Maisey Yates - Married On Paper

But he had not gone to her. He would not let her see that she had that power over him. It was a power she had always had. He’d been bewitched by her body, her spirit, from the moment he’d met her. It galled him that she still had him under her spell.

After three days, no, more like twelve years of resisting, right now he ached to pull her into his arms, the need so strong he thought he couldn’t resist it without the pain becoming crippling. His body throbbed with the need to have her. To feel those slim, perfect legs wrapped around his waist as he drowned himself in the pleasure only she could offer.

Tonight, she’d left her hair down, rich brown waves cascading over her shoulders, partially concealing the round swell of her breasts that the daring neckline of her dress did not.

She brought something out in him, something he didn’t recognize. A need, a desire, a totally primal lust that defied anything he’d ever experienced before.

They’d shared a kiss. A simple kiss. Yet she’d burrowed her way inside him as no woman, not a long-term girlfriend or one-night lover, ever had. He wished this need was tied to vengeance. That he could explain. But it was separate from the issues with her father. Even if all of the events of the past sometimes tangled in his memory, the parts with Vanessa, the memories of her lips touching his, burned bright in his mind, washed everything else away. When he thought of her mouth, of her hands on his body, there was nothing else.

It was desire. That was all. Even if it was desire such as he’d never known. And he would have a lifetime to indulge that desire. To take the edge off it so that it no longer dominated his thoughts.

Her wicked red lips curved into a smile and all of his blood rushed south of his belt. “I didn’t overdress, did I?”

She was absolutely overdressed. Anything covering those luscious curves was a crime as far as he was concerned. “Not at all,” he said “Are you ready then?”

“Si.” Images of them together, limbs entwined, moans of pleasure issuing from those plump red lips had him hard and shaking. He didn’t want dinner. He wanted her, wanted her body pressed against his. He felt a smile curve his lips. “I think that, in honor of your dress, we need to go somewhere different than I originally had in mind.”

Even at night the streets of Buenos Aires were alive. People were still walking around, laughing, talking, eating. Heat and moisture clung to the air, to Vanessa’s skin, as they walked down the crowded sidewalk.

Lazaro was completely at ease in his surroundings. Passersby stopped and looked at him, and Vanessa couldn’t blame them. In his black suit and open-collared shirt, he was absolute masculine perfection. He demanded to be stared at.

He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he drew attention from every woman they passed. He didn’t return any of the hungry, open stares. His eyes were on her. And it was making her blood feel hot.

“Where are we going?” she asked. It was a long shot, but talking might break up some of the tension that was building inside her.

“Right here.” He took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and led her into a small, narrow doorway. The outside of the building had seemed the same as every building they’d passed—white brick with rounded edges showing its age. But the interior didn’t match the old-world feel of the streets outside.

Inside was open and clean, with pared-down, square furniture and a large bar area surrounded by plush seating. Pendant lighting hung low at different lengths, made to look like floating candles suspended in space.

There was plenty of room to move, but everything was arranged so that it felt close, intimate. There was a band playing, and couples were on the dance floors, wrapped around each other, dancing in a rhythm so sensual that it made Vanessa feel as though she was intruding on something by witnessing it.

“Would you like a drink?” Lazaro gestured to the bar.

“I … No.” Her body already felt giddy, her thoughts light and fuzzy. She didn’t want to add anything to her system that might encourage the feelings.

“Dance with me,” he said, touching her hand, the sensation of his skin against hers lighting a fire that burned from her fingertips to her chest, settling around her heart. “And don’t tell me you can’t dance, because I’m sure a woman of your … status will have had dance lessons from the time she learned to walk.”

“I don’t dance like this,” she said, flicking a glance back at the dance floor.

“This is how I dance,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her to him. “And since I’m your future husband, you should learn to dance with me, don’t you think?”

“We’re going to tango at our wedding?” she asked, a short laugh escaping her lips as she imagined the seductive dance with the super-traditional Pickett estate serving as a backdrop.

“It would give people something to talk about.”

“We already are something to talk about, Lazaro.”

“I suppose we are,” he said, dark eyes glittering in the dim light of the club. He looked different here. More dangerous. The polish of sophistication he’d cultivated seemed to have worn thin in the past few hours. This was the man she’d known twelve years ago.

Rough around the edges. Utterly deadly to her senses.

“Dance with me,” he said again. Not a question, a demand. One she couldn’t refuse.

She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart thundering so loudly she was certain people around her would be able to hear it, even over the steady beat of the music. But here, no one looked at them, not even at Lazaro. Every couple was totally enthralled with each other, with the movements of their partner.

Lazaro wrapped one arm around her waist and brought her up against his chest, his other hand clasping hers. “Follow my lead.”

She knew she didn’t look like the elegant women dancing around her, but with Lazaro leading, his movements strong and sure, she felt like one of them. She could feel his heart beating hard against her chest, strong and steady, and her steps began to match his, her body moving in rhythm with the beat of his heart.

The music closed in around them, making her feel as if they were alone, everyone else fading into murky, shadowy impressions. Nothing else mattered but Lazaro, the weight of his hand on her waist, the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her.

The strains of the violin wound through Vanessa’s body, filled her, joined the arousal that had been building inside her since the moment she’d walked back into Lazaro’s life, making her feel too full. But also more alive than she’d ever felt before.

Lazaro slid his hand down to the curve of her hip, down lower, edging beneath the daring split in the skirt of her dress. His hand connected with the very top of her stocking, the place where nylon ended and bare flesh began. He curled his fingers in and lifted her leg, curving it around his. It was part of the dance, nothing more sensual than anyone else was doing. And yet it made her feel dizzy with desire, held captive to it, waiting to see what he would do next. Where he would touch her next.

He pulled her closer to him and the hard length of his erection pressed against her stomach. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, bit down on her lip, trying to keep back the sound of pleasure that was trying to escape.

This was real. Sexual. Raw. It stirred primal hunger in her, a sense of feminine power.

He moved his hand from her thigh, back to her hip, his grip tightening. He pulled into his body and she melted against him. It was all part of the dance.

And yet it wasn’t.

He pressed his face against hers, the stubble that had grown in since that morning abrading her cheek, the slight prickle of pain combining with her mounting arousal, making her feel as if she was drowning in sensation.