Unconditional (22 page)

He shrugged, his stare holding mine. “Then Heather would be getting the surprise of her life.”

I burst out laughing.

He grinned, obviously proud of himself, and then pulled out his own chair and sat.

A second later, a silent, immaculately dressed man appeared at our side. White napkins were gently placed across our laps, water glasses were filled and menus were offered. All without a word.

Damn near quivering from excitement, I studied the items printed in bronze script on the matte gold paper.

“There’re no prices,” I whispered, peeking at Raph around the side of the menu.

“I know. How dangerous.”

With a roll of my eyes, I let out an exasperated sigh and returned my attention to the menu.

To be honest, I didn’t understand or recognize ninety percent of what was written. What the hell is
jus
?
Mousselin
?
Agri-doux
?

It didn’t matter. I was on a high like I’d never been before and it had nothing to do with the fancy setting and ridiculous menu and everything to do with the guy sitting opposite me and the adventure I was sharing with him. I could have been standing in line at a Subway and I’d still feel the same.

I felt wonderful.

Alive.

Happy.

Picking the fourth item from the top with random abandon—grilled Northern Territory crocodile with caramelized apricots, apricot
agri-doux
, glazed couscous, ginger-infused puree, asparagus tips and red-wine
jus
—I lowered my menu and fixed Raph with a level gaze. “Speaking of dangerous,” I said, watching him study his menu, “where
is
your bodyguard?”

He pulled a face, disgruntled dislike clear in the tension around his mouth and nose. “I’ve given him the day off. In fact, if I had my way, he’d be gone for good. He doesn’t know where we are and my phone is off.”

“So you
are
being naughty?” I pointed out, delighted. I didn’t like Horn. Just in case you didn’t know that little fact by now.

Raph laughed, the sound low and relaxed and so goddamn yummy. “I told you, being naughty comes later.”

My sex throbbed and pulsed and generally reacted like an impatient freaking sex-fiend’s at his words.
And
the open hunger in his eyes as he raised his head and looked at me.

Oh boy.

I wanted to say something pithy and flirty but our waiter arrived before I could. Which was probably a good thing, given I had no clue what pithy and sexy thing to say.
Take me right here on the table, Raph
? Probably not, even if it
was
what I was thinking.

Boy, was I thinking it.

The next fifteen minutes were spent talking movies, American life versus Australian life, farm life versus city life. The topics were inconsequential. The real conversation was taking place with our eyes. Yes, I know that sounds corny, but it was true. While words like
Iron Man
and
Katnis
and
drought
and
rush-hour traffic
passed our lips, our eyes spoke a completely different conversation.

I was damn near squirming on my seat by the time our food arrived, the junction of my thighs thick with want and impatient need, my nipples hard with the same.

We ate. The food diffused the crushing sexual tension for a while. Long enough for us to laugh about our meals, comment on their elaborate presentations and finally share a few forkfuls of each other’s dishes.

That really was where we went wrong. The first time I watched Raph’s lips close over the tines of my fork, my belly clenched. Why is watching someone eating from your fork so goddamn arousing? Is it a trust thing? A sharing thing?

Whatever it is, watching Raph slip crocodile from the end of my fork made me want to whimper.

When he offered me a taste of his lunch—roasted quail with some fancy stuff neither of us could translate—I couldn’t help but shiver with anticipation as I leaned slightly across the table and parted my lips.

Our eyes meet. His nostrils flared. His hand close, he slowly placed the tip of his fork with its small cut of quail speared on it into my mouth.

Onto my tongue.

Sublime flavors caressed my taste buds, more delicious than anything I’d eaten. But it wasn’t the food in my mouth that turned my breath to a ragged moan.

It was the way Raph looked at me.

The open, urgent desire in his eyes.

I swallowed the quail, my pulse a pounding beat in my neck, my hands shaking from impatient, nervous need and excitement.

“Th-that’s delicious,” I rasped, tracing my finger over my bottom lip. I really needed to rein in my lust. I was going to embarrass myself soon.

Raph regarded me, silent.

My belly coiled.

Christ, I could barely draw breath.

“Maci…” he said.

The arrival of our waiter prevented him from finishing.

“Dessert?” the man queried.

I shook my head, rising instead to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to visit the bathroom.”

I didn’t miss the devilish light in Raph’s eyes as our waiter inclined his head. “Of course, ma’am.”

If I wasn’t so hyper on sexual need, I’d have laughed. Ma’am. That was a first.

I hurried to the bathroom. I didn’t need to pee. I
did
need to calm myself.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I drew five deep breaths, held each one and let them out in slow, steady streams through my lips.

I reminded myself we were at a restaurant. True, it was a private dining room without anyone to watch us, but still, it wasn’t like we were going to start making out like rabbits right there.

Of course, then I remembered we did have a tradition of making out like rabbits in public restrooms and the fluttering need in the junction of my thighs grew damp.

God help me, if Raph walked through the door into the ladies’ bathroom, I’d probably come before the door could swing closed behind him.

Yes, I was
that
horny.

Raph didn’t stride through the door, however, and by the time I finished washing my hands and staring hard at myself in the mirror—a good five minutes later—I’d regained some semblance of control over my feverish libido.

I would walk back out there, smile with relaxed good-humor, settle back into my seat and sip ice water as we continued our conversations about movies, TV shows, ask him what he thought of
The Walking Dead
. Did he think they’ll ever say the word zombies? That’s what I was going to do.

Shaking out my hair, loosening up my shoulders and wriggling my slightly trembling fingers, I pulled open the door and walked back into our private dining room.

The table had been cleared, replaced with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket and two champagne flutes.

Raph stood at the window, one arm resting on the glass above his head, his other hand deep in his pocket, his back to me.

I paused for a moment, sliding a long, lingering gaze over his body. His ass was exquisite in his jeans, his shoulders broad and strong and muscular. As far as adventures go, he was sublime.

“Are you going to just stare at me or do you think you might want to come over here?”

I jumped a little at his question.

“Busted,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear as I walked over to where he stood. “You okay with me reducing you to a piece of meat I can drool—”

The word
over
didn’t get a chance to pass my lips.

The second I drew close to his side, Raph spun, fisted a hand in the hair at my nape and crushed my lips with his.

He slammed me against the glass, hips to hips, his cock thick and hard as it rubbed my belly through our clothes.

I whimpered, totally undone by the concentrated pleasure rushing through me.

Holy fuck.

He lashed my tongue with his, his hands roaming my shoulders, my breasts, my hips, before catching my wrists and pinning them against the window above my head.

Again, I say holy fuck.

I whimpered. Ground the curve of my sex to the rigid pole of his erection. He growled into my mouth and deepened the kiss. His plundering tongue sent hot licks of liquid electricity straight to my core, as did his firm grip on my wrists. I was his prisoner, caught between him, the window and our explosive desire—and I never wanted to escape.

He made love to my mouth until I could barely stand. With every swipe of his tongue, with every nip of his teeth, I grew more enslaved by the potency of his kiss. Pleasure pooled in the pit of my belly, radiated out through my limbs. By the time he released my wrists and smoothed his hands down my arms to cup my breasts, I could barely
breathe
, let alone remain on my feet.

When he dragged his lips over my chin and down my throat, kneading my breasts the whole time, I couldn’t control my raw “Oh yeah.” I tangled my fists in his hair, pushing my hips forward. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him inside me. Now. Right now.

In response to my husky cry, Raph pinched my nipples through the cotton of my shirt.

A shudder racked my body, deep and bone melting. I arching into his touch, on fire. Aching for more. “Yeah,” I repeated, the word nothing more than a whimpered groan.

With his own raw sound of pleasure, he buried his head into the side of my neck and sucked on my skin.

I gasped, the painful pressure making my sex squeeze with wicked hunger. I rubbed the curve of my sex to the hard ridge of his erection, wanting to feel it bruise my skin.

He moaned, his hands on my breasts growing fierce. “I want to be inside you, American girl. Tell me you want that too,” he ordered, his breath hot on my neck.

“I want you inside me, Raph,” I declared, incapable of anything else. “Here. Against the window. But what if…people see…down on the street…”

“The glass is tinted,” he rasped against my skin. “No one can see in from the outside.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Then strip me naked and—”

He captured my lips with his even as he released each button on my shirt with feverish haste.

My gasp filled the room, loud and hoarse. And then Raph was releasing the front clasp of my bra and sliding the lace cups from my flesh.

The cool air of the private dining room kissed my newly exposed skin, sending a shiver through me. My nipples puckered into tighter points. My lips parted.

“Oh, Maci,” Raph murmured, skimming his thumbs over the swells of my breasts, his nostrils flaring. “You are so beautiful.”

I turned my head to the side, his compliment twisting me in shy knots. “I twitch too much to be beautiful,” I whispered, my throat thick.

“Look at me, American girl.”

Raph’s low command rumbled between us. He pressed a finger to my chin, drawing my face back to his.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said, tracing his thumb along the line of my bottom lip. “And if I hear you putting yourself down again, I will be forced to spank you.”

I burst out laughing at his unexpected tease.

He laughed too, the sound devilish and wonderful.

Smiling up at him, I smoothed my hands over the firm expanse of his chest, his throat, to the thick strands of his hair at the back of his head. “In that case,” I said, “I’m a shaky, twitchy, ticky, trembly—”

He silenced me with a kiss, even as he yanked me harder to his body and grabbed my ass cheeks in a punishingly firm grip.

I giggled into his mouth, the playful noise quickly turning into a groan of raw delight as he dragged his palms over my hips, up my ribs to my breasts again. He stroked each nipple, rolled them between thumb and finger, pinched them until I squirmed against him. Only then did he remove a hand from my breast, but before I could protest the loss of his skin on mine, he replaced his fingers with his lips.

Oh boy. Oh fuck. Oh boy.

He drew my nipple deep into his mouth, massaging my other breast as he did so.

I threw back my head, eyes closing, head swimming with exquisite pleasure.

Raph feasted on my flesh, first one breast and then the other, sucking my nipple, nibbling it, laving it with his tongue. With every second that passed, I grew closer to eruption.

When he pulled away from me, releasing my left nipple with a wet pop, I cried out.

Breath ragged, he stared down at me, planting his palms on either side of my head on the glass. “Tell me again,” he ground out. “Before it’s too late, tell me again.”

I knew what he wanted. What he sought. After the madness of our relationship so far, he needed my unequivocal permission.

I gave it to him.

“I want you inside me, Raphael Jones,” I said, holding his gaze. “Now.”

He captured my lips in a searing kiss and dropped his hands to the hemline of my skirt.

If you’re thinking he undressed me with gloriously romantic and dramatic grace, you’re wrong. By this stage, we were both so on fire with lust and desire we damn near tore all our clothes off.

He shoved his hands between the material of my skirt and the curve of my hips and grabbed my ass. I matched his ferocity with my own, tugging on his belt and fly with greedy impatience.

For once, my fingers didn’t betray me. They did what I wanted them to do and did it well. In less than a heartbeat, Raph’s engorged length was jutting from the gaping opening of his jeans, thick and hot and erect.

I wrapped my hand around it and squeezed.

He bucked, driving his hips forward even as he threw back his head and hissed.

I pumped his length, the feel of his arousal in my hand the most powerful,
steadying
sensation of my life. It was as if the life I’d denied myself since my diagnosis, the refusal to acknowledge there was more to existing than breathing, flowed through me from Raph’s flesh, from his body. I know that makes no sense, but I don’t know how else to explain it. By holding him, holding his pleasure in my hand, I knew life.

And it was addictive.

And fucking potent.

With a moan, I shoved his jeans down over his hips and reached for his balls with my other hand.