And the angels in his head sang a hallelujah chorus. He wrapped her sweater around her shoulders and collected her in his arms. ‘Then what the hell are we doing here?’
The suite was perfect. Self-contained, spacious and, best of all, featuring a massive bed. It would do nicely.
But for now he bypassed the bed, kicking open the door to the en suite bathroom instead. Sticky had been fun for a while, but they’d moved beyond fun and now things were getting serious.
He put her gently down on her feet and snapped on the shower and water poured from a rainforest showerhead, the room soon fogging with steam.
Then he took her face in his hands and pressed his lips against hers and she trembled anew. His reaction to seeing her in just her bra had warmed her from the inside out, an instant confidence booster, but she’d never been naked with a man before and she’d imagined they’d make love in a bed, covered up and with the lights out. But the lights were on and even the steam didn’t hide a lot and the boost in her confidence was waning and she was once again apprehensive and afraid.
Was he intending to make love standing up in the shower?
And her oh-so-clever plan seemed more like a blundering mess.
She was so unskilled. So unpractised.
So uncertain as to what was expected of her. And it wasn’t that she was worried so much about it being earth-shattering or even good the first time, because this wasn’t so much about impressing Franco but more about getting the monkey off her back—the monkey that was riding shotgun on her shoulder now and that she wanted to be rid of—but still she didn’t want to make a complete fool of herself in the process.
‘You’re trembling,’ he said.
‘I’m cold,’ she lied.
He growled. ‘I know how to warm you up.’
He did.
He sucked her into a kiss so deep she thought she’d drown, a kiss that made her forget for a moment that she was afraid, because he made her feel so good, he made this feel so right. Hands skimmed down her back, down to her waist and over her behind where his big hands lingered and then squeezed.
Dear God, she was drowning, but in sensation.
His hands were between them, at the buttons and fly of her trousers while his mouth worked some kind of magic on her neck, flicking tongue and hot mouth working in concert to lull her into thinking this would be easy—conspiring to make her forget how to think.
She didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel.
He was all of everything and he was the master and right now she was his student. But he was hers too, hers to explore with hungry hands and seeking fingers. She tugged at his shirt, wanting it off, wanting to explore that perfect chest she’d seen that first night in the cottage. She fiddled with buttons until they were undone and he assisted by shrugging it off, and for just a moment she was happy, her hands filled with the feel of him, the sculpted chest and smooth olive skin, roughened with hair she curled her fingers in.
Until that wasn’t enough and she wanted more.
The steam swirled around them, beckoning.
The heat built between them.
And Holly dared venture south, one hand tentatively exploring, testing to see if that hardness she’d felt pressed against her was as good as it felt.
Franco growled into her mouth and anticipation bloomed hot and heavy in her flesh.
Her fingers curled over the bulge of his hard length and she gave thanks that what she’d heard about big feet was true. She was already anticipating how that might feel inside her.
She could not wait to find out.
Boots were kicked off in a rush, two pairs of trousers slid to the floor and were kicked away and Holly used her toes to peel off her socks.
‘Oh, my God, Holly,’ he said, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes searing her flesh all the way down and all the way up again.
She might have said the same thing if only she’d been able to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. He could have been one of those statues you saw in the museums, an ancient god carved in stone. If not for the long scar on one side above his hip, he was perfection. And she might have asked but there was one other big difference between Franco and all those ancient statues that she could tell, even hidden under a band of black elastic.
And then even that was gone.
She swallowed, afraid to look, desperate to look.
He made it easy. He put his hand behind her head and pulled the tie from her hair, fluffing out the sticky strands in his hands. Her head leaned towards his hand. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Much better. I like your hair down. It frames your eyes and your mouth.’
His hands were behind her then, the hooks of her bra flicked expertly undone. He put his hands to her shoulders and eased the straps down, peeling it away from her breasts.