She knew she didn’t look like the elegant women dancing around her, but with Lazaro leading, his movements strong and sure, she felt like one of them. She could feel his heart beating hard against her chest, strong and steady, and her steps began to match his, her body moving in rhythm with the beat of his heart.
The music closed in around them, making her feel as if they were alone, everyone else fading into murky, shadowy impressions. Nothing else mattered but Lazaro, the weight of his hand on her waist, the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her.
The strains of the violin wound through Vanessa’s body, filled her, joined the arousal that had been building inside her since the moment she’d walked back into Lazaro’s life, making her feel too full. But also more alive than she’d ever felt before.
Lazaro slid his hand down to the curve of her hip, down lower, edging beneath the daring split in the skirt of her dress. His hand connected with the very top of her stocking, the place where nylon ended and bare flesh began. He curled his fingers in and lifted her leg, curving it around his. It was part of the dance, nothing more sensual than anyone else was doing. And yet it made her feel dizzy with desire, held captive to it, waiting to see what he would do next. Where he would touch her next.
He pulled her closer to him and the hard length of his erection pressed against her stomach. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, bit down on her lip, trying to keep back the sound of pleasure that was trying to escape.
This was real. Sexual. Raw. It stirred primal hunger in her, a sense of feminine power.
He moved his hand from her thigh, back to her hip, his grip tightening. He pulled into his body and she melted against him. It was all part of the dance.
And yet it wasn’t.
He pressed his face against hers, the stubble that had grown in since that morning abrading her cheek, the slight prickle of pain combining with her mounting arousal, making her feel as if she was drowning in sensation.
“Come with me,” he whispered, his voice rough.
He was leading. She was following. This felt like part of the dance too.
And yet it wasn’t.
He brought her into a small alcove just off the dance floor, partly secluded with swaths of fabric that cascaded from the ceiling to the floor.
“Lazaro …” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when he was looking at her as though she was the only thing he could see.
He leaned in slightly and braced himself on the wall behind her, his hand resting by her head, his other arm wrapped around her waist. She was effectively trapped, and she didn’t mind at all.
She tilted her head slightly, hoping that he would take the hint and kiss her. Logic and self-preservation had no place in what was happening between them now. This was about feeling, desire, the kind of passion she’d tasted once twelve years ago and had been starving for every night since then.
He kissed her and she forgot everything—everything but the graze of rough stubble on her cheeks, the velvet slide of his tongue, the firm warmth of his lips. There was nothing else.
She kissed him back with everything she had, all of the pent-up desire that had lain dormant in her for so long. Desire for him.
He cupped her cheek for a moment before sliding his hand through her hair, weaving his fingers into the thick curls. He held her like that, anchored to him, his kiss giving and demanding at the same time. Too much and not enough.
She arched against him, needing to be closer to him, as close to him as she could possibly get. She needed his touch. His hands. Needed him.
He tilted his head and kissed the tender skin beneath her jaw, the curve of her neck, her shoulder. She shivered and he continued down, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. He lifted his hand and cupped her breast, teased her hardened nipple until she was panting, desperate, dying of the want that had taken over her body.
She gripped his shoulders, needing something to hold her to earth. He shifted his hand lower, palming her bottom, coupling it with a kiss to her collarbone. And then he was traveling down again, the tip of his tongue on the curve of her breast, exposed by the low neckline of her gown.
She opened her eyes for a moment and saw a flash of movement through the partly closed curtains. A reminder. Just enough to bring her back to reality.
“Lazaro, stop. We have to stop,” she said, her tongue thick and clumsy, unable to form words effectively.
“No, querida,” he whispered, kissing her throat. “Not yet.”
“But … what … what will people think?”
Lazaro froze, all of the heat, the molten lust that had been roaring through his veins turning into ice.
What will people think?
He tightened his hold on her for a moment and then released her. “Don’t worry, no one here will think anything, Vanessa. No one here knows that you are the Pickett heiress and I’m your housekeeper’s bastard son.” He spat the words from his mouth, vile words that reflected the clash of emotions raging inside him.
She shook her head and took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Lazaro …”
“How will you bear the humiliation of being married to a man like me?” He stepped away from her, his stomach tight with disgust. “Although my money is good enough for you. My ring—” he reached out and took her hand, lifting it so that the diamond caught the light “—seems to be good enough for you.”
“Don’t say that. That’s not fair. I …”
“Don’t say what, Vanessa? Don’t tell you the truth? I’m good enough to marry, as long as I’m bailing you out and giving you a ring that ought to come with its own security detail? Good enough to screw around with in your father’s guesthouse as long as no one sees you slumming it with the boy who cuts the grass?”
“Lazaro …”
“You need me,” he said, his voice sounding like a growl, shocking even him. “Admit it.”
“I …”
Pain tore through him, made him want retribution. “Say it.”
“Or what? You’ll walk away? You’ll forget that you need me?” She pulled away from him. “Because no matter how much you pretend to disdain me, my father, society, you want your place at the top. And you need me to get it.”
Angry brown eyes clashed with his, a tear, not one of sadness but of pure rage, spilled down her cheek. “I want to go now,” she said, her voice low.
He inclined his head. “Of course, princesa,” he said, the term not meant as one of endearment.
She turned, walking ahead of him, pushing the door open.
It was warmer outside than it was in the club, the night air heavy and clinging, weighing him down, along with what felt like a rock in his gut. She was acting as though she’d been deeply wronged—offended by his touch, most likely. Because he was so beneath her. At least in public.
He curled his hands into fists, holding them so tight the tendons in his wrists ached.
The penthouse was only a couple of blocks away and Vanessa maintained her stony silence the entire way there. Once they were inside the lobby she kept a few paces in front of him, clearly determined not to look at him or acknowledge his presence.
Anger roared to life in him, replacing the unsettling guilt that had momentarily crept in. She wouldn’t have her way. Not now. He wasn’t a boy anymore, at the mercy of her father’s henchman. And she was no longer the princess in a tower, no longer so far above him she could dismiss him at will. She couldn’t just walk away from him.
“You will have to get over your aversion to being seen