Дженни Лукас – Blackmail & Secrets: The Sandoval Baby / The Count's Secret Child / Playboy's Surprise Son (страница 8)

Rafe did not break the kiss as he pulled at the waistband of her shorts, pushing them down, and Freya helped him, knowing this was moving crazily fast and yet powerless to stop it. Not wanting to.

His hand shook as he pulled at the waistband of his own pyjama bottoms, and then kicked them off. And then suddenly, amazingly, he was inside her. Freya gasped at the feeling; her body closed around him, tight and unused to the sensation, the sense of fullness and completion.

He muttered an oath, the words no more than a hiss, as he began to move. Freya moved with him, her face buried in the hot curve of his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. Or perhaps it was her own tears, because belatedly, distantly, she realised she was crying.

And then release came for both of them—an intense wave of emotion and pleasure that crashed over them, leaving them shuddering, silent and senseless.

His breathing still ragged, his chest heaving, Rafe remained in the circle of her arms, still inside her, for one precious beat, before he pulled away, yanked up his trousers and left the room.

CHAPTER SIX

RAFE stalked into his room, dazed and shaking. What had just happened?

He took a shuddering breath and raked a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He knew all too well what had happened. He just couldn’t believe he had done it. It seemed utterly impossible that he had just had sex with Freya Clark, yet he felt satiation stealing through his body even as his mind rebelled, denied. He had known her for less than twenty-four hours. He had had no intention of so much as laying a finger on her. And yet within minutes—seconds—all that had changed.

She had come close to him and he’d breathed in the faint scent of lilac that he knew must be from her soap or shampoo, seen the rise and fall of her chest through her thin tank top as she breathed, and he had felt a sudden, desperate tidal wave of yearning that he hadn’t been able to control.

And when she had responded in kind … her mouth opening under his, accepting, Wanting … that tidal wave had dragged him under completely.

After four long, lonely years—years of living off anger and bitterness rather than desire or love—he’d wanted that immediate connection and satisfaction, had needed it from her, and that deep need had overtaken any reason or self-control he’d had. The thought shamed him.

And now he was left with the aftermath of that rash act. How could they go forward with that between them? How could they concentrate on Max? He would have to tackle it directly, Rafe knew, yet he could not face it now. The realisation shamed him further. He’d shown such appalling weakness. He shuddered, shook off the thought.

He would speak to Freya in the morning. Explain—what? That it shouldn’t have happened? He knew she would agree. Surely she hadn’t expected.

Had she planned it? Rafe stilled, his body tensing with sudden suspicion. Had Freya been trying to seduce him as a way to bind herself closer to Max, keep him from finding another care-giver? The suspicions slid slyly into Rafe’s mind, causing him to freeze as he considered the awful possibility. He thought of how she’d placed her hand on his arm, how she hadn’t moved it. She’d looked up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth parted, waiting, and then her shocking, shameless response.

Had she used him?

God knew he had little reason to trust Freya Clark. He’d felt she was hiding something from the start—sensed that calm composure was covering some purpose or plan—but seduction? Did she really think a single night of rushed pleasure would change his mind? And yet in that moment of shocking intimacy he’d felt closer to Freya Clark than he had to another human being in a long, long time. She could not have expected him to respond that way, to have known how much he longed for it.

And yet it had happened. Freya had approached him, had not turned away from his kiss despite his every expectation that she would. Rafe’s mouth twisted in disgust at both her and himself even as he fought against the urge to condemn her without true proof. He did not want to be unjust, yet he’d faced so much injustice himself.

And even if she had been using him, he could not send her away so suddenly. Max would be devastated. He thought of Max’s blankly terrified face, the endless screams. Max needed Freya—for several more weeks, at least. They were stuck together, at least for a little while, no matter what her intentions had been. He didn’t trust her. And he still had every intention of sending her away as soon as possible.

Freya walked from the living room as if she were made of glass. She felt as if she could shatter at any moment. She walked with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could keep herself together by sheer physical force.

How could she have allowed herself to be so weak, tempted by desire yet again? How could ten years of distance and decorum, of carefully building a fortress around her body and heart, count for nothing? She felt as defenceless as a razed tower, her body and heart raw and vulnerable, open and exposed to the elements. To Rafe.

She thought of how he’d left the room, stalking from it as if he were angry, probably disgusted. By what they had done. By her. Had he sensed that weakness inside her? Had he known she would respond to his kiss, unable to keep desire from swamping her senses, obliterating all reason?

Freya went to the bathroom and, mindless of the late hour, ran a steaming bath. She needed to wash away the memory of what had just happened even if she couldn’t erase the regret. She would, Freya knew from experience, live with that for ever.

Even after a bath, sleep wouldn’t come. She kept reliving those urgent moments with Rafe—the feel of his lips on her skin, his body inside her, the fierce sense of both joy and regret, pleasure and pain. She had not been close, much less had sex, with anyone for ten years. Since Timeo. And it stunned and scared her that Rafe Sandoval had been the one to crumble her defences. She turned her head towards her pillow, closing her eyes tightly, willing the memories and regrets to recede.

She must have slept, although she did not remember doing so, for she opened her eyes several hours later to see Max standing very close to her face, peering owlishly at her. Freya blinked and tried to smile, although every muscle in her body ached.

‘Hello, there, sleepyhead.’

Max grinned. ‘You’re the sleepyhead.’

‘So I am.’ She touched his cheek, as soft and round as a peach, savouring the moment. Then the memories of last night rushed in, obliterating anything else, crashing over her so her throat closed up and her eyes stung. She withdrew her hand. ‘Let me just get dressed, Max, and we’ll go and see about breakfast.’

A few minutes later, with Max’s hand slipped through her own, Freya cautiously headed out into the apartment. Rafe was nowhere to be seen, and she felt a dizzying wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to see him yet; she didn’t know if she ever would be.

A housekeeper was busy in the kitchen, setting out bowls of fruit and slices of warm bread with pots of butter and jam, and she smiled at both Freya and Max as they entered. Freya made introductions, and they sat down at a table in the alcove and set to eating.

‘How long are we going to stay here?’ Max asked as he popped a strawberry in his mouth, juice running down his chin.

‘I’m not sure, Max. I think we’ll see Rafe’s house in the country soon. Wouldn’t you like that? To visit the mountains?’

Max frowned, and Freya knew she hadn’t fooled him. Despite her cheerful, brisk attitude, he sensed that something wasn’t right about this whole scenario.

‘I want to go swimming,’ he finally said, and Freya knew he was remembering Rafe mentioning that he had a pool.

‘And you will. It’s warmer in Spain, you know. You can go swimming outside even this time of year.’

Max brightened at this, and turned back to his fruit. Freya felt another wave of relief. She wasn’t ready to offer Max explanations she couldn’t even give. Thank goodness children were resilient.

Certainly more resilient than she was … She felt fragile and bruised, her body and brain both aching with the aftermath of last night.

Even as those thoughts ricocheted through her mind Rafe entered the kitchen. He was dressed for work, looking cool and remote in an immaculately cut business suit, a gold and silver watch flashing on one wrist. He greeted Maria, the housekeeper, and accepted a cup of coffee before turning to the two of them at the table.

‘Good morning, Maximo.’ His face softened in a smile clearly meant only for his son. He did not look at Freya. Max grinned back, his face and shirt already splotched with strawberry stains. ‘I’m afraid I must be at work today, but tomorrow we will go to my house in Andalusia and have fun there. Bueno?’

Max nodded shyly. ‘Bueno,’ he said.

Then Rafe turned to her, his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing. The movements were almost imperceptible, yet Freya saw them. Felt them. He looked angry, she realised with a shaft of pain that surprised her, even though she should have expected it. He was blaming her—just as she couldn’t keep from blaming herself. ‘We will talk tonight.’