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CHAPTER THREE
HEKNEWENOUGH to know he should put a stop to this, that his friendship with Luca demanded that, so why did he follow her? Why didn’t he say something?
‘Sienna—’
‘No.’ She turned to face him, her eyes scanning his face. ‘This is happening, Alejandro. I know I’m not as experienced as you, but I know enough to be able to tell when someone’s attracted to me.’
‘Attracted? Undoubtedly.’ She waited, and the word ‘but’ hovered on his lips, yet he didn’t utter it. And suddenly, he was a teenager again, having to make decisions of which he wasn’t proud, to go against his own code of morals simply to survive. But having sex with Sienna wasn’t a question of survival. So why did it feel as though it were?
Sienna didn’t know how she stayed standing upright when every single bone in her body seemed to be trembling. She pushed the door to the room inwards, ignoring the fussy, froufrou décor, ignoring everything but the way his hand felt wrapped around hers, the way her heart was thumping solidly and excitedly for the first time in her life that she was finally taking her destiny into her own hands and claiming what she wanted, because she wanted it, not for anyone else. She was abandoning her virginity when it suited her,not because her father had dictated from beyond the grave that she would need to marry, not because her groom would expect sex to be a component of their marriage. This was her choice, her terms, her life! The rush of power she felt was an added aphrodisiac and she revelled in its delightful possession of her body.
As soon as the door clicked shut he was kissing her again, but without restraint—not that she could have said he was restrained before, but this was different, his mouth taking over her soul completely, the weight of his body pushing her backwards, until they connected with the elegant rococo chaise longue across the room. Neither reached for the lights, so the room was barely illuminated, and Sienna was glad—it heightened her other senses, not being able to see, plus it removed any need for self-consciousness.
She had barely fallen back onto the chaise longue before his hands were pushing at her dress, desperation removing any lingering doubt from her mind that he wanted this as much as she did, that the chemistry she felt wasn’t one-sided.
But when his fingers brushed the simple white cotton of her briefs, she froze, embarrassed, even in the midst of passion, at the utilitarian nature of her underwear. She had no doubt what kind of frothy, lacy situation his lovers usually wore.
If he noticed, or cared, he said nothing, simply sliding them down her legs and disposing of them before bringing his mouth back to hers, the weight of his body on her as he kissed her, his tongue flicking her, rolling with hers, and she arched her back in silent, desperate need.
If she’d loved the feel of his name before, she loved it even more now, every time she cried it, passion infusing each syllable, filling her soul with desperate hunger.
‘Cristo,’ he muttered. ‘You make me feel as though I am a schoolboy again, making love for the first time.’
His accent was so much thicker, his voice ragged, as he stripped out of his shirt, staring at her with what could have been taken as annoyance. Given his admission just now, she supposed it was, but annoyance with himself? The feeling he’d damaged his pride?
She smiled up at him, the compliment doing something funny to her heart, her chest, her stomach, so she bit down on her lip and he groaned, dropping forward even as his arms still worked to disentangle themselves from the crisp white shirt.
‘La marta...’he murmured against her lips.
She spoke Spanish fluently—had taught herself as a way to fill in the empty weekends of teenagerdom—so knew that he was calling her a minx. It made her laugh. Where were the nerves she’d expected to feel? Where was the uncertainty?
She felt nothing but a wild, heady rush of gladness and need, and she felt them in a large enough quantity to forget everything else.
‘This is heaven.’ She pushed his shirt down the rest of the way, lifting her legs up and wrapping them around his waist even as she dropped his shirt to the ground. He rolled his hips and she cried out, because he was so close, his arousal pressed right to her most intimate flesh, so it almost felt as though he were already inside her.
‘I want to take my time, but I know you have not got long,’ he whispered into her ear, but his voice was thick and gravelled when he turned to meet her eyes. ‘People will come looking for you.’
No, nobody would look for her. Nobody would care that she was missing. And nobody would expect that she’d be doing this—nor he doing it with her. The deliciousness of that secret bloomed in her chest. She smiled, pushed onto her elbows and kissed him, while at the same time she reached for his pants and unfastened them. This time, he didn’t stop her. This time, he let her push them down and moved his legs to finish the job, so seconds later this Spanish deity brought to life was naked on top of her, his bronzed, sculpted body so beautiful to feel; she could only wish it were possible to see all of him too. She wanted to push him to standing and command him to pirouette for her, to allow her time to admire him in the barely there light, but standing would mean distance and she wasn’t willing to risk that.
‘A moment.’ The word was hoarse. Without pulling too far away from her, he reached down, fingers wrapping around his leather wallet, which he dug from the fabric of his pockets, and flicked it open one-handed to remove a condom. Her breath hissed from her lips as she watched him roll it over his length, the darkness meaning she could see only the silhouette of his body, and the length of his arousal froze her to the core. How the hell was that going to fit?
She bit down on her lip, terrified that maybe she couldn’t do this after all, but then he was kissing her again. Had he sensed something had shifted? Did he feel her hesitation?
Of course not. He wasn’t a bloody mind-reader. He was just a very experienced lover—so experienced he’d somehow intuited that she was ‘innocent’. He was giving her time to relax, that was all.
His hands found the top of her dress, pushing it down over her breasts, and Sienna could have sworn she heard the fabric tear slightly, but it barely registered because the moment the dress was down he was feeling her breasts in his hands, the weight of each in his palms, rolling them, his fingers brushing over her nipples. She’d gone out with a guy once who’d touched her breasts. He’d said they were like cantaloupes—he’d meant it as a compliment but ever since then Sienna had been mortified by her huge breasts and done whatever she could to disguise them—and she’d never been able to eat any kind of melon again, which was a shame because until then cantaloupes had been one of her favourite fruits and had the added benefit of being detested by her mother, so Sienna had snacked on them often, if only to annoy Angelica. After Ryan Hawkins, she’d never touched them again.
But Alejandro’s touch wasn’t like that. He was gentle and possessive at the same time, making her feel as though he had to touch her breasts in order to be able to survive, making her feel as though this were the beginning and end of his world. She arched her back, and then he took one nipple in his mouth—everything evaporated from her mind in a single, shuddering explosion, until a second later his fingers were between her legs, so she had two parts of her body feeling as though they were bursting into literal flame and she simply couldn’t cope, even when she also couldn’t bear him to stop.
‘This is perfect,’ she ground out, rolling her hips in an ancient, feminine invitation for more.
He spoke softly in Spanish and, despite her fluency, her brain was too jam-packed with new sensations and feelings, so that she couldn’t translate, she couldn’t understand, she knew only that his words made her feel good, like pouring warm, melted caramel over her skin.
‘Please,’ she groaned as his fingers massaged a cluster of nerve endings that had her whimpering hard. She was the only person who’d ever touched herself there, and never like this. Never so skilfully, so masterfully, never with the same mix of pressure then release, so just as she felt she was about to experience relief, he pulled away. Moist heat pooled between her legs; stars jumped behind her eyes, and, out of nowhere, pain.
Stretching, strange, new pain.
Sharp, searing, so she half sat up and cried out, their eyes locking, his showing, at this proximity, obvious shock, hers confusion, until she realised he’d removed his hand and simply thrust into her, his whole length, all of him, at once, and she hadn’t been prepared, even though she had, really, been very skilfully prepared, at the same time.
