Carrying The Spaniard's Child

He shuddered a little, and without realizing it, pushed deeper inside her. The soft whisper of a moan escaped her as he lowered his lips to suckle her breasts. Her breath changed to a gasp of ecstasy.

Gripping her hips, he very slowly started to ride her, even as he kissed her lips and caressed her breasts. He sucked her earlobe and slowly licked and nibbled down her neck. He felt her body lift beneath his as new pleasure rose in her, and she began to kiss him back hungrily.

He started to lose the last shreds of his self-control. She was wet, so wet, and somehow her tight sheath accepted all of him. His thrusts became deeper as he wondered if the size of him would be too much for her. But it wasn’t. He felt her tighten around him, gripping her fingernails into his shoulders. But that small pain only added to his building pleasure. When he heard her low gasp rise to a scream of joy he could no longer hold back. His eyes closed in pure ecstasy, his head tossing back as he filled her deeply, until his own roar exploded in the deep dark silence of the bedroom. Flying in a whirlwind, he experienced pure sexual joy such as he’d never known before as he spilled himself into her.

He fell back to the bed against her, eyes closed, cradling her body against his own. For ten seconds, as he held her, he felt a deep peace, a sense of home, sweeter than he’d ever known.

Then his eyes flew open. He was filled with regret so great it tasted like ash in his mouth.

“You were right,” Belle sighed, a hopeful smile on her lovely heart-shaped face. “I feel recklessly alive. That was like nothing I ever dreamed. Pure magic.” She pressed back against his naked chest, pulling his arms more tightly around her, as she said dreamily, “Deep down, maybe you’re not all bad. I might even like you a little.”

Santiago looked down at her grimly in the moonlight from the bedroom window. He’d just known ecstasy that he’d never experienced before.

With a virgin.

A romantic.

Sleeping with Belle had done strange things to him. His body had never known such deep pleasure. And his soul...

She yawned. “I just hope no one heard us.”

“They didn’t,” he said harshly. “Letty and Darius are in the other wing, and this house is made of stone.” Stone like his heart, he reminded himself.

“Good. I’d never live it down if Letty knew, after everything I’ve said about you.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I said you were a selfish bastard without a heart.”

His shoulders tightened. “I’m not offended. It’s true.”

“You’re funny.” She looked up at him sleepily. “You know, no matter what you think, love and marriage aren’t always a prison sentence. Look at Letty and Darius.”

“They look happy,” he said grudgingly, then added, “Looks can be deceiving.”

Her forehead furrowed. “Don’t you believe in anyone? Anything?”

“I believe in myself.”

“You’re a terrible cynic.”

“I see the world as it is, rather than as I wish it could be.” Eternal love? A happy family? At thirty-five, Santiago had seen enough of the world to know those kind of miracles were few and far between. Tragedy was the normal state of the world. “Do you already regret sleeping with me?”

Shaking her head, she smiled up at him, looking kittenish and shy and so damned beautiful that his heart caught in his throat. “You feel so good to me. I’m glad you’re here.” She yawned, closing her eyes, cuddling against him. “I couldn’t bear to be alone tonight. You saved me...”

Pressing against his chest, she fell asleep in seconds.

Santiago yearned to sleep, as well. His body wanted to stay like this, with her, cuddled in this warm bed, taking solace in each other against the cold January night and all the other cold nights to come.

Warning lights were flashing everywhere.

He looked down at her, sweetly sleeping in his arms, so soft and beautiful, so opinionated and dreamy and kind. So optimistic.

You saved me.

Santiago felt bone-weary. Carefully, he disentangled himself from her. Rising from the bed, he walked naked to his coat crumpled on the floor. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed the number of his pilot.

The man struggled not to sound groggy. It was eleven o’clock on a cold winter’s night. “Sir?”

“Come get me,” he replied. “I’m at Fairholme.”

Without waiting for a reply, Santiago hung up. He looked back at Belle one last time, sleeping in his bed, so beautiful in the moonlight. Like an innocent young woman from another time. He couldn’t remember ever being that innocent, not with the upbringing he’d had.

Whatever Belle might say, she would want to love him. She would try, like a moth immolating herself against an unfeeling flame.

Of course she would. He was her first.

His jaw tightened. He never would have seduced her if he’d known. He had a rule. No virgins. No innocent hearts. He never brought anyone to his bed who might actually care.

And he’d just seduced an innocent virgin. The friend of Darius’s wife.

He felt a low self-hatred. After Nadia, he’d vowed never to get involved with anyone again. Why risk your capital on an investment that was a guaranteed loss? Might as well flush your money—or your soul—straight down the drain.

He thought again of Wuthering Heights. He’d never read the book, but he knew it ended badly. It was romance, wasn’t it? That always ended badly. Especially in real life.

Santiago silently dressed, then picked up his overnight bag. But he hesitated at the door, still hearing the wistful echo of her voice.

Don’t you believe in anyone? Anything?

He’d lied to her. He’d told her he believed in himself. But the real answer was no.

Belle would wake up alone in bed and find him gone. No note would be needed. She’d get the message. He really was the heartless bastard he claimed to be.

As if there was ever any doubt, he jeered at himself. Regret and self-loathing filled him as he turned down the hall.

He wished he’d never touched her.

CHAPTER TWO (#ueb84b8f4-7ce5-529e-ad7c-692d4fac961b)

SHIVERING IN THE warm July twilight, Belle stood on the sidewalk of Santiago’s elegant residential street on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She watched well-dressed guests step out of glossy chauffeured cars, climbing up the steps and ringing at his door, to be greeted by his butler.

A butler, she thought bitterly. Who had a butler in this day and age?

Santiago Velazquez—that was who.

But the butler wasn’t the problem. Belle watched a crowd of beautiful young socialites, giggling and preening, hurry up the steps of his brownstone in six-inch heels and designer cocktail dresses.

She looked down at her own loose, oversized T-shirt, stretchy knit shorts and flip-flops. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She’d fit in at his fancy party like a dog driving a car.