Exotic Nights

Marcos smiled. “Ah, mi gatita,” he said softly. “There is nothing to be frightened of. I will be gentle with you.”

“Who said I was afraid? Really, Marcos, you think too much of yourself.”

He laughed. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and cast it off. The blood pounded in his veins, urging him to take her now, but he would not do so. He intended to use the utmost control, to take it slow and thorough. To make up for eight years of wanting. Surprisingly, the wanting was as much his as it was hers. He hadn’t considered consummating their relationship back then, but since he’d seen her again, he regretted not having done so. An odd feeling, to be sure, but there was no use questioning it.

He crossed to her, while she watched with wide eyes, and wound his hands in her mane of hair.

“So much hair,” he said, “so beautiful. I do not know why you never wore it this way before.”

Her gaze dropped. He could see the pulse beat in her throat. And in that moment, he found her more attractive than he could ever remember finding any woman. Francesca had that killer combination of wide-eyed innocence and a deep sensuality she seemed unaware she possessed. He wondered, only for a moment, if this was another act, a metamorphosis of her persona eight years ago.

But, no, he didn’t believe that. The woman who’d fought him for the sake of an old man she loved did not need to resort to playing games now. What would be the point anyway? They were here, in this room, and he was going to strip her slowly and make love to her for as long as he was able.

And, Dios, he was going to enjoy it.

Francesca felt like she was viewing the scene from somewhere up above. Surely Marcos Navarre was not standing before her shirtless and tugging her toward him by gently winding her hair around his fist. Surely his eyes weren’t ablaze with heat for her? The bulge in his jeans was not because of her.

But there was no one else in the room.

She slipped her arms around his naked waist, the heat of his skin sizzling into her like a brand. Then she tilted her head up and closed the distance between their mouths before he could do it. She was afraid that if she didn’t, she would wake and discover this had only been a dream.

The kiss was far gentler than she’d thought it would be, gentler than the kiss in the vineyard had been. It was as if he was trying too hard to be careful with her.

“Marcos,” she said against his lips, “I’m not going to break. Kiss me.”

“I am kissing you,” he murmured.

“Really kiss me. Like you mean it.”

“Oh, I mean it.”

She gasped as he cupped her face in both hands, his mouth coming down on hers hotly. If she thought they’d shared a passionate kiss before now, she was mistaken. This kiss was so much more, so full of heat and passion and longing that she didn’t know how they’d ever make it to the bed before they went up in flames.

His hands left her face, slipped beneath her sweater and pushed it upward. They broke the kiss long enough for him to rip it over her head, and then they were kissing again. Francesca reached for the fastening of his jeans while he unsnapped her bra and tugged it off her arms.

She wrapped her arms around him again, and then she was pressed against him, naked chest to naked chest. The sensation was exquisite, so full of heat and sensation that she wanted to moan with the pleasure of it.

But then Marcos swept her into his arms, never breaking the kiss, and she clung to him with heady anticipation. A moment later, he laid her on the bed, following her down. It felt wicked to be here like this, him on top of her, both still clad in jeans, their bodies grinding together through the barrier of fabric.

She was on fire. Absolutely on fire. Arcs of electricity shot through her core, tingling into her limbs. Marcos broke the kiss and sat up as he started to remove her jeans.

“We need to turn off the light,” she blurted.

He stopped what he was doing. “I want to see you.

All of you.”

“No—Marcos, I can’t.”

His brows drew down. “Why not? Because you think I will disapprove of something? Dios, you are a naïve woman.”

She crossed her arms over her bare chest and bit her lip. “I’m self-conscious, that’s all.”

“I know this. And I intend to prove to you how beautiful you are to me.” He stripped her jeans and panties in a smooth motion, then stood and shoved his own pants down his hips. His penis sprang free, glorious, erect—and, wow, more than she’d expected. “Do I look as if I’m turned off by your body, mi gatita?”

Francesca shook her head, a hot feeling bubbling up inside her at the sight of him. He was truly magnificent. And she was a very lucky woman right this moment.

Marcos stretched out over top of her, his weight pressing her into the bed. Dizzily, she thought it must be the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced—because she wanted him so badly, had wanted him for years. And she was about to have him. The anticipation was excruciating, amazing …