Married on Paper: The Argentine's Price / The Inherited Bride / Marriage Made on Paper. Maisey Yates

that had seemed to grow with each passing year.

      She’d spent so long drifting. Walking down a path simply because she’d gone too far to turn back. But she didn’t really feel alive. She felt heartburn and angst and stress. But there had to be more than that.

      This was more. This was different. And it was hers.

      He was hers.

      She slid her hands up his chest, his muscles tightening beneath her palms, his chest rising sharply with his quick intake of breath. He’d accused her of teasing him. Maybe she had teased him, but no more than she’d teased herself. She was haunted by her memories of him, of what might have been.

      No more what-ifs. No more teasing.

      The first step was always the hardest. Her fingers trembled as she slid the top button on his shirt through the buttonhole. The next one was easier, desire taking over and banishing nerves and doubts.

      She flattened her hands on his bare chest, felt his heartbeat, strong and fast. She pushed his shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He didn’t move, he only stood in front of her, a bronzed god of masculine perfection, each muscle perfectly cut and defined. The way the light worked with his physique, adding even more extreme definition to his body, made her want to capture it on film. Forever. For her.

      Her fingertips skimmed down his torso, over his washboard-flat stomach and down to his belt buckle. She sucked in a breath and worked the belt loose, letting it fall open. She felt driven now to uncover him, to see him, all of him. She had wondered, for so many years she had wondered, and now she didn’t think she could wait another second to see the body her mind had woven fantasies around since she was sixteen.

      She pushed his pants and underwear down his hips in one jerky movement, and he kicked them to the side, his eyes never leaving hers. He made no move toward her, he simply stood, naked, completely aroused, in the middle of his living room.

      His confidence boosted hers. He wanted this. He wanted her. For once, she wasn’t going to worry about possible inadequacy.

      She moved her hands down, not quite touching him intimately. He closed his eyes and put his hand over hers, guiding her toward his erection. Her stomach tightened, nerves making a guest appearance now.

      She took a breath and placed her hand over his hard shaft. He was hot steel beneath her palm, the hard length of him speaking of his desire for her. She felt her internal muscles tighten as she explored him, nerves fleeing, unable to exist alongside the need that was filling her now.

      She squeezed him gently, then again with more strength, increased boldness, when a raw sound of pleasure escaped his lips. His civility was all gone now. Lost in desire, his custom suit on the floor, he was just a man. And he called to everything feminine inside her, made her ache with the need to have him.

      “You are overdressed now, I think, querida,” he said, his voice raw.

      She felt the slide of the zipper, a rush of cool air on her back, and then her dress was pooled at her feet. She was still wearing her high heels and a barely there bra and panty set. She should have felt silly, or embarrassed or something. But she didn’t.

      Because she saw the hunger in his eyes. Saw the need that reflected her own.

      And she felt powerful. Powerful and turned on.

      “Kiss me,” she said, reaching for him.

      “Un momento.” He unclasped her bra and discarded it. “Beautiful.”

      He cupped her breast, sliding his thumb over her nipple. She sucked in a breath and watched his dark hand cover her pale flesh. He leaned in and kissed her neck, then lower still, drawing one tightened bud into his mouth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

      “Laz …” She gripped his head and held him to her, hoping that he would keep her from sliding to the floor.

      He lowered himself to his knees, his lips skimming over her ribs, her stomach. He pushed her panties down her legs, baring her to him. She closed her eyes then and just felt. He kissed her thigh, his hands moving down her legs, unfastening the buckle on one of her shoes. He moved his thumb over her ankle as he removed her high heel, the contact on a totally unerotic point on her body sending sparks of sensation skittering through her.

      He did the same with her other shoe, tossing it to the side along with the rest of her clothes.

      “Sit down,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

      She looked behind her and saw the plush velvet couch. She’d forgotten where she was for a moment. Everything had gone fuzzy around the edges, everything except for Lazaro.

      She lowered herself to the couch, unsure why she was doing it, only knowing that, in this instance, obeying Lazaro was going to be the most rewarding course of action. She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did.

      “I have dreamed of this. Of you,” he said, on his knees before her. “Of how you would look. Of how you would taste.”

      He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, his hands moving to grip her hips and draw her to the edge of the couch.

      Her entire body was trembling, inside and out, desire and curiosity defeating any of the embarrassment she should be feeling. Because this wasn’t about propriety. This was about need. And she needed Lazaro.

      She wove her fingers through his hair as he continued kissing her, higher, until he hit the spot that was aching for his touch. He slid his tongue over her, the friction sending heat and flame through her body.

      She could feel something building in her, could feel the onset of her climax, so close. So close. He released his grip on her hips and pushed one finger inside her, the rhythm of his penetration working in time with the flick of his tongue over the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

      The tension that had been building, low and tight, released, pleasure rolling through her in pulsing waves.

      When she came back to herself, Lazaro had joined her on the couch, his hands moving over her curves, caressing every inch of her body. He leaned in and kissed her lips. “Good?” he asked.

      She nodded, her voice lost to her.

      He shifted positions so that he was over her, and she parted her thighs for him, making room. The head of his erection pressed against her and she held her breath for a moment, waiting, for pain or satisfaction or completion, whatever it would bring.

      He cursed sharply and got up from the couch, crossing to his discarded pants.

      “What?” she asked, feeling dizzy.

      “Condom.” He fished a packet from his wallet and tore it open, making quick work of rolling it on.

      They’d stopped at the condom point once before. But she had no intention of stopping him now. She couldn’t stop. She had to have him. All of him. For her. For him. Because they both needed it. She did.

      She shook with her need to have him. Only him.

      Her heart jolted when he moved to her, not from virginal nerves, but because she understood why there hadn’t been another man. It had been so easy to blame it on circumstances. To believe it was because of the specter of her almost-fiancé.

      It was because of Lazaro. Because she wanted him. Because she’d been waiting for him. So stupid. So dangerously foolish. But she’d had a taste of true passion in his arms, and no one else had ever aroused anything remotely as intense.

      Why take less?

      And tonight, Lazaro wasn’t offering less than what she’d felt before. It was more. So much more than she remembered.

      “Thank you,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly as a wave of emotion washed through her, making her shake inside.

      “For?”

      “For remembering. The condom. I think I would have forgotten.”

      She was glad