Mistress To a Latin Lover. Jane Porter
was asking for love, not money, not power, not fame, nor success. Love.
“Maybe all I need is to screw.” Maximos’s deep voice, pitched low and hard, echoed in the hall.
“Great,” she choked, grabbing her suitcase and heading down the stairs rapidly, one quick step at a time. “Get laid. Go screw. Just stay away from me.”
“You don’t mean that,” he said, following her down the staircase. “Or you wouldn’t have traveled all this way to see me again.”
“I told you. I needed closure.”
“Or another mind-blowing orgasm.”
And then he laughed, and Cass stopped midstep, turned to face him. “You’re making me hate you.”
“Good. You should hate me. You shouldn’t have ever accepted what I gave you.” And he pulled her into his arms, pulled her against him so she felt the hard press of his body from his chest to his hips to the thigh he pushed between her legs even as his head descended and his mouth covered hers.
His kiss stole her breath, his mouth forcing her lips open, forcing her surrender. He knew what he wanted and he was determined to have it.
Cass shuddered at the flick of his tongue against her sensitive inner lip, shuddered again as he reached up to clasp the swell of her breast, his palm hard against her nipple, pressing, bearing down even as need coiled in her belly, fierce, sharp insistent.
Her legs trembled and helplessly she arched against him as he strummed her nipple, a pinching, squeezing sensation that tormented her nerves, heightening pleasure to almost pain.
She wanted him.
Now. Here. In her.
She wanted him. Hard. Fast. Furious.
She wanted him and she felt mindless, helpless, his. And he knew, he knew.
She’d give him anything he asked. She’d beg him to take her, fill her, beg him to give her release.
The pressure on her mouth eased and she drank in air as his head briefly lifted.
“You should have demanded more,” he said, his voice rough, raspy with passion. “You should have insisted on more from the very beginning.”
Her head was swimming, spinning, her senses stretched, teased, dazed. She felt empty, achy between her legs. And her heart felt just as empty, and achy in her chest. There would never be true release. Not from him, not with him. He was put on earth to torture her. “Why are you doing this?” she choked.
“Because you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. And it needed to be done. I was never any good for you, bella.”
Her eyes stung. He was being awful, making the ending of this—whatever it was, whatever it had been—excruciating.
She couldn’t bear for it to be awful. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to make everything okay. Closure for her meant making everything okay, but maybe this time there wouldn’t be real closure. At least there wasn’t going to be peace.
Because beyond the discomfort of the moment, beyond the pain, there was pride. And self-respect. As well as something called self-preservation.
If he wasn’t going to help her, protect her, then she had to protect herself.
And if he couldn’t respect her, she had to do that for herself, too.
Tears welled in her eyes and for a moment she felt lost. Abandoned. And it wasn’t something she ever wanted to feel, not again.
No, she had to make sure she was safe. Valued. Treated well. She deserved to be treated well.
And those thoughts, those elusive rational thoughts allowed her to stand on tiptoe and kiss him, kiss him gently, tenderly, kiss him with pain and heartbreak before she broke away, descended the rest of the staircase and exited through the front door.
Maximos stood frozen on the step and watched her go.
He saw her walk through the door and shut it and as the door shut he felt a rush of emotion—mostly rage—before telling himself not to think.
Don’t care.
Quickly he began to climb the stairs again, heading back to his room to change for the excursion Adriana had planned, and as he climbed the stairs he kept chanting don’t think, don’t care, don’t feel. There was no point thinking or feeling now. What was, was. Period.
But Maximos knew he’d hurt her. Knew he’d leveled her, hitting her far harder than was fair, and it made him sick.
He didn’t want her hurt. He didn’t even know why he said what he’d said to her. He was angry, yes. And lashing out. But she wasn’t the one he was angry with. No, his anger was directed at Sobato and Lorna, at the courts…at himself. But not Cass and yet now Cass was standing on the front steps of his house…
He should go to her. Apologize. Explain.
Reaching the top of the staircase, he drew a breath. But explain what? That he’d betrayed her? That he’d knowingly betrayed her for years? How could he explain? That he’d been as unfair to her as Lorna had been to him?
But Cass didn’t know any of that yet. She didn’t know about his real life, the life he’d kept hidden, private, the life that would crush her if she found out.
And she’d soon find out. He had to tell her. Last night he’d determined he’d tell her this weekend, as soon as the wedding was over and Adriana had set off for her honeymoon. It was time. But until the wedding he wanted to keep the drama low…for his family’s sake if nothing else.
Inside his bedroom, Maximos stripped off his shirt and searched through his bureau for another.
His bedroom door opened abruptly. “Maximos.” It was his mother.
“You don’t knock?” he asked, turning to face her.
“I’m your mother.”
“Which is why you should knock. You never know what you might find.”
“Oh, I don’t worry about you doing anything in your bedroom.” His mother’s face was impassive. “You do it on the stairs.”
He shot her a dark glance, resignation tinged with humor. “You shouldn’t be watching.”
“Some things, Maximos, are hard to miss.” His mother remained in the doorway, slim, elegant, very contained. She wasn’t particularly tall and yet she exuded authority. Control. She hadn’t been married to a Guiliano for nearly forty years for nothing. “Now your…guest…is outside with her suitcase. Does she have a ride?”
He slipped on a white linen shirt and began rolling the cuffs back. “I don’t know.”
“Why is she leaving now?”
“I’m not sure—”
“You are sure. You’ve just been fighting with her for the past ten minutes.”
Maximos’s brow lifted. “She needed to go back to Rome. Business.”
“On a Saturday?”
“She’s an advertising executive—”
“On a Saturday?”
“Mama.” His voice dropped, the tone low, a warning.
“Adriana said she was Emilio’s girlfriend,” his mother continued unabashed. “But she’s not, is she? She’s yours.”
“She couldn’t be my girlfriend—”
“I’m not stupid, Maximos. I’m your mother, and I’ve known you longer than two or three years. I know what I heard, and I know what I saw. She doesn’t know the truth, does she?”
He said nothing, his jaw tight.
Signora