“I consider it the highest praise possible.”
“Oh, good.”
With that, he began to move. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the pleasure of him filling her over and over again. Within a few strokes, tension built to unbearable and she couldn’t hold on any longer.
“Oh, Sam,” she breathed, then lost herself in the pleasure. She surged against him, dropped her hands to his rear and pulling him in deeper and deeper.
Thick, powerful contractions rippled through her. She gasped, she writhed, she surrendered. She might have even screamed.
And still her orgasm went on. It crested at the moment he shuddered and stilled. His body tensed, then he collapsed against her.
Francesca lay there, under his body, and slowly opened her eyes. She felt good. Better than good. She felt capable of performing miracles. The lovemaking had been great. Amazing. Sinus-clearing. She wanted to do it again. She wanted—
Reality chose that moment to crash her party. One second she was basking in afterglow so bright she could tan by it, and the next she was hardly able to breathe. Panic swept through her, making her squirm slightly.
Sam raised himself on his arms and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to squash you.”
“It wasn’t that,” she said, trying not to push him away and bolt for freedom. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to school her expression as well as she would like.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She swallowed, then knew she had to come clean. “Everything. I just…” She sucked in a breath. “There’s absolutely no way I want to get married.”
5
S am’s dick chose that moment to shrink to the size of a peanut. Sam pushed up into a kneeling position, pulled out of her, and slid to the edge of the bed. When he’d tossed the condom, he turned back to Francesca.
She lay on her back, her mouth swollen, her skin flushed. She was gorgeous. Sexy as hell. And quite possibly crazy. Damn.
He knew better than to make love this soon. He’d given that up nearly a decade before. He preferred to get to know a woman before getting into her pants, and with good reason.
Francesca bit her lower lip. “That came out wrong. I mean I know you didn’t propose or anything.”
“Okay.” That was a step in the right direction.
He stood and grabbed her panties, bra, and dress, then tossed them to her. He collected his jeans and pulled them on, not looking at her until she slipped into her dress and started on the buttons.
When she’d secured the front of her dress, she sank back on the mattress. “This was really great,” she told him, motioning vaguely to the bed, then to him. “I haven’t been with anyone in a while and…” She stopped and sighed. “So my sisters made me promise…” She stopped again.
He was still wary enough not to approach the bed. “You said you didn’t want to get married.”
She brightened. “That’s right. I don’t.” She smiled. “What I mean by that is I’m not looking to get involved.” She shook her head. “I’m not really into the whole romance-marriage thing. I was married once, and I didn’t like it. After Todd died, I tried dating some, but guys always want to take things to the next level. Does that sound too horrible?”
“No.” Some of his wariness eased. “You think because I slept with you I’ll want to marry you?”
She covered her face with her hands. “That sounds so horrible.” She dropped her hands to her sides and looked at him. “It’s just that I gave up on the whole male-female thing because it was such a pain. I’m guilted enough by my family. They want my sisters and me to settle down and have dozens of babies. I live with the guilt because I can’t seem to let it go, but it’s not enough to make me do what they want. I have my school and a great career just a couple of years away. Until recently, that’s been enough. It’s just I sort of miss, well, um…” She cleared her throat and shifted on the bed.
He got it immediately. “Sex,” he said with a grin.
“That would be it, yes.”
His wariness faded completely, and he mentally apologized for thinking she was crazy.
“You don’t want to get involved with me,” he said.
“You’re very nice,” she told him. “A really great guy.”
He chuckled and moved closer to the bed. “Be honest.”
“Okay, I don’t want hearts, flowers, or forever.”
“Uh-huh.” He sat next to her and took her hand. “But you wouldn’t mind a little slap and tickle.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t think I’d like any slapping.”
“Spanking?”
“Only if I get to do it to you.”
He grinned. “No way. I’m the dominant male around here.”
She angled toward him. “I’m sorry I blurted out the marriage thing. The sex was so good and then I panicked.”
“Me, too. I thought you’d gone postal.”
She chuckled. “No. I was overwhelmed by my physical response is all.”
He touched her face. Beautiful, responsive, and not interested in forever. And honest. The one quality he valued above all others.
“I’m into serial monogamy myself,” he said as he cupped her cheek. “No plans to get married.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I didn’t like my experience, either.”
She drew in a breath. “Okay. At the risk of moving too fast, would you be open to a monogamous sexual relationship with no emotional ties?”
He didn’t have to think twice. Not when the woman in question was as appealing as this one. “Absolutely.”
Francesca thought her experience with Sam had peaked with her orgasms, but maybe she’d been a little hasty in her judgment. Was it possible to have everything she wanted and nothing she didn’t?
“We’ll see each other when we want,” he said. “Good conversation, lots of laughs, and plenty of time in bed. When one or both of us want to end it, we will. No expectations. No hard feelings. Deal?”
She felt wicked. She felt excited. God was probably going to punish her, and if the Grands ever found out, they’d have her hide. But it would be worth it.
“Deal.”
When Francesca arrived at the hacienda for brunch the following morning, she had a bad feeling that everyone was going to guess something was going on with her. She felt radiant, her skin was glowing, and she just couldn’t seem to stop grinning.
Not that it was all her fault. After striking their deal, she and Sam had spent the entire night making love. They’d crept downstairs about midnight to grab something to eat and then had retreated to the quiet, sensual darkness of his bedroom.
The only way she’d been able to drag herself from his presence was the realization that if she didn’t show up for her weekly brunch with her family, the Grands would set the FBI on her trail. And she couldn’t very well bring Sam with her. The sight of her in the company of an eligible man would fill the house with the sound of wedding bells. Something neither of them wanted.
Francesca climbed out of her truck and headed for the back door of the big Spanish-style house. It was early June, which meant every form of plant life was lush, green, and growing. Tall trees provided shade over the rear of the house. The vegetable garden by the garage soaked up the bright sunshine. In the distance acres and acres of vines rustled and danced in the light breeze.
The flowers on the grapevines had dried up, while the small pea-sized grapes had appeared. From what she had seen on her drive up to the hacienda, they were going to have a banner year. But there was still a lot of time left until harvest, and Brenna would be happy to tell her all the things that could go wrong between now and then.
The back door burst open. “Francesca!”
She glanced up and smiled as Grandma Tessa held out her arms. “Come, child. We have missed you.”
Francesca ran toward the house and up the three steps, then hugged her grandmother close. “How are you? Feeling all right?”
“I’m old, eh? Things don’t work as well as they used to, but I’m here. That’s enough.” She released her granddaughter, reached up, and pinched her cheek. “Still a pretty girl. But you’re not so young anymore. You need to be married, Francesca. You need bambinos. It is time.”
Normally she found the family pressure a little exasperating, but today nothing could puncture her good mood. “Before I’m too old, right?”
“Single women over thirty,” her grandmother said knowingly. “I read. Easier for you to be taken by aliens than find a man. You only have three years, Francesca. Don’t waste them.”
Francesca laughed. Her cheek stung from Grandma Tessa’s enthusiasm, but the pain was as familiar as the entreaty that she marry and produce offspring. Over the past three years the hints had become much less subtle. Fresh off the success of her older sister’s engagement, the family had increased the pressure.
If she mentioned Sam, they would get off her back about finding a man. Of course, they would also want to meet him and find out if a wedding date had been set. Knowledge of her “no commitment” agreement with him would send both grandmothers scuttling for their rosaries and force her parents to have a long talk with her. Better to play along.
“Talk to her,” Grandma Tessa said as they entered the open and airy kitchen.
Grammy M—Mary-Margaret O’Shea to the rest of the world and Francesca’s maternal grandmother—glanced up from the dough she’d rolled out on the granite counter.
“Francesca! My darlin’ girl.” She wiped her hands on the apron she wore.
Francesca walked over for another hug—this one without a cheek pinch—and bent down to embrace the tiny woman.
“Grandma Tessa wants me to get married again,” Francesca said with mock surprise. “What do you think?”
Grammy M shook her head, causing her white curls to bounce. “You’re supposed to be respectin’ your elders, young lady, not makin’ fun of them. We want you to be happy.”
“You want me pregnant.” Francesca snatched a scone from a cooling rack.
“Married and pregnant,” Grandma Tessa corrected.
Grammy M grinned, her blue eyes dancing with humor. “Oh, I don’t know, Tessa. I’m thinkin’ we could probably find it in our hearts to forgive Francesca if she found herself with a wee one in the oven.”
Francesca chuckled, but didn’t even try to get in the middle of that conversation. Instead she broke the still-steaming scone in half and took a small bite. The firm, golden-brown crust gave way to a soft, perfectly baked, orange-flavored center that made her mouth water even as it dissolved on her tongue.
“Amazing,” she breathed. “Grammy M, we’re going to have to try another scone lesson. I want to be able to do this at home.”
Her maternal grandmother gazed at her fondly before shaking her head and returned to the dough she’d rolled out.
“You’re a lovely girl, but you don’t have much success in the kitchen.”
“I took that cake-decorating class a couple of years ago.”
“Your father nearly choked to death on that piece he ate,” Grandma Tessa reminded her.
Francesca knew they were right. She was a disaster when it came to cooking, although she continued to take classes. Mostly because despite a degree in psychology, she couldn’t seem to talk herself out of the guilt she felt for not caving to family expectations about marriage and kids. So she substituted a quest for excellence in the domestic arts.
“The flowers on the cake were pretty.”
“That they were,” Grammy M agreed. “And you make a lovely radish rose.”