The Playboy of Argentina(9)

By: Bella Frances


She lifted her arms to push him and he scooped her wrists together, pinned them behind her. Then he heaved her against him and crushed her insolent mouth. Fragile but strong, she strained and stiffened and held her lips closed. Which just drove him wilder! He could smell her desire. He could taste her passion. So why was she so intent on keeping him back?

He gripped her head and stared into her eyes.

Her hands flew to his wrists. She dug in her nails. She flashed and fumed and forced out her breath through the clenched teeth in her mouth. But she didn’t pull back, and he needed to know. He grabbed her hips and ground her into his hard, throbbing length, felt her sweet mound and watched her shocked face.

And he saw. Oh, yes. Oh. Yes. She told him. Her eyes closed. Her head dropped back and she moaned. Dark and deep and long.

That was it. All he needed to know.

He thrust her away, spun her round, slapped her backside.

‘Get in there. Get dressed. Meet me outside. You have half an hour.’

He’d had to get back onto the street—get some air. Calm his blood.

So he’d been right all these years when he’d wondered if he was idolising a memory. If she really had fired him up as fast and hard as his youthful body had ever experienced.

He really should have been given a medal after that weekend. The utterly overt way she’d tried to seduce him had been sweet, but he doubted her family had thought so. And they hadn’t known the half of it.

From the first moment when he’d seen her in filthy jodhpurs to her sidling up beside him at dinner as he’d tried to keep focussed on the deal he was supposed to be there to cut with her brother, her face covered in make-up she’d clearly had no notion of how to apply, and wearing a dress—which had seemed to cause her family some amusement. To the full-blown assault of her coming into his room.

Kiss me, Rocco.

That look in her eyes … the shadow between her open wet lips. He had wanted to—so badly. She’d blown his mind. But of course he had chased her away. What kind of guy took advantage of a girl five years younger, barely aware of her own sexuality, acting as if she’d never even been kissed? And there was the fact that her family’s hospitality to him had been beyond reproach … She was off limits, and then some.

But in the predawn light she’d woken him again. Naked. In his bed. The memory still packed a punch.

He had been disorientated, but harder than he had ever thought possible. Seconds, maybe minutes had passed as they’d found each other, and he’d done things he should never have done. But thank God he had stopped in time—before it had gotten out of hand. She had begged and wailed and made it even harder for him to send her away. So in the end he’d left himself. After one look back at her, wrapped in a sheet, all eyes and white skin. One look that he had never erased from his mind.

He pushed up off the sedan’s door, walked, paced down the street. He had already drawn attention to himself. He should be waiting in the car. A crowd was starting to gather—people who were wondering what the hell the captain of the polo team that had just won the biggest charity match ever seen in Palermo was doing, tonight of all nights, outside a midrange hotel in Villa Crespo.

He checked his watch.

Forty minutes.

And then he knew.

She wasn’t coming.

He stared up at the first-floor windows. Maybe a curtain twitched.

The throng of interested happy people watched and waited. The concierge wrung his hands at the door.

Rocco turned away from the crowd. Got into the car. Nodded to his driver and was driven off through the streets.

What kind of stupid game was she playing? They had unfinished business. A hot physical agenda to work through and close down. It was that simple—that straightforward. Where did all this chasing feature? He was Rocco Hermida. He didn’t chase. Not like this. Not like a stupid adolescent.

If she wanted him the way he knew she wanted him she could damn well quit her coy little act and juvenile games. She could come and get him. And she would.

He smiled grimly at the passing scenery as he made his way back to Recoleta. Yes, she would. He would lay money on it. His Irish obsession? Su obsesion Argentina! Her Argentinian obsession. She was right in it with him. Up to her neck.

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