Sophie Weston - More Than A Millionaire

The borrowed dress fell off.

Well, it fell to her waist. For a moment she was so busy flapping her hands free that she did not notice.

He muttered something which her Spanish was not advanced enough to interpret.

And then she realised that the cool breeze was cooler than it should have been. She looked down.

Emilio was fighting his baser self with every weapon he knew. In the starlight her skin looked silvery. The small breasts were exquisite, so gently rounded, so softly firm. She looked like a cool water nymph. But she was warm and her flesh smelled of roses. His head swam.

‘This is not fair,’ he said under his breath, half laughing, half in despair.

He wanted her so badly it hurt.

Abby did not see it. In fact Abby was not seeing anything very clearly through her fog of shame and rejection.

She grabbed at the dress. At the same time, she took an unwary step. There was nothing she could do. She was already off balance. Those killer shoes only completed her downfall.

She tried to recover, to step back from him. But it was too late. Her ankle went over. She lurched, arms flailing.

And fell into his arms.

For an electrifying moment, she was crushed against him. She felt the heat of his body against her shivering; the smooth slide of the shirt against her aroused skin.

And then—

And then—

Somehow he found the strength.

‘Careful,’ Emilio said.

He steadied her with easy competence. His hands were utterly kind. Utterly impersonal. He did not know how he managed. His heart felt as if it was in a vice and his whole body was on a knife edge. But he did it.

For Abby, it was the final humiliation.

She kicked the hateful sandals viciously. The impetus sent the second one spiralling up high, high, so high that for a crazy moment it was outlined against the starry sky.

And he laughed. He laughed.

‘Great shot,’ Emilio said, with amused admiration. Sophisticated admiration.

It was more than she could bear.

Abby fled.

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