumb luck, but I am not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. I want you. Do you understand that, querida? I want you in my bed, for as long as I’m in London, and I believe you want that too. So let’s talk about what’s going to happen.”

  Ivy’s jaw dropped and she was incapable of speech for several long seconds. She could only stare at him, her mind taking in his decree, her body responding automatically, passionately, filling with lust and need and desire and a soul-deep, fervent ache to do just what he said. To admit that she’d thought of little else but their night together; that she wanted more. All of him.

  But Steve.

  He was a wound from which she’d never recover, and she didn’t dare allow Rafe to wield the same power.

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” she whispered, running her finger over the edge of the desk, feeling a little bump that her chair arm had made one day.

  “You’ll come to my apartment tonight,” he said, as though she hadn’t spoken. “And we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  Her breath was shaky. “I don’t think you understand. I wanted a one-night stand. I wanted to sleep with you and then leave.”

  His eyes narrowed, as he digested that.

  “You wanted someone else to make love to you,” he said, the words somehow stony. “You didn’t want your ex to be the only man to have touched you.”

  She didn’t tell him the truth – that Steve had barely touched her. That they’d made love a handful of times over the years, but that it had never been a big part of their relationship.

  “Is that it?” He prompted, and while she’d been distracted, Rafe had moved closer, his body now looming over hers.

  “Partly,” she said with a quiet honesty. She cleared her throat, knowing that she should finish explaining. “He’s engaged to someone else.”

  “So I was revenge?” Rafe prompted, still giving away little with his words.

  “No!” She spoke emphatically, and the idea curdled her gut so much that she reached over and put a hand on his. “No.” She shook her head. She wouldn’t have their night together reduced to that.

  “At first,” she conceded slowly, “I wanted to sleep with you because of Steve. Because I’ve never done anything like that and I wanted to just… have fun. But once we got to your apartment, it was all about you. And us. What I felt.”

  His eyes flicked to hers; emotions swirled in them. “And what you feel now.”

  She opened her mouth to deny it, but he shook his head, and lifted a finger to her lips, pressing it to her. “Don’t lie to me.”

  She squeezed her eyes together. “But I’m not that person. I thought I could be more like Lisette or you, that I could do the casual sex thing, but it’s just not… I know I’m boring and old-fashioned, Rafe, but I can’t help that.”

  “You were neither boring nor old-fashioned whe
n you were in my bed.”

  She blushed to the roots of her hair.

  “Ivy? Stand up a moment.”

  She blinked up at him, uncertainty washing across her face. “Why?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  Curiosity fired inside of her and she did as he said, lifting to her feet. There was still a height gap between them, but less so.

  “Well?” She prompted, waiting for him to speak or do something.

  Slowly, as though she might startle at any point, he curved his palm around her cheek, and ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. She opened her mouth in response and he dropped his head, his lips meshing with hers, his kiss gentle, at first, before deepening, moving into a place of demand and need.

  She swayed forward instinctively, whimpering deep in her throat as she felt his tight body hard against hers.

  “You want to get over him?” He kissed the question deep into her soul.

  The sob that bubbled out of her was unexpected. He lifted his head, and that same sense of challenge and determination ran across his handsome face.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll send a driver to pick you up this evening. You’ll come to my house, and together, we’ll put him out of your mind.”

  She stared at him, doubts making her mute.

  “Say yes.”

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  He lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. “Really?”

  “Yes. I mean, I’ve never… done what we did… before. But you have. You do. Right? That wasn’t new for you.”

  His expression flashed with impatience. “You were new to me. You were different.”

  Pleasure flamed inside of her, but she tamped down on it urgently.

  “Steve … when we broke up, I didn’t see it coming. We were together a long time and then, bam, it was over. He moved out, moved on, and I’m left behind, still trying to find a rhythm to my life, to work out what the heck I’m doing with myself.” She shook her head angrily.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not telling you that because I want your sympathy. It’s just… I can’t get hurt again, Rafe. I can’t.” she said seriously.

  His eyes narrowed, his attention focussed on her face.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Ivy. I’m going to make you fly.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THIS WAS MADNESS AND rightness, all rolled into one. How was it possible that she felt so certain and so conflicted about something? She wanted Rafe. She wanted him and she was high on how much he wanted her.

  But it was a terrifying thing to contemplate what she – they – were about to do. To stand on the threshold of his apartment, to know that he was waiting for her, that she was here simply to sleep with him. To answer the call of her body’s hormones and biology, to put chemistry above common sense.

  Steve was getting married.

  And even if he wasn’t, he didn’t love Ivy anymore. Maybe he never had done.

  She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders.

  Whatever happened with Rafe, it was her choice. She just had to understand her own mind.

  Before she could lose her nerve completely, Ivy lifted her fist and knocked on the door three times.

  Rafe drew it inwards almost immediately and she couldn’t help the breath that was dragged in. He’d ditched his suit jacket, and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his tanned forearms, and the sight of them made Ivy’s mouth dry.

  “Ivy.” His eyes seemed to be interrogating her, looking at her, waiting for her to speak.

  She smiled, a nervous smile, one of uncertainty.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Would she? Doubts layered themselves over surety but a magnetic pull seemed to be strongest of all, drawing her forward. Wordlessly, she crossed the threshold of the apartment, clearing her throat as she turned to look at him.

  “How are you?” He asked quietly, as though he understood. As though he knew what a big deal this was for her.

  “Fine.” She tried to relax her smile.

  He gestured towards the kitchen and she looked in that direction. He’d poured two glasses of champagne and a little platter was laid out, with strawberries and chocolates and cheese.

  The perfect seduction.

  “Rafe,” she said urgently, knowing that if she didn’t speak soon she would lose the ability completely. “Can we… talk?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded, then stalked across the room. He lifted the flutes and carried one to Ivy.

  She took it but didn’t sip. Instead, she nursed it between her fingertips, finding it easier to focus her gaze on the incredible view of London. It twinkled in the evening, lights like courage, darkness her fear.

  “You’re having second thoughts,” he prompted.

  She sipped her champagne, in attempt to moisten a parched throat. It was the same one they’d shared the first night she’d come here. “It’s not that,” she said thoughtfully, choosing her words with care. “I… you weren’t wrong about Steve.” She swept her eyes shut. “About me wanting to get back at him, in some way. It’s why I decided to come home with you.”

  She didn’t see the way his jaw clenched.

  “We were together a long time and when it ended, I was devastated. Have you ever been in love?”

  “No.”

  The immediacy of his answer didn’t surprise her. She suspected Rafe Santoro was a man who guarded his heart with great care. Perhaps she could learn that skill from him.

  “It’s strange to go from thinking everything is fine and great to discovering it’s not. And he moved on so quickly. I just thought… that if I slept with you… I don’t know.”

  Rafe didn’t speak.

  “I thought it would help me feel better. But I’m a mess,” she said seriously, and then, she turned to face him, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I spent so long with Steve that I have no idea who I am anymore.” She was proud that not even a hint of tears stung her eyes. “But I do know I want to sleep with you.” The words sounded discordant; they were so foreign to Ivy. But they were true. From deep within her soul she knew how she felt and what she needed.

  “I want you to make love to me. I want you to teach me everything about my body because, Rafe, you made me feel… the way it was the other night… I’ve never…”

  His eyes seemed to spark with something and then he was moving towards her and she was rushing to him. No words were necessary to complete the sentiment.

  He knew what she wanted and so did she. What she needed.

  His lips sought hers, his hands pulled at her shirt. A button popped off; she heard it thud against the wall, but it only registered in a small part of her mind. The part not absorbing every detail of what it was like to have this man’s hunger for her overwhelming her senses.

  She pushed at his shirt, lifting it from the waistband of his pants, needing to feel his skin. He made a guttural noise when she found the buttons and undid them, faster this time, needing him but knowing that it was inevitable. She dug her nails into his back, his skin soft beneath her touch. His hands were demanding as they pushed at her skirt, and he growled into her mouth when it didn’t give.

  “Zip,” she muttered, moving one hand to her back but he found it before she did, his fingers sliding down the golden metal, loosening the skirt so that she could step out of it as she moved forward, closer to him, so that they were almost melded together.

  Her skirt was a puddle of black on the white tiled floor. He lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, holding her tight against his erection, his hands tangling in her hair and he kissed her as though they were drowning and this was their only hope for survival. Their desperation was a shared one; it was a current dragging them under, they clung to each other out of necessity, need.

  “I have been hard for you since that morning,” he chastised into her mouth and she ground her hips down, brushing him against her, despite the barrie
r of fabric their underwear created.

  The lights were off in his bedroom; he flicked them on. The full overhead lights glowed and Ivy blinked a little. “I want to watch you come,” he explained, so simply and honestly that the words alone practically produced the result.

  “Okay,” she whispered, but his lips were on hers again, chasing her as he manoeuvred her backwards onto the bed. It was soft, and it smelled like him. She breathed it in, her body on fire. The last lingering doubts gave way.

  This was the right decision.

  She wanted him with a ferocity that almost bowled her over; how could that be wrong?

  He drew her underpants down her legs, now with a slow concentration, a torturous journey that she wanted to expedite. She kicked her legs impatiently and he laughed, a throaty rumble. His hands dragged over her body, her underpants crumpled in one hand, and as he reached her wrists, he straddled her, so that only his silk shorts separated them from coming together.

  He fed her wrists into a leg hole of her briefs, his expression unreadable, as he looped them through one of the metallic slats of the bed head, then caught her other wrist through a leg hole, crossing her wrists so that she was effectively trapped.

  Ivy’s eyes met his. “Clever,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen my knickers used as handcuffs before.”

  His laugh was a rumble. “I’ve been fantasising about getting you tied to my bed since you disappeared into thin air.”

  “Like your very own sex slave?”

  “Si.” He dropped his mouth to her breast and she sucked in a sharp breath. It was a cool night, but that wasn’t why her body pulsed with goose bumps. She pulled at her wrists. The fabric strained but didn’t give. The angle her wrists were on made it impossible to loosen them. Or maybe not impossible, but there was something so erotic about being his prisoner that she didn’t want to try too hard.

  His tongue found her throbbing femininity and she cried out, loud, sharp, a visceral acknowledgement of relief as he drove her to climax, immediately. Not immediately. It had been hours of awareness. Every step, every movement had reminded her that she was on sexual tenterhooks, waiting for the pleasure she so desperately needed.