Emilie Rose - Monte Carlo Affairs

“You’re going home with him?” Madeline asked.

Stacy fought the urge to squirm in her seat. “Yes, but I’ll be back for our morning meeting.”

“The only thing on the agenda tomorrow is me tinkering with the rehearsal dinner and reception seating. No work for you, so stay as long as you like,” Candace replied with a wink and a smug smile. “It’s almost 3:00 a.m. I have a feeling we’ll all be sleeping in.”

Stacy had permission to spend the entire night with Franco. Did she want to? The swiftness of her answer surprised and alarmed her. She’d slid far too easily into the role of a rich man’s mistress.

“Remove your clothing,” Franco ordered in the darkness thirty minutes later.

Stacy’s breath caught. She couldn’t see anything, not even her hand in front of her face, and she didn’t know where she was. Franco had led her into his home, and without turning on any lights, he’d guided her down a hall and a flight of stairs.

The click of her heels had echoed off the walls until they’d stopped moving and now the eerie silence deafened her. Or maybe her thunderous heartbeat drowned out all sound.

Did she dare trust him? She found herself wanting to. Scary.

A mechanical whirl startled her, making her look to her right. The wall slid open like a curtain to reveal moon-washed gardens, the roar of a waterfall and a spa large enough to lie down in without touching the sides.

Half of the spa is concealed beneath the house by the falling water. I would like to make love to you there , Franco had said. Was it only a day and a half ago?

A thrill of anticipation raced through her. Anticipation. Something she’d never experienced in a relationship with a man before Franco.

Moonlight seeped around the cascading water to dimly illuminate her surroundings, and a gentle breeze wafted in, carrying the scent of flowers. The people of Monaco loved their flowers. Gardens and flower boxes abounded.

Stacy scanned the room filled with more exercise equipment than the gym in her apartment complex until she spotted Franco in the shadows. He flipped a switch and the whirlpool splashed to life, its water gleaming like bubbly champagne from the golden glow of lights beneath the surface.

With his gaze fixed on her he leaned against the wall, toed off his shoes and removed his socks. Mesmerized, she watched as he straightened and reached for the buttons on his shirt. It fluttered to the floor followed quickly by his pants and briefs. He stood before her like a finely chiseled statue. An incredibly aroused and well-endowed statue. His chin lifted. “Your turn.”

She gulped and reached for the knot of her sheer wrap, but she was nervous, her fingers uncooperative. She’d never stripped for a man before. Nor had she ever had one look at her the way Franco did with his gaze burning over her, his nostrils flaring, his fists clenched by his side. Finally, the knot gave way. She shrugged off the wrap and dropped it on a nearby weight bench.

Taking a fortifying breath, she reached for the back hook and zipper of her skirt. It swished down her legs. She stepped out of it and her shoes and turned to deposit both on the bench.

A warm hand covered her bottom, making her jump and gasp. Franco. She hadn’t heard him cross the room. His other hand joined the first, stroking her buttocks, thighs and her belly, and molding her against him. The thong was no barrier to the heat of his lean flanks against her cheeks and the hard length of his erection against her spine. Desire made her dizzy.

What happened to maintaining a clear head and control?

He murmured something in French, something she couldn’t translate, and then his fingers caught the hem of her camisole and whisked it over her head.

“Turn around,” he ordered in a deep, velvety voice.

She pivoted on trembling legs. The sharp rasp of his indrawn breath filled her ears. He lifted a hand to outline the top of her demi-bra with a fingertip. Her nipples tightened and need twisted inside her as he retraced his path, this time delving below the lace and over her sensitive skin. How could he make her want like this?

“Take it off.”

Stacy reached behind her, unhooked the bra and shrugged out of it. Franco’s approving gaze caressed her breasts and then dropped to the tiny teal thong.

“And the rest.”

She shoved the lingerie down her legs wondering why she had not once considered saying no. And then she straightened. Franco tipped his head to indicate the spa. Stacy descended the whirlpool steps. The hot water swirled around her ankles, her calves, and once she reached the center of the small pool, her thighs. Franco joined her, reclined on the bench seat and extended his hand.

“Turn around.”

She did and then he pulled her into his lap and flattened her back against his chest with his erection sandwiched in the crease of her buttocks. The water swirled between her legs and lapped at her breasts, but then Franco’s caressing hands replaced it, massaging, tweaking, sweeping her up in a whirlpool of desire.

She let him have his way. He’d bought her, bought the right to use her any way he wanted. And she had to remember that, but it was hard to keep up the mental barriers when he touched her like this. Sure, he’d promised her pleasure, but did she really deserve it?

His teeth grazed the tendons of her neck. She shivered and tilted her head to give him better access. He stroked her breasts, her abdomen, her legs, nearing but never quite reaching the place where she needed his touch the most. She squirmed in his lap and bit back a frustrated whimper. He stood abruptly, lifting her with him, sat her on the cool tile edge of the whirlpool and then knelt between her legs.

Next time I will taste you , he’d said.

“Wait—” The touch of his tongue cut off her shocked protest with an intense burst of sensation. No man had ever licked her there. Franco laved and suckled, taking her to the brink again and again, but each time she thought she’d shatter he’d stop to kiss her thigh, nibble her hip bone or tongue her navel. Frustration built until she unclenched her fingers from the rim of the tub and tangled them in his hair to hold him in place.

He grunted a satisfied sound against her and then found the heart of her again with his silken tongue. Seconds later climax undulated through her. Her cries echoed off the stone walls and her muscles contracted over and over, squeezing every last drop of energy from her until she sagged against Franco’s bent head and braced her arms on his broad shoulders.

He straightened, reached behind her for a condom packet she hadn’t even noticed and quickly readied himself. Cupping her bottom, he pulled her to the edge of the spa and plunged deep inside her, forcing another lusty cry from her lungs. She shoved her fist against her mouth.

Franco pulled her hand away. “I want to hear the sound of your passion. Better yet, I want to taste your cries on my tongue.”

He covered her mouth with his.

She ought to be ashamed of herself, Stacy thought as she clung to him and arched to meet his thrusts, but she couldn’t seem to rally the emotion with Franco pistoning into her core and bringing her to the brink of another climax. She yanked her mouth free and gasped for breath as her muscles tensed and she came again, this time calling out his name.

Franco plunged harder, deeper and faster until he roared in release, and then all was silent except for the rush of the water and their panting breaths.

He held her, or maybe she held him, as he sank back into the hot water, taking her boneless body with him. She drifted above him. The current swirled over her sensitized skin, teasing, tantalizing, slowing her return to sanity. Without Franco’s arms to anchor her, she’d float away like a cork on the tide. She trusted him to keep her head above water.