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If Rodriguez had had a mother he could remember, he would have wanted the same.
And he didn’t want to be anything like the man who was Luca’s father in genes only.
She looked up at him, her green eyes rimmed in red from crying. “I promise to be faithful to you too.”
He felt like they were taking vows now. Like everything spoken between them in this room would be binding.
“I need you to promise something else too,” he said.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“Gabriel’s not invited into our bed.”
She grimaced. “No problem.”
“I don’t mean literally, and I don’t mean in the sense that I think you might fantasize about him or something. I mean any hang-ups he’s left you with. The guilt. You loved him. It didn’t just go away when he admitted he’d lied to you. I’ve never loved anyone, Carlotta. I know it makes people do things they wouldn’t normally do. And I just want you.”
She drew in a shaking breath. “I don’t know if I can, Rodriguez. What I did was … I can’t forgive myself for it.”
“How long did your affair with him last?”
“Every weekend for about eight weeks.”
“And you fell in love with him?”
“I was a twenty-three-year-old virgin. I thought I was in love with him the moment I went to bed with him, the night that I met him. I saw white dresses and diamond rings and forever.”
“And if you had known he was married when you met, what would you have done?”
“I never would have let him touch me.”
“He waited to tell you until he knew he had you wrapped around his finger. He’s the one who should be ashamed. Deeply. He deceived you. He manipulated you.”
“I still did the wrong thing,” she insisted.
“And I am in no position to throw stones. I’ve made mistakes. That’s another thing I’ll never ask of you. I’ll never ask you to be perfect, because I know I never will be.”
“I think I can do that,” she said, her voice trembling, a small laugh escaping.
“I know this isn’t what either of us expected, but I think we can make it work.” He moved his thumb over her smooth, creamy skin. His body responding to the silken texture, to her scent. Even now, he could remember how it had been to caress the even softer skin of her breasts. A tremor of lust rocked him.
“And you’ll always tell the truth?”
“I will,” he said.
“What are you thinking right now?”
He gritted his teeth. “I’m thinking about how much I want to continue what we started on the beach. How beautiful your breasts are. How much I want to taste them again.”
Her cheeks flushed deep rose, her full lips curving up slightly. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”
“But honest,” he said.
“I want you too, but …”
“Forget everything right now. What do you want?”
“You,” she said. “I want to make love with you. But …”
He leaned in and kissed her. Carlotta closed her eyes and let the touch of Rodriguez’s mouth on her wash everything away. The guilt. The hurt. His kiss cleansed her, left her empty, wanting, then filled her again with desire, need.
She’d told him the truth and he still wanted her. Maybe she could do this after all. Want it. Want him.
She’d had her guilt tangled up in desire for so long. Had seen desire as her downfall. Not just sexual desire, but the wild part of herself she was afraid was always beneath the surface. She’d let a part of it out before, but Rodriguez, wanting him, made it flood her. She felt out of control, but in the very best way. What would happen if she gave in? Not on their wedding night, not when it was expected, but now. When it was her choice.
To follow her desire and prove to herself that she could have sex and pleasure, like a normal woman. To prove that she didn’t have to spend her whole life being punished for one mistake.
She wanted to believe it. She wanted so much for Rodriguez’s words to be true. She wanted to accept forgiveness. So badly she ached with the need of it.
“Yes, Rodriguez, please,” she said against his lips. “Please make love with me.” A rush of relief flooded her when she spoke the words. Like invisible bonds had broken and she was free. To feel, fully and completely, the need that he inspired in her. To want him as a woman wanted a man without the ghost of her past mistakes haunting her. Without inhibition. Without the cloying, crushing weight of expectation that had been on her all of her life.
She’d never felt anything like this before. She was immersed in sexual desire, in reckless need. There was no thought. No control.
His kiss deepened, intensified, and she returned it, her tongue delving deeply into his mouth, the feeling sending a thrill of pleasure through her, making her body ache for more.
He unzipped her dress quickly and she helped by unhooking her bra and letting it fall to the floor. She was eager to get back where they had been. To take what she’d denied herself earlier.
He didn’t disappoint. Rodriguez lowered his head, tracing the valley between her breasts with the tip of his tongue. She shivered at the contact, her nipples tightening along with an answering clenching of the muscles low in her stomach.
His tongue edged nearer to her nipple and she held her breath, waiting for him to give her more. To give her what she wanted. He didn’t. And it wasn’t because he didn’t know. His low, husky chuckle told her he knew exactly what he was doing to her. And that he was doing it on purpose.
“Rodriguez.” She panted his name, not caring if she sounded like she was begging. Because she was.
She arched into him, and he honored the request, drawing one tightened bud deep into his mouth, the suction resonating within her, deep and low, making her internal muscles clench tight. He turned his attention to her other breast, and she let her head fall back, reveling in his attention, allowing herself to feel every sensation that was firing through her bloodstream.
He moved his head away and blew lightly on her damp skin, the shock of cold air tightening the bonds of arousal around her body, holding her captive to need.
She gripped the back of his head, her fingers wound tightly in his hair, every muscle in her body tensing, waiting to find out what he would do next. He kissed her, just beneath her breasts, then again lower, tracing a line to her belly button with the tip of his tongue before he gripped the bunched-up sides of her gown and tugged it down her legs.
“Still good, querida?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” she breathed. “So good.”
“It will only get better.” He pulled her panties down her legs and parted them gently, his tongue gliding along her inner thigh.
Her entire body was trembling, nerves and arousal making her stomach churn. He traced the line of her delicate flesh, his tongue delving between her slick folds. A hoarse sound escaped her lips as she gripped his shoulders, trying to keep herself from jumping away from him. Making sure he didn’t abandon her.
The sensations, the intensity of them, were almost too much. He continued to pleasure her with long strokes of his tongue and she felt like she was going to shatter and fall into a million pieces all around him.
When he pushed one finger inside her, she did. An explosion of pleasure roared through her, her core pulsing around him as he worked to draw her climax out to impossible heights, impossible lengths.
She felt weak after, spent, but far from finished.
He wrapped his arms around her and drew her down onto the floor with him, then holding her tightly to his chest, he stood and began to walk into the bedroom area of his chamber. She’d never been carried by anyone, not since she was a child. He made her feel feminine. Cherished.
And it made warm and fuzzy feelings start growing in her. That was bad. She didn’t want warm and fuzzy. She wanted hot and lusty. She managed to push past the post-orgasm languor and focus on how much she wanted him. All of him. In her. With her.
He set her on the edge of the bed and quickly stripped off his shirt and went to work on his pants, kicking off his shoes and socks, tugging his underwear down with the slacks and pushing them all to the side.
He was so much hotter than she’d even imagined. His muscles sharp, hard cut and deliciously defined, with just the right amount of dark hair over gorgeous olive skin. And when she looked down past his chest, and his impressive length, her whole body went liquid with desire.
She leaned forward to take her shoes off.
“No,” he said. “Leave them.”
She straightened and pushed herself backward so that her entire body was on the bed, and, never taking her eyes off his, she leaned back, her high-heel-clad feet flat on the bedspread, her entire body open and bare for him.
It was a little bit frightening, and also liberating, to offer herself to him, to see the stark desire in his handsome face.
“Remind me to drop the maharaja a thank-you note,” he said, his words tight.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I’m very thankful he ran off with Sophia. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be in this moment. And I don’t think I have ever wanted another woman the way I want you.”
She shifted and rose up on her knees, coming back over to the edge of the bed. She gripped the hard length of his arousal and squeezed him, watching as his expression changed, as his control slipped.
She leaned in and circled the head of his erection with her tongue and a harsh sound escaped his lips. He pulled away from her, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Not yet,” he said. “Not like that.”
He leaned over and opened the drawer on his side table, pulling out a condom packet. She took it from his hand and tore it open, rolling it onto him surprisingly fast given how badly her hands were still shaking. From her semi-release, from her continued arousal, from nerves, excitement and just about every other feeling she could think of.
He joined her on the bed and she thought her heart was going to climb up her throat. He was sexy, and big, and amazing, and big, and she hoped everything still worked like it was supposed to.
“Relax,” he said, drawing her to him, her naked breasts pressing tightly against his chest, the crisp hair there stimulating her nipples, making her stomach tighten, her internal muscles pulse.
He cupped her bottom with one large hand and lay back, bringing her with him, so that she was halfway on top of him. He kissed her, his touching helping to banish the sudden onslaught of nerves.
She shifted and brought the head of his erection up against the slick entrance of her body. He brought both of his hands to her hips, holding her tightly as she slid down onto his length. She couldn’t hold back the sound of satisfaction as he filled her, stretched her.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, rising up again, then down, learning the right rhythm for both of them.
His grip tightened on her, one hand staying firm on her hip, the other moving over her breasts, teasing her nipples as she rode him.
When her orgasm hit, she leaned forward and braced her hand on his shoulder, holding herself still as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He wrapped his arms around her and switched their positions, thrusting hard into her as he sought his own release. She moved against him, each one of his thrusts bringing her closer, impossibly, to another climax.
When she reached the edge this time, they went over together, his harsh growl of completion the final component that brought her to the brink.
They lay together, sweat-slicked limbs entwined, the only sound in the room their harsh breathing.
She’d had sex with Rodriguez. Because she’d wanted to. Because she’d wanted him. She had let go. Of everything. Of her control. She had let it all drop and she had simply been Carlotta. Not the woman she was supposed to be. Just the woman she was.
And the world hadn’t crumbled. Quite the opposite. Things seemed right for the first time. She didn’t feel like she was being suffocated in her own body, crushed beneath the weight, the expectation, that she would be able to be a perfect kind of superwoman.
With Rodriguez, she had simply been herself.
A tear slid down her cheek and landed on his chest. She felt free.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEX was always good for Rodriguez. It was something he’d used, from a very early age, to escape from the world. To get lost in feelings that were purely good, so that he could block out a recent beating he’d received from his father’s hand, or a verbal assault that had flayed him from the inside out.
But sex was never like this. It had never been about giving with no thought to what he might get back. Though Carlotta had given back more than he’d ever experienced before, it hadn’t been his primary objective.
It hadn’t even entered his mind.
Their bodies had simply worked together. The give and take so perfect and rewarding. He had been lost in her. In the touch of her hands, her taste, her scent. He could have lavished her with attention all night and not been satisfied. Not wholly.
That was another new and unique aspect. This sort of strange, bone-deep fulfillment that made him feel both sated and in need of more.
But not now. Now Carlotta was wrapped around him, her breath deep, warm and moist across his chest.
And he didn’t feel trapped, or crowded, or anything he’d thought he might feel sleeping in the same bed with a woman.
He’d never, ever slept with a lover in the pure, literal sense of the word.
He was up and gone after sex. It was just the sort of liaison he conducted, the kind he was comfortable with. And he made sure he pursued women who wanted the same sort of arrangement.
He didn’t want anyone in his life, only between the sheets. He’d managed to make it to twenty-nine without ever sharing a bed with a woman for the express purpose of what a bed had been built for.
He liked it. The warm weight of her on his chest, liked stroking his hand over her sleek, dark hair. And really enjoyed taking advantage of running his other hand over her bare curves, her skin silken beneath his fingertips.
Carlotta’s body jerked and she pushed herself up partway. “Oh!”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she whimpered, putting her hand over her face and scrubbing at it for a moment. “What time is it?”
He craned his neck behind them. “Six-thirty.” And he hadn’t slept at all. He’d simply lain there, dissecting the events of the night, enjoying being with her.
“Oh, no,” she said, moving into a sitting position. “Luca will be up in a bit.”
“Let Angelina get him.”
“He comes in looking for me sometimes,” she said, her voice thick from sleep. “I need to go back to my room.”
A strange flash of something sharp and hot stabbed him in the gut. Was he jealous of a five-year-old? Impossible. And ridiculous.
Why was he arguing? He didn’t need to sleep with her. They’d had sex. And that was what having a woman in his bed was all about. Yes, it had been nice to have her with him, but there was no reason for it to feel essential that she stay.
But he sat up with her, unwilling to lie back down if she was getting up. He stood and kicked his clothes, still bunched up by the bed, to the side. Carlotta’s eyes were glued to him in the dim light.
“See something you like?” he asked, walking over to his dresser and digging until he produced a soft black T-shirt.
“A lot of something I like,” she said softly.
He threw the shirt to her and she caught it. “So you don’t have to walk back down the hall in an evening gown,” he said.
“Is anyone up?”
“Possibly. But trust me, you in the hall in something you might have slept in is less of a scandal than you roaming around in the previous night’s attire.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” She didn’t make a move to put it on, she just sat there, holding the soft cotton top over her breasts. He wished she wouldn’t cover them up.
He wasn’t used to this. This strange kind of tense emotion hanging in the air after sex. Sex was supposed to be a release but he felt … fuller somehow. Satisfied yet … yet in desperate need of more. As though he’d tapped into a hunger he didn’t know he possessed, and now that he’d uncovered it, he was almost certain he would never be able to fill it.
He took a deep breath and tried to ease the tight sensation in his chest.
“Are you all right?” he asked, another thing he’d never been compelled to ask after being with a woman. It was all usually clean and focused. It was about the physical, for him and his partner, nothing more.
But Carlotta was going to be his wife. And there was nothing clean and simple about permanent. Or about what she’d told him. About the issues that she had.
Just thinking about that man, Gabriel, was enough to choke him. The bastard had taken something he had no right to. He had stolen Carlotta’s love of herself.
“Yeah,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’m good.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said. Always when he said it to her, something he’d said easily to so many other women, it felt different. It felt real and essential. It felt like something he had to tell her. Something he had to make her understand.
“Thank you.” She tugged the shirt on, and he watched, savoring every visible inch of her until she was covered.
“You don’t really seem like you believe me.”
“I’m not sure that it matters.”
“Why not?”
“We’re sort of stuck with each other, right?”
He frowned. “It matters because it’s true. And because I don’t feel stuck.” That was true. He wasn’t sure when that feeling had changed, and why it had changed after his promise to be faithful. If anything, the specter of a lifetime of sleeping with the same woman should be looming over him and taunting him with the hellish reality that such prolonged fidelity would bring.
But it wasn’t. And he didn’t feel any kind of dawning horror creeping over him. Right now, the only thing the thought of a lifetime of Carlotta in his bed brought was an intense, hard kick of lust.
“You don’t?”
“I didn’t promise to be faithful to you just to get you into bed. I promised it because I knew it was one I could keep, one I don’t mind keeping.”
“Hmm,” she said, standing from the bed. “It’s just a strange way of putting it.”
“What do you want me to say? I’m trying to tell you, you’re beautiful.”
“I know, I just … Rodriguez I don’t know what I’m doing. I … Thank you. Thank you for not wanting to cheat on me, and for thinking I’m beautiful.”
“That makes it not sound very spectacular.”
“It actually is. I wish you understood how much. Because I believe you.”
His heart squeezed tight. “I think I understand.”
She smiled. “Good. I’m going to go now and make sure Luca’s all right.”
Carlotta edged out of the bedroom and closed the door gently behind her, trying to ignore the dizzy feeling that was making her feel imbalanced and wobbly. She leaned against the wall and fought the urge to collapse. To cry. To scream, maybe.
She felt scared and excited. Hopeful in a way.
She felt like she had a piece of herself back. Or like she’d found herself for the first time. Like she’d punched a hole in the outer shell she’d built around herself from the time she was a child. Like she was ready to emerge from it fully, completely.
Now all she had to do was remember that the sex might feel good. Great. Amazing. But that didn’t mean Rodriguez was going to confess his undying love for her. Just that right now it was good. And she believed him when he said he’d be faithful. To a point.
The one thing she believed, wholly and absolutely, was that he couldn’t give love. It was that blank void she kept glimpsing, the bottomless pit of emptiness she could see in his eyes.
And when she thought of him, she needed to remember that, and not simply the way he’d looked at her when she’d told him her secret. With shock, and anger, not at her but directed at Gabriel, and with nothing but compassion and caring for her.
Even Natalia, her wilder half, had looked at her in openmouthed shock when she’d started to tell her about Gabriel. About his double life. It was why she’d only started talking about him, and never finished the whole story.
Not until last night.
She was very glad she’d waited now. Because even if she and Rodriguez would never love each other, they understood each other.
And that was something rare. Nonexistent in her life. Sophia was the closest thing she had to a confidante anymore and, even then, she hadn’t ever felt like she could really tell her everything.
But Rodriquez had stripped her bare. And she’d liked it.
A smile curved her lips even as a tear slid down her cheek. Now she just had to remember about the falling in love part and everything might go just fine.
She pushed off from the wall and headed to Luca’s room, ignoring the small sliver of pain that lodged itself in her heart.
“Good morning.”
Rodriguez walked into the dining room and was treated to a wide smile from a very perky Luca, who was dipping a churro in his hot chocolate, and a very shy smile from Carlotta, her cheeks glowing pink as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips.
“Morning,” she said softly.
He wanted to kiss her, but he wasn’t sure if he should. He’d never really worried about that. Not for a long time. He’d started flaunting his behavior the moment he’d outgrown his father. Just about daring the old man to try something with him when they were matched for strength.
But right now, it mattered. Because Carlotta was different from other women. Because he didn’t want to do something wrong in front of Luca.
What she’d said about him seeing pictures … it weighed on him. His father hadn’t been an example for him. His father had been the iron fist, in charge of his kingdom, but even more, ruler of his own household.
Rodriguez had started life desperate to stay in line. He had ended up doing just the opposite. Creating scandal for the sake of it.
But now Luca would see that. As would the child he and Carlotta would eventually have. The heir. It was all a lot heavier than the thoughts he was used to dwelling on.
And it kept him from kissing her.
“Sleep well?” he asked, unable to keep the intimate note from his tone.
“Uh, yeah,” she said, looking sideways at Luca.
“I had a bad dream,” Luca said, applying the question about sleep to himself, clearly.
Rodriguez hesitated, never quite sure how to talk to him. “You did?”
“Yes. It was about lions.”
“Lions?”
“Why …” He looked at Carlotta, who seemed fine letting him handle it. “Why lions?”
“They bite,” Luca returned, deadly serious.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, as far as lions go,” he said.
“I did in my dream,” Luca said, his expression completely serious.
“Dreams aren’t real, Luca,” Carlotta said, her tone full of warmth.
Rodriguez liked that she talked to Luca. That she never got angry with him for saying what was on his mind. But it made him remember. Dinners that lasted for hours where he was expected to sit and be the heir. Being the heir meant being an object, a collector’s item of interest his father might show dignitaries. Somewhere between his collection of pistols and his prize Andalusians.
He remembered being maybe Luca’s age, sitting here, too afraid to move or speak. Sitting in a dining chair at this same table, wearing a tie that felt like it was choking him. Knowing that if he moved or spoke he would be punished severely. Which meant his options were to sit and try to listen. Never fall asleep. He’d done that once and the resulting punishment had been enough to make sure he’d never done it again.
The idea of someone treating Luca that way, of someone making him stand without moving for hours, smacking his shins if he dared try anything … it made his blood burn.