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She brought her hands to the bottom of his sweater to pull it up. He lifted his arms and pulled it off the whole way, and then he stood in front of her, bare chested. She could feel her eyes widening as she took in the bronzed magnificence. Whorls of dark hair dusted his pectorals and then met in a silky line that descended down and into the waist of his low-slung jeans which barely clung to lean hips.
Heat. All Alana could think of was heat.
He pulled her into him and she gloried in the sensation of his bare chest, running her hands round his back, feeling the satin-smooth olive skin, warm beneath her fingers. He gathered her close and his mouth closed over the beating, throbbing pulse at her neck; his hands travelled down to her bottom and caressed it before searching further and finding the bare skin at the top of her thighs over her stockings. He jerked back and looked down, eyes glittering, breath coming harshly.
‘Mon Dieu.’
‘What?’ she asked uncertainly, feeling exposed.
He just shook his head and a huge grin split his face. ‘Stockings. Proper stockings. And suspenders.’ What was turning him on even more was the suspicion that she dressed like this all the time, that it hadn’t been just for him.
He looked at her then. ‘I knew that underneath all that starch was someone earthy, sensual …’
He kissed her, and she felt his hands undoing the rest of the buttons on her shirt, the slightly cooler air hitting her torso as he pulled it apart. He looked at her for a long moment before pushing it off, down her arms, until it too joined her dress on the floor.
The carnal appreciation in his gaze made her throb in response. She was glad now that bizarrely she’d always had an instinctive desire for nice underwear, although she hadn’t indulged it while married, as Ryan had mocked her for trying to be sexy whenever she did. Her breasts were straining against the satin cups of her bra, peaks tingling painfully. Pascal pushed one strap down over her shoulder and dragged down the cup, baring one pale breast to his gaze … and mouth.
He whispered in her ear, ‘Remember what I said before?’
She nodded jerkily, anticipation lasering through her veins.
Then he bent his head and blew softly and enticed, before flicking out his tongue to taste and then drawing that tight, extended peak into his mouth. Alana’s head fell back. She couldn’t stop the moan, and wondered at this woman she didn’t recognise.
As Pascal suckled, a tight spiral of intense sensation connected directly with Alana’s groin. She found herself pressing closer, seeking, wanting more, arching her back. He had taken down the other cup, so now both her breasts were bared, upthrust and framed by the satin black material.
He was torturing her with his mouth. She couldn’t breathe. He reached down, lifted one leg and hooked it around his thigh. His other hand was on the leg that was barely able to keep her standing. His fingers danced over the suspenders; she felt him snap open the ties, then smooth around to cup the cheek of her bottom before slipping his hand between her legs.
She stopped breathing entirely for a long moment as he pushed her panties aside and slid his finger into her, into a caress so intimate that she would have closed her legs if she’d been able to. He was relentless, his mouth on her breasts, his finger sliding in and out, until finally, as if he’d been teasing her, he found the centre of where she throbbed unmercifully and, with one flick of his thumb, she came violently. She could only cling to him as the sensation ripped through her body in case she’d be swept away too.
Her leg that was lifted fell. She couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. A bit like chemical attraction; she’d read about it, heard about it. But amazingly …
‘Alana, was that your first orgasm?’ He sounded slightly stunned, and Alana cringed inwardly at how gauche she must seem.
He stood upright and let her settle against him, cradling her with a disconcerting level of tenderness. As if he could sense her turmoil, he tipped her head back. ‘No, don’t do that. You’re amazingly responsive, but it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a compliment.’
She looked at him shyly, mortified. ‘I’m—’
‘Don’t say it.’ He shook his head. His expression was enigmatic. ‘You were married; did you never …?’
She shook her head quickly, her body still pulsing in the aftermath, making her feel a little out of this world. Spaced out. ‘My husband never … made me feel like that. We didn’t sleep together for the last three years of our marriage.’
‘And you were married for …’
‘Five years.’ Unwelcome reality was trickling back in. Alana resented the questions now; she didn’t want to think of Ryan. This was her new start for herself. Ryan was in the past.
‘Alana—’
She pressed a finger to Pascal’s mouth and could feel his breath feather there, could feel a delicious tightening in her belly. ‘Please. I don’t want to talk about it, OK?’ He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then finally he nodded.
Alana gave a huge sigh of relief, and then yelped as Pascal lifted her into his arms against his chest.
‘Time to go somewhere more comfortable, I think. Much as I could take you standing against that wall right now, I’ll resist the temptation.’
She buried her head in his shoulder as he climbed the stairs and shouldered his way into his room.
A part of her wanted nothing more than that carnality, but another part of her was grateful that he was being so considerate.
He looked down at her briefly, his face tight with need. ‘Is this OK?’
She nodded. She knew one thing for sure for the first time in ages. ‘Yes.’
Alana woke to a delicious sensation of someone running a finger up and down her bare spine in a tingling caress. Pascal. Warmth flooded her even as she registered aches and pleasurable pains all over her body. She opened one eye to see him smiling at her, looking clean, vital and very awake. He smelt fresh, delicious. And sexy. Heat flooded her belly.
The previous night came back in Technicolor: the pathetic fight she’d put up before giving in, the amount of times they’d made love, the amount of times she’d reached ecstasy because of him.
He bent his head and his mouth hovered near her ear. ‘No regrets and no recriminations. We agreed, remember?’
Alana turned her face into the pillow so he wouldn’t see her blushing. She just nodded into the pillow. She heard a soft, sexy chuckle and then felt a playful swat on her bottom. The bed dipped and she could feel him standing up.
‘Come on; my car will be here for you in half an hour, and if you’re anything like the rest of your species, you’ll be struggling to get ready in time.’
Alana lifted her head with a squeak. ‘Half an hour?’ She cursed under her breath and went to get up, and realised that she had no cover, as her clothes had practically melted off her last night in the heat of passion that had consumed them. She was stuck. Pascal stood between her and the door from where she could get to her own bedroom. She was not ready to parade around naked in broad daylight.
He watched, amused, as she pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her before getting up and trailing it after her.
Before she was clear of him, he caught her and pulled her against him. He pressed a hot kiss to her mouth. ‘Take the sheet for now, but I’ll have you walking around naked in no time.’
‘Never …’
He kissed her again, and suddenly the vortex was opening up around them, and in a shamingly small amount of time Alana knew she would be saying yes to anything, even going to work naked. But then he drew back, showing her that ultimately he was in control, whereas she was not. He pushed her gently towards her room.
Under the powerful spray of her shower, Alana hugged her arms around herself and gave into the stream of images. She groaned out loud as she remembered one moment, half in mortification, half in a state of arousal, even now. Pascal had been poised above her, skin gleaming, slick with sweat, his erection nudging her moist entrance. As if he’d been testing her again, he’d waited until her nerves had been screaming for release. She’d arched up to him, willing him to impale her, but he’d waited until she’d brokenly begged him. And then he’d slid into her slowly, deeply.
With a curt flick of her wrist Alana turned the shower to cold and endured it for a minute. Anything to dampen her flaming hormones.
* * *
At the match later Pascal came and found her at half time, and took her by the hand. She was distracted; she’d been trying to set up an interview for after the match with the England manager.
‘Pascal, I’m working, you can’t just walk up and drag me away,’ she said with a mixture of reproach and breathless anticipation.
He ignored her and took her down into long corridors before ducking into a room full of equipment. He closed the door behind them.
Still holding her hand, he pulled her to him. She was helpless not to respond, her body welcoming his heady proximity. How quickly she’d become consumed by him. Alarm bells weren’t just ringing, they were now joined by sirens and flashing lights.
With quick hands, he undid her ponytail and pocketed the band.
‘Hey!’
Then he put two hands in her hair and mussed it up. He looked at her critically. ‘Much better. And now …’
‘Now what?’
‘Now this.’ He hauled her into him and kissed her deeply, with barely checked passion. She wound her arms around his waist and found her hands lifting his shirt from his trousers, searching for and finding that smooth, taut flesh where the small of his back curved out to firm buttocks. Warmth flooded her. He was opening the buttons of her shirt; she’d tried to put on her tie that morning but he’d kept taking it off her. She could feel the air on her heated skin as he opened her shirt and palmed her breast, her nipple aching against the confines of her bra. She pressed a feverish mouth against his throat.
And then suddenly the spell was broken as someone tried to come in the door behind them. Pascal said something quickly in Italian and started to do up her buttons again. Alana didn’t know how she was going to be able to go back out there and string two words together.
Her brain was mush for the rest of the match and the ensuing interviews, but somehow she managed to keep it together. Pascal was waiting for her, exactly like he’d been waiting and watching that first day in Dublin. Only now … A wave of heat engulfed her … only now it was totally different. She was different.
Her crew feigned extreme lack of interest in the fact that Pascal Lévêque was hovering like a bodyguard. But once the last interview was done, and she’d been given the all clear from the Dublin studio, effectively the rest of the weekend was hers.
In the back of Pascal’s car a short time later, he pulled her over so she was practically on his lap. She’d given up trying to pull away and retain a more dignified position for the sake of the driver. He pressed a kiss to the underside of her wrist and looked up at her.
‘Are you glad to be here now?’
Alana looked down at him and felt the earth move bizarrely beneath her feet even though they were in a moving vehicle. Something very suspicious tightened her chest. She nodded, because she had to admit it. ‘Yes. I am glad.’ She bent her head and pressed a kiss to his mouth, revelling in the freedom she had to do this. They’d achieved an immediate level of intimacy that would be frightening if she thought about it too closely.
She was embarking on an affair with a world-renowned playboy and that was going to be her protection: at no point would she be deluded. At no point would there be talk of love, marriage. It would end when it would end. And she’d take the gift of herself that he’d given back to her, like a guilty, delicious secret. That was all she wanted. This was all she wanted.
Later that evening Alana took one last look at her reflection and turned to leave the room, but just then her door opened. Pascal stopped dead for a moment, his gaze raking her up and down, and then he clapped his hand over his eyes. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Alana felt like a fool. She knew she shouldn’t have worn the dress—it was ridiculous, too tight, too revealing. ‘Look, I can change, I’m not even that comfortable.’
Pascal wasn’t moving.
She took a hesitant step forward. ‘What, what is it? Is it really that bad?’
Alana tried to look back at the mirror self-consciously when she heard something suspiciously like a grunt coming from Pascal.
He’d taken his hand down and was laughing. Then he stopped and walked towards her. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. It was the shock of seeing so much exposed flesh at once.’
Alana all at once felt like laughing and angry. She picked up a small cushion from the chair beside her and threw it at him, but he caught it deftly and kept coming. Dressed in a tuxedo, with his hair still damp from the shower, he was magnificent.
She had to speak to try and negate the effect he had on her, the way his teasing wound through her and impacted a place that was so deep, so vulnerable.
‘I’m going to change right now; I knew this dress was a mistake.’
She went to undo the zip that was under her arm, and Pascal reached her and captured her hand. ‘Don’t you dare. That dress is beautiful.’
Alana’s face flamed. ‘It’s not. It’s too—’
‘So why did you bring it, then?’
She couldn’t answer. He walked her over to the full-length mirror and stood her in front of him. His hands rested on her hips. She could feel him, tall and hard and lean behind her, and it was so seductive.
‘Look at yourself.’
Alana closed her eyes, her cheeks still scarlet. She shook her head. ‘I hate looking at myself.’
‘Alana, look at yourself.’
Something in his voice made her open her eyes, and she immediately looked at him through the mirror. She could feel him sigh behind her.
‘Not at me, at yourself.’
With extreme reluctance, she did. She saw the black silk dress that was cut on the bias and fell to just below her knees in an asymmetric line. She saw one shoulder, pale and bared, and just a hint of a curve of her breast. She saw the strap that held the dress up over her other shoulder with its flamboyant red-silk flower, a splash of vibrant colour.
‘Now, what’s wrong with this picture?’
Alana groaned inwardly. This was so embarrassing. She would bet a million dollars that not one of his previous lovers had had to be reassured about a dress before.
She tried to turn. ‘Look, it’s nothing, I’m sorry. Let’s just go, shall we?’
He wouldn’t let her. He held her fast, and something in the air changed. It became electric.
‘You’re beautiful, Alana. This dress is beautiful on you. It’s not too revealing. In fact,’ he growled with mock lasciviousness, ‘it’s not revealing enough.’
He turned her then to face him, his hands warm on her shoulders. She could feel her breasts peak against the silk of the dress.
He tipped up her chin so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. ‘What did he do to you, Alana? I bet you weren’t always like this.’
Alana struggled not to let the tears brighten her eyes, but there was a lump in her throat. She shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t. He just … he just made me feel cheap. That’s all.’
She pulled free of his arms and looked at her watch. ‘We should really go.’
He heard the emotion in her voice and watched her precede him out of the room, the dress emphasising her gently curved shape, the jut of her rounded bottom. He could recall only too clearly the thrust of her breasts against his chest.
He stalled a moment before following her out. She was so totally different from any woman he’d known before that he couldn’t quite begin to rationalise how she made him feel. Physically, he burned for her. Earlier at the match he’d quite literally had to see her, touch her at half time or he’d felt he would have gone insane. She’d been preoccupied. First of all, he wasn’t used to any woman being preoccupied around him, and secondly, he wasn’t used not to being in complete control with his lovers. They turned him on, yes, that was what he chose them for, but never to the extent that he felt with this woman. This was something different.
He straightened his cuffs before walking out, uncomfortably aware of his near-constant state of arousal. She was just different because she wasn’t one of the polished socialites that littered his social scene, who threw themselves at him, that was all. It was still just an affair, and he’d no doubt that he’d soon look at her and wonder what he’d been hot and bothered about.
A little later, in the exclusive hotel which was hosting his bank’s lavish charity-ball, Pascal felt extremely hot and bothered. Alana was generating a veritable tsunami of attention in her sexy dress. After having spent the last two weeks trying to get her out of her buttoned-up uniform, now he wanted to march her right out of there and make her change back into it.
Clamping her to his side was a need born out of a violent emotion that he’d never felt before as acquaintance after acquaintance came up under the pretext of talking business, whereupon they did nothing but stare at Alana. She seemed oblivious, but Pascal was too inured to women and their wily ways. And he was all too aware of how beguiling her natural beauty was to these men, who were jaded and cynical. As jaded and cynical as he was. Was he no better than these men? He’d just seen her first. All sorts of conflicting, unsavoury thoughts were being unleashed within him. Not least of which was the sensation that perhaps he’d been fooled, fooled by her act, her apparent vulnerability. How could she really be so different?
He dragged her attention back from where she was looking in awe at the room around them, and muttered something about getting drinks. He saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes and ignored it, and the feeling it generated through him. He needed space.
Alana looked to where Pascal was cutting a swathe through the glittering crowd. She couldn’t help but notice the intense interest he generated among every cluster of women in the room, who also followed his progress with avid attention. Some of them turned then to look at her, and she felt extremely self-conscious. Trying to shrug off the immediate insecurity that their looks generated, she walked to where ornate doors led out to a small, idyllic garden. Even though it was cool, one or two people mingled outside. The hotel was pure opulence, one of the oldest and grandest in Rome, situated with a view of the Spanish Steps.
She couldn’t help but think of similar situations with Ryan. He’d always dumped her as soon as they got in the door and made straight for the bar. Invariably she’d be left on her own all evening and would return home alone, only to wake up in the morning and find that he hadn’t even returned. She’d stopped worrying about his whereabouts soon into the marriage when it had become clear he’d never seemed to miss her.
She rubbed her arms distractedly, as she had that sensation of someone walking over her grave.
‘Bella.’
Alana jumped and turned to see a tall man standing beside her, looking her up and down. She looked nervously over his shoulder back into the room, but couldn’t see Pascal. She smiled tightly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian; I’m just waiting for someone, actually.’
‘Then it’s lucky that I speak English. You are a very beautiful woman.’
