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Her fingernails were scoring deep grooves into his shoulders, and the slender arch of her body was an instinctive attempt to fight off his invasion. For a short, frowning second he thought of withdrawing, but she opened her eyes and looked directly into his.
Her mouth shook, but she said, ‘Don’t you dare, Luis.’
He smiled then, amused by how well she too was remembering that first time, when he had tried to withdraw only to have her stop him. And, like that first time, he reached up to brush her hair from her face, then lowered his mouth to gently soothe her with soft kisses while he waited for the tension to ease.
Familiarity should breed contempt, but not in this case. Familiarity was everything when she lifted up her hands to cup his face, then began whispering soft words of love against his lips. In one way he did not want to hear them spoken; in another way he lapped them up with true macho arrogance as she told him everything she was feeling, everything she wanted to feel, and eventually, as the tension eased from her body, everything she demanded he give.
And he gave it all. He gave everything. They matched. They’d always matched—in hunger, in passion, in what they wanted and demanded and made sure they received. They kissed, they touched, they rolled, they built it. It was hot and it was fevered. Each surging thrust overpowered the previous one; each coiled-spring meeting of their bodies drove them closer to the edge. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, her fingers when they came back to his face. When he felt the first ripples of her growing climax he lost it completely and quickened the pace. She came as she’d always com
e—wildly, noisily, gasping and shuddering and tugging him with her over the edge.
Afterwards they lay in a heap of tangled limbs and sweat-slicked skin and shuddering senses. He could feel the thunder of her heartbeat and the quiver of her lips against his throat.
‘Well, that was worth the six-year wait,’ he murmured eventually.
‘Don’t talk,’ she said, and he grimaced.
Maybe she was right. Talking was bound to spoil everything. Rolling onto his back, he took her with him so she lay along his length with their bodies still joined and no desire on either side to separate.
Her hair was stuck to his face and he reached up to brush it away, then gently rearranged her into a more comfortable position, with her cheek in the damp, cushioning crook of his shoulder and her boneless legs resting along the sides of his.
He was sated, he realised, then thought, Strange, that. Because the feeling had nothing to do with the sex but with this—having Cristina lying on top of him like a warm, sleek, sleepy cat.
Reaching for one of her hands, he lifted it to his mouth and began idly tasting each slender finger while he attempted to work out why he was feeling like this.
Cristina, on the other hand, was trying to work out how she’d break it to him that marriage was out of the question, no matter what slant he wanted to put on what they had just done.
Why did he need a wife, anyway?
Or a baby?
The thought of the latter addition made her start to tense up. He instantly soothed her with the featherlight brush of his fingers down the length of her spine.
Luis was always like this after making love, she remembered. Wide awake, but relaxed, content to keep her this close. Any minute now he would start to instigate a second loving. She knew it because she could feel him inside her, still a bold, probing force, even though he was not quite fully erect. And this time it would be slow, more deeply intense and sensually exploring.
Did she let it happen? Did she give in and steal just one more escape from reality before she told him that his deal was not going to happen?
‘You told me you still love me,’ he remarked idly.
‘I did not!’ she denied, lifting her head up from his shoulder so that she could glare that denial into his impassive face.
He was so beautiful her heart turned over. His slumbrous eyelids lowered as he sucked her index finger into his mouth and wrapped his tongue right around it, then began a slow mimic of a different act that set him hardening and swelling inside her.
Her soft gasping quiver had him releasing the finger.
‘You did,’ he insisted, then reached up and brought her mouth down on his before she could answer. A few seconds later and she had forgotten what they were talking about as it all began again in a slow deep mutual loving—just as she had predicted.
Just this one more time, Cristina told herself as she let him take her over.
Back in London, Maria Ferreira Scott-Lee was standing by her dressing table. In her hand she held a small package from Estes & Associates, Advocates of Law, Rio de Janeiro. The package had arrived the same day that her son had flown out to Brazil. Inside it was a jewel box and a letter. The jewel box held an exquisite, priceless diamond-encrusted emerald ring. The letter was personal—deeply personal—handwritten by Enrique himself.
Don’t mess with what you do not yet understand, Maria, Enrique had written as a warning footnote. Our son will marry the widow of Vaasco Ordoniz and you will forget that you ever knew that name if you value our son’s love for you.
But she could not forget Vaasco Ordoniz. She could not forget that Anton would have been Vaasco’s son if Enrique had not got in the way.
Ah, the tangles life could throw at you, she thought on a sigh that had her lowering herself onto the dressing stool. Enrique was the most handsome man she had ever encountered. Meeting him at Vaasco’s ranch had turned into the ruin of her life. Betrothed to Vaasco, in love with Vaasco, she had still fallen for Enrique’s charm and into his bed. When she’d fallen pregnant with Enrique’s child she’d had to tell Vaasco. It was natural that he’d thrown her out of his life.
‘Back to the gutter where you belong,’ he’d said.
