Rich Bitch: Everything's Going to the Dogs (5 page)

Sophie woke with a start, sitting up in bed before she realized she was no longer asleep. The silky bedspread sighed as she shifted.

Something had awakened her.
 What?
 In a second she had the answer.

Yap, yap, yap
. .. and the scrabbling of sharp nails across hardwood. Mimi.

Sophie threw off the covers and had her feet planted on the floor before she was conscious that she was awake.

Mimi might be a little on the ditzy side even for a poodle, but she had sharp ears and a terrific sense of self-preservation. Sophie was out in the hall in seconds.

As she careened through the doorway, grabbing the only weapon she could find—a scrubby-looking baseball bat with a few scrawled signatures on it, she saw Mimi was doing her pit bull imitation. Her dainty snout was pulled back in a snarl, her little body almost comically fierce as she attacked the door, barking, barking, barking, her freshly manicured nails sliding and clacking as she menaced the unknown enemy on the other side of the door.

Even as she took in the sight of Mimi, Sophie became aware of Vince flying out of his own room. His weapon of choice wasn’t a baseball bat but a lethal-looking hand gun.

In her time in America, Sophie had still never become used to the prevalence of guns. This one was gray black. She didn’t have to ask if it was loaded. Vince’s expression of deadly earnest told her it was.

“Get back in your room, Sophie,” he said, barely glancing her way. Three nights she’d slept in the Princess bed, and nothing had happened. Vince had insisted she remain, for her own safety, and she’d
 let him talk her into staying for several reasons, most of which had nothing to do with her safety; but maybe he was right.

She ignored his order, of course, feeling that they needed to work as a team if they were to thwart whatever danger lurked outside.

Besides, she couldn’t have moved if she’d tried. Vince looked
incroyable
in his clothes, but wearing nothing but a pair of faded navy cotton boxer shorts?
Mon Dieu.
He was tall and broad; that much she’d known with his clothes on. What she hadn’t known was that one look at his chest would make her want to bury her face in the triangle of brown, silky-looking hair and sink her teeth not entirely gently into his nipples.

She hadn’t imagined his belly would be rock hard and ridged with muscle, or that his legs would be elegant in spite of the big muscles.

She hadn’t imagined she could want a man so much when she knew so little about him. Yes, he was right, on the most personal level, she should run back into her bedroom and slam the door.

But what if she and her oh-so-American baseball bat were needed?

For a tense moment they stayed that way. She with her bat raised, heat from her nervous palm making the handle slippery, Vince with a calm expression of concentration on his face as he pointed his awful gun at the door, and Mimi, all animation and aggression, doing her best to imitate a canine army.

The last roommate to wander into the melee was the Doberman. He yawned, padded on long legs to the door, sniffed, and looked down at Mimi from his superior height, as though to say, “Why the hysterics?”

Down the hall, a door shut. Someone had come home late.

Mimi, seeming to bow to Sir Galahad’s superior guard dog instincts, tried to explain her error with little yaps, some pawing of the air, and a general batting of eyelashes and tossing of fluffy head.

Sir Galahad sat and scratched his ear. She rose to her hind legs and twirled. Sophie had to smile.

The Doberman was more severe. He sniffed under the door, snorted, gave one deep-throated woof and padded back to bed, Mimi, still explaining, following him on short, exquisitely coiffed legs.

Vince was taking no chances, Sophie realized, when he approached the door, checked the peephole, applied the chain, and opened the door.

“Nothing,” he said in his deep, slow voice as he closed and locked the door once again. “Damn dog.”

“She’s on edge. We all are,” Sophie said, eager to justify Mimi’s actions.

“Maybe,” Vince said, and clicking the safety on his gun, walked slowly toward her.

Sophie refused to back up as he advanced on her in nothing but a pair of boxers that really didn’t hide all that much. But she couldn’t stop her heart picking up speed or her skin growing hot as Vince closed in on her. He was all drowsy masculinity and awakening sexuality.

Her own desire bumped to life as he stopped in front of her, looking down into her eyes with sleepy amusement and carnal intent flickering. “Unless you’re trying to get a game of scrub going, I think we can dispense with the baseball bat.”

She allowed him to take it from her and prop it against the wall. He approached her once again, awfully light-footed for such a big man.

“Unless you’re planning on playing Russian roulette?” She indicated the gun still in his hand.

He glanced at it as though he’d forgotten it was there and said, “I’ll put this back in my bedroom.”

“I’ll say good night, then,” she said, taking a step backward.

He eyed her, a warm, devilish glint in his eyes making her aware of how short her gown was and that the excitement or change of temperature perhaps had caused her nipples to pop out and see what was going on.

The air tingled with possibilities.
 He said, “You got out here pretty fast. Weren’t you asleep?”

She’d been lying there listening to the Doberman snore, her body on fire for the man in the other room. No, she hadn’t been sleeping. She shook her head, realizing he’d roared into the hall almost at the same moment she had. And he hadn’t looked like a man woken from deep sleep, either.

She sent him a questioning look.
 Got back a rueful grin. “This is crazy. If we both can’t sleep, I can think of something else I’d rather be doing.”

Her heart, which had barely calmed after the recent scare, began to race again. “And what is that?”

“Come on and I’ll show you.” 
He didn’t say another word, simply took her wrist and pulled her along with him.

She could have pulled away; she could have said,
non, merci
. She could simply have stopped in her tracks. But she didn’t do any of those things. She acted as though her wrist was welded to his hand and she had no choice but to follow.

She was aware of everything about the moment: The way her short gown brushed her thighs as they walked, the comparative silence of New York in the middle of the night—the traffic sounds diminished to a rumble, a siren wailing somewhere. The feel of bare feet on hardwood, the cool night air on her arms, the heat in her wrist where Vince held her. She saw him dimly ahead of her, a big, forceful shape. Solid, reliable; a man a woman could turn to in a crisis.

A man who made a woman feel small and dainty and feminine.

They entered Vince’s bedroom. He kept walking until he reached the side of the bed, then without releasing her, pulled open the drawer on his bedside table. The gun made an unpleasant thunk as it landed inside, and she was glad when Vince slid the drawer shut on the thing.

He straightened and turned toward her then, and she felt every cell in her body snap to full alert. Dawn filtered smudgy light into the room, so the man standing before her seemed like solid shadow, dark and mysterious.

He took a moment simply to gaze down at her; then he raised his free hand and traced an eyebrow, as though it were the first feature he’d noticed. Next he touched her cheek, her lips, her chin, and suddenly her wrist was free as he brought one hand to her hip and the other slid from her chin, followed the line of her jaw, and slipped to cup the back of her neck.

There was probably an inch separating them, and she felt the back-and-forth current of desire pulling them inevitably together. His head came down slowly, and she raised her face to receive his kiss.

His lips touched hers—warm, and firm, and surprisingly gentle, and yet she felt the power within them, within him. His hands touched her lightly, but the echo of great strength was in the soft brush of his palm against her skin.

He held himself in check, and she liked him for it. She took pleasure from the banked promises in his quiet kiss and slow-moving hands.

She enjoyed American men with their cleanliness and crisp edges, but this one combined the earthy sensuality of the Frenchman. The best of both worlds, she thought as she sighed and molded her body to his, so they touched, her breasts to his chest, his erection rubbing at her belly.

He deepened the kiss, and she tasted the faint mint of his toothpaste, and the hot taste of aroused male.

He smelled of the Ivory soap she’d seen in his bathroom, of the herb shampoo she’d uncapped and sniffed when her curiosity about him had surfaced.

She heard him sigh, heard herself murmur some nonsense that wasn’t French or English, but a muddled mixture of the two.

He licked at her, toyed with her mouth, seemed happy to make up for the hours of sleep they’d both missed by spending as many hours again standing here kissing her while dawn tracked its slow way toward full day.

Vince seemed fascinated by every detail of her. Having kissed her mouth until a drumbeat of heavy desire built, thudding inside her with a steadily increasing tempo, he traced the muscles and bone of her back through the slippery silk of her nightgown. He cupped her hips in his big hands and explored her body through her clothing.

She ran her hands down the front of his body, letting her fingers slip through the coarse hair on his chest. She toyed with the bumps of nipple, hit the smooth warmth and surprisingly silky slide of skin below his rib cage, then slipped her hand into the waistband of his boxers to find him hot and oh, so very . .. She searched her English vocabulary for the correct word.
Enorme. Magnifique
. Imposing. Yes, she liked that word. A good English word. Imposing.

He felt so good when she curled her fingers around him. She squeezed lightly, and there was no give. He was like warm, smoothly polished granite.

She played with him until he cursed softly, his feet shifting like a stallion about to race, and suddenly he was yanking her nightgown up and over her head.

Panting. They were both panting.

She felt the relative coolness of air against her skin like a wave as he pulled the gown over her head.

The wisp of silk floated to the floor, and by the time it landed, Vince had shucked his boxers and tossed them much less ceremoniously to the ground.

A shiver of anticipation danced over her bare skin. What would he be like? Feel like? Taste like? Now they were relative strangers; soon they’d be as intimate as a man and woman could be. She was dying to get on with it even as she wanted to stretch out this moment of anticipation.

The moment was soon gone, however. Vince pulled her against him and started touching her naked body, bending down to kiss her. When their height differences frustrated him, he scooped her up with thrilling machismo and laid her on his bed. His big bed where she’d napped, and where the scent of him clung to the bedding.

“You’re so small,” he said in a voice of wonder, running his hands down her body. Actually, he was the one who was big. Everywhere.

A tiny doubt niggled at her that she’d be able to accommodate him inside her body, but she did her best to quell it. She was a Frenchwoman, after all. The blood of the greatest courtesans and mistresses in history ran through her veins. She’d yet to meet the man who was too much for her—in any way.

She was small boned, but on the tall side for a woman, at five feet, seven inches. In France, men tended to be built on a smaller scale, so she was accustomed to feeling tall. But Vince dwarfed her and made her feel tiny and dainty.

When she snuggled up against him, she fit her mouth to his mouth, breast to his chest, and ended up with the hot pressing length of him against her belly. Her feet ended not far past his knees.

As he touched her, he talked. Silly, foolish statements. “You have a swimmer’s muscles.” He was right, she did. “Your skin’s so soft.” Oh, and the way he was stroking it, she’d soon be purring. “Your nipples taste so good.” Which was nothing on how his mouth and tongue felt against her sensitive skin.

She didn’t know a lot of men who talked in bed, but it was a nice quality, she decided. She liked the 
brush of warm air touching her skin when he spoke against it. Enjoyed the earthy praise he scattered along with his kisses.

“You’re so slight, I can count your ribs.” Then he did. Kissing the lowest one and running his tongue along the ridge of bone. “One,” he muttered, then climbed to the next rib, “Two,” and so on until he
was licking the underside of her breast, and he’d muddled his counting dreadfully.

When he shifted so he was between her thighs, she opened for him, spreading herself wide both physically and emotionally. That’s how she was about sex. It was never just physical for her, and sometimes it didn’t work out and there was pain afterward, but oh, the pleasure in between.

So, she opened herself completely, and he entered her slowly, as though making love with her this first time was something he wanted to remember forever. The sky lightened a little more, and a streak of pink lit up the room so she saw the planes of his face more clearly, the dark gleam of his eyes, watching her.

Then he began to move. Slow at first, and so careful of her as their passion built quietly, until she needed more friction, more speed. She grabbed his hips, digging her fingers into the wonderful tight muscles of his butt and pulling him into her, increasing the rhythm until they were both breathing hard and a drop of warm sweat hit her cheek.

“Oh, you feel so good.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” She felt very, very good. And then better, and then impossibly, wonderfully, heart-stirringly oh,
Mon Dieu!
as she cried out and shattered.

One more long, beautiful thrust inside her pulsing body, another, causing tiny aftershocks to radiate deep within her; he wanted to hold himself back, she could tell, just as she knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. His cry was guttural and fierce when he exploded deep within her body. She held him through his shudders, loving the feel of his muscles and skin so damp and hot rubbing against hers.