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She could hear his deep rasping breathing, the heavy thump of his heartbeat, smell the warm musky scent of his male skin. A light sheen of sweat had broken on the broad expanse of his back and she luxuriated in that too, loving the intense maleness of him. Then it happened. An unexpected series of sweet, unending undulations crashed through her pelvis, spreading all the way out to her fingers and her toes, making the hair on her head stand up.
‘Serge!’
‘Da—Serge.’ In response he thrust harder and faster.
Her orgasm met her and she rolled with it. She was contracting around him, and with a deep groan he released into her. It went on and on, spiralling through her body as she unravelled. As he subsided she sank back into the mattress, taking him heavily down on top of her, loving the sensation of being utterly consumed by him.
She closed her eyes and breathed him in. Her Cossack.
Clementine felt the absence of his weight even though he had only lain heavily atop her so briefly. He had his eyes closed and gave a couple of deep, gusty breaths, as if bringing himself back to reality. She knew how he felt. She hardly recognised herself in the woman who had clung to him and whimpered, encouraging him to do more, to make her feel more.
She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him.
Beautiful. He’d called her beautiful.
She gathered the word up close and hugged it. She felt beautiful.
She reached out and touched his shoulder. His head tilted and his green gaze tangled with hers. Her heart gave a sudden lovely thump and her pulse kicked up.
Serge rolled towards her and brushed his thumb back and forth over her cheek, traced her mouth. ‘I thought I’d dreamed you up in that store,’ he said in a gravelly voice, ‘but here you are. All mine.’
Clementine’s eyes went soft as down even as Serge’s own thoughts raced to a stunning halt. He didn’t know what it was he wanted from her, but it wasn’t this. Closeness…connection. What in the hell had prompted his soft words?
‘Serge, make love to me,’ she invited, lashes lowering, mouth soft, her body recumbent beneath him, parting her thighs in explicit invitation. She was a fantasy he had never known he had. Until now.
This at least he understood. This he could do. Again and again.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, and moved over her.
She drifted to consciousness to find herself alone. For a moment Clementine wondered if it had all been an erotic dream, before she rolled over into the space where he had slept and buried her face in his pillow, seeking out the remnants of his scent. No dream. All real. Luckiest girl in the world.
There was a tender ache between her thighs. In fact all of her was a bit achy. Memories assailed her—his hands on her, those skilful hands. A big smile spread over her face. Where had he learned to do those things? Had she really let him? When would they do it again? She sat up and winced. Maybe not this morning.
Should she get up and go and find him? What was she going to say? Maybe he wasn’t a morning person. She definitely wasn’t—with the exception of this morning. Sinking back onto his side of the bed, she luxuriated in her happy place. Nothing could ruin this feeling.
Stretching, she felt her hand land on something hard and cold beside the pillow. Curiously she rolled over, put her hand on a small red box.
Even as she opened it a chill was spreading through her chest.
Diamonds glittered from a black velvet bed. She couldn’t even bring herself to touch them. There was a note attached.
Wear this tonight. I’ll be back for you at seven. Dress up.
Clementine didn’t know how long she sat there, cross-legged in the bed, the jewellery case abandoned beside her, the note shouting at her: He’s bought you; he thinks you’re for sale.
It took a while for the storm of feeling inside her to subside, but it did, and then she began to think more rationally.
Serge had no idea about her past. He couldn’t know a piece of jewellery like this would push her buttons. Sensibly she told herself this was probably his modus operandi. Get the girl, drape her in something glittery—the same way other men bought flowers.
Oh, flowers would have been nice—to wake up to a little bunch of something beside her. Would have cost him a great deal less, too.
She wilted a little and gave a wry smile.
Serge Marinov might be a rich guy who flew in women to warm his bed, but that wasn’t all he was. She’d seen enough to know this was a really good guy. She would never have slept with him last night if he wasn’t.
He had been everything—tender and passionate and romantic.
He just didn’t have a clue about the morning after.
She picked up the jewellery case and shoved it into the bedside table, then padded barefoot out of the bedroom. Out of sight, out of mind.
