‘Unless you want things to slide out of control, don’t wear that T-shirt in my presence again. You may not be mine, but I’m not a saint. The next time I see you in it I may feel obliged to take advantage of its instruction.’
His words hit her with the force of a tsunami. By the time he shut the door, a hundred different images of Marco using his teeth on her had short-circuited her brain.
The photo shoot was horrendously tedious. Several hours of sitting around getting her hair and make-up done, followed by a frenzied half-hour of striking impossible poses, then back to repeating the whole process again.
Sasha returned to the hotel very near exhaustion, but she had gained a healthy respect for models. She also now understood why men like Marco dated them. The sample pictures the photographer had let her keep showed an end result that surprised her.
After pressing the button for the lift, she fished the pictures out of her satchel, shocked all over again by how different she looked—how a few strokes of a make-up brush could transform plain to almost … sexy. Or was it something else? All day she’d been unable to dismiss last night’s kiss from her mind. Her face burned when she reached the picture of her licking her tingling lips. She’d been recalling Marco’s moan of pleasure as he’d deepened their kiss.
So really it was Marco’s fault …
Opening the door to the suite, she stopped in her tracks as strains of jazz music wafted in from the living room. Following the sound, she entered the large, opulent room to find Marco lounging on the sofa, an electronic tablet in his hand and a glass of red wine on a table beside him.
‘I thought you were going to be late?’ The words rushed out before she could stop them. Her suddenly racing pulse made her dizzy for a few seconds.
His gaze zeroed in on her. ‘I wrapped things up early.’
‘And you couldn’t find anyone in your little black book to spend the evening with?’
The thought that he hadn’t gone out and vented his sexual frustration on some entir
ely willing female sent a bolt of elation through her, which she tried—unsuccessfully—to smash down.
She couldn’t read the hooded look in his eyes as he set aside the gadget.
‘It’s only seven-thirty. The night is still young,’ he replied.
Something crumpled into a small, tight knot inside her, and the sharp pang she’d felt that morning returned. ‘That’s just typical. You’re going to call some poor woman out of the blue and expect her to be ready to drop everything to go out with you, aren’t you?’ she mocked.
One corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Luckily, the women I know are kind enough to want to drop everything for me.’
She snorted. ‘Come off it. We both know kindness has nothing to do with it.’
As she’d seen first-hand at the awards ceremony, women would crawl over hot coals to be with Marco. And many more would do so regardless of his financial status or influence. With a body and face like his, he could be penniless and still attract women with a snap of his fingers. As for that lethal, rarely seen smile, and the way he kissed—
Her thoughts screeched to a halt as he stood and came towards her.
‘Maybe not,’ he conceded, with not a hint of arrogance in sight. ‘How was the shoot?’
The question wrenched her from her avid scrutiny of his body. ‘Aside from the free shoes, it was a pain in the ass,’ she replied.
‘Of course,’ he agreed gravely. Then without warning he reached out and plucked the pictures from her fingers. ‘Maybe you’ll even get around to wearing them instead of going barefoot or wearing those hideous boots—’
He stopped speaking as he stared at the pictures. Awareness crawled across her skin as he slowly thumbed through them, lingering over the one where she was draped over the bonnet of the not-yet-released prototype of his latest car, the Cervantes Triunfo. Eventually he returned to that one. And looked as if he’d stopped breathing.
‘Marco …’
She stretched out her hand to retrieve the pictures. He ignored her, his attention fixed on the picture, his skin drawn tight over the chiselled bones of his face.
‘Marco, I don’t want to keep you. I have plans of my own.’
His head snapped up. ‘What plans?’ he demanded, his tone rough and tight.
Sasha couldn’t think how to answer. Her whole mind was paralysed by the way his eyes blazed. Shaking her head, she tried to turn away. He grabbed her arm in a firm hold.
No! Too hot. Too irresistible. Too much.
‘Let me go,’ she murmured, her voice scraped raw with desire.