Lush Money (Filthy Rich) Page 10

  “Princesa, you’re fucking with a tyrant,” he growled. “Do you know what my forefathers did to young women who wouldn’t give them what they wanted?”

  He picked her up and dumped her ass on the seat. Then he slithered to his knees on the floor of the truck, the bigger-is-better styling of the inside giving him lots of room to move around and get his hands on her knees. His hands began pushing up the chiffon froth of her skirt as his wide torso shoved her legs apart.

  Suddenly, Roxanne understood what he intended.

  “Wait, wait,” she gasped, trying to get a handhold on the slippery seat to pull herself up with one hand while pushing down her skirt with the other. She’d teased him and played with him to help him forget. He was a good man. But there on his knees, he was the devil. And this desperate, jittery thing happening inside her felt nothing like play.

  “Wait,” she said again. Mateo just grabbed her around her stockinged knees and dragged her closer to him.

  He leaned over her, a menace of heat and power. “No, there won’t be any waiting,” he said, eyes capturing her as he relentlessly began to pull up the chiffon squeezed between them. “You’re my wife and I want to know what you taste like. I want a taste of heaven to balance the hell you put me through this month. I want you all over my mouth and down my throat.” The eroticism of his angelically sculpted face promising such filthy pleasure stabbed her between her shoulder blades, made her want to writhe against him. “When you come, I want my name on your lips. Just like your pleasure is going to be glistening on mine.”

  Both of them inhaled when his hot hand touched skin at the top of her thigh. His eyes looked into hers for a beat. Then he reared back.

  “Holy fuck,” he groaned as he looked down at her. Roxanne gritted her eyes closed against the awe on his face. The lingerie she’d chosen was the favor to him. The way to help him forget. She imagined slowly revealing it to him in the privacy of their hotel room, slowly letting him see the thigh-high stockings and black garters with their bloodred rosettes under her ballerina froth. She imagined slowly slipping off the barely there panties before climbing on top of him. She imagined being in control.

  But all control was ripped from her when he shoved her thighs wide and pressed those soft, sulky lips to her core. She groaned as he nuzzled in then licked, rubbing the lace of her panties against her clit. She felt him let go of the skirt at her waist. “Get this fucking thing...” he mumbled against her, and then, with a rip and a tug, he tore the ribbon of her panties at her hip.

  She felt satin tickle between her thighs. And then... “Oh fuck. Yes.” And Mateo was there, fingers separating her and mouth kissing her and tongue tasting and licking and then flicking so hard. Roxanne would have snapped her thighs closed at the unendurable lurch of pleasure if Mateo’s strong shoulders weren’t holding them so commandingly apart. Roxanne opened her eyes on a gasp, looked down. And couldn’t see anything over the ridiculous bank of her skirt.

  Mateo lifted her thigh and tilted his head so he could push his tongue inside of her.

  “Oh God,” Roxanne choked out, gripping the seat and arching her back to get him farther in. He growled his approval, adding vibration to the tongue lunging inside of her like it couldn’t get deep enough, like there was a sweetness he was still relentlessly searching for. His unrestrained mouth fucking—without modesty or mercy—whipped her into a frenzy.

  But she wanted to see him. She wanted to see Mateo’s gorgeous golden face between her thighs.

  She tried to get her hands under, knocked her clutch off the seat as she settled for her elbows and looked down over the length of her body, over the mound of her skirt. Eyes catching her, Mateo took a final taste before easing her thigh back down and spreading it wide, her torn panty trailing lazily across the seat.

  Without taking his eyes off of her, he wiped his chin on the shoulder of his white t-shirt.

  “What is it, Roxanne?” he said, keeping her eyes trapped as he slowly leaned down again, his big workman’s fingers separating her neatly trimmed lips. “Do you want to watch?” That sulky mouth pursed to give her swollen, begging clit a soft, slow kiss. “Do you want me to stop?” His tongue came out to tease her, to make her throb slowly. “Do you want me, Roxanne, to keep licking this pretty...” His lips brushed over her, delivering a hot puff of air. “Little...” He did it again. “Pussy?” And again.

  All while his rough Spanish accent sent sensation over her skin and his golden eyes stayed on her.

  With deliberate intent, his tongue reached out and he began to flick at her. Imprisoned by his gaze, Roxanne resisted letting her head fall back between her shoulder blades. But she couldn’t resist spreading her thighs. She couldn’t resist pushing closer to his face.

  He raised his lip in a snarl. “Say my name,” he demanded before his full lips surrounded her and he began to suck, his tongue working in tandem with his lips.

  She couldn’t breathe, much less talk.

  “Say my name, Roxanne.” His finger stroked down and then pushed inside. One finger, pulsing and pulsing into her while his tongue snapped at her. Until it was two. “Say Mateo or I swear to God I’ll stop.”

  “Nononononononono,” Roxanne sobbed, her hips rolling against him as he sucked.

  “Then say it.” His fingers twisted until... Roxanne, lurched, head jolting up and abs tightening as he touched some spot inside of her, some delicate trigger that had never been touched before. It made her feel like screaming. “Who am I?” His mouth took her relentlessly between his words. “Who’s the father of your baby?” His arm moved like a jackhammer as he fucked her with his fingers. “Who’s your husband?” His lips were raised back in a grimace as his tongue whipped at her. “Who’s the man you’re going to be dreaming about after you say goodbye?”

  The orgasm tore through Roxanne’s body like a tidal wave.

  “Mateo,” she screamed as she bolted upright, thighs shaking as she tried to claw away from the unendurable pleasure. But he kept her locked to his mouth, kept feasting on her. “Mateo, Mateo, oh my God, Mateo.”

  And then her words were stolen from her by a squeal of the truck door and a flash of blinding light and the horrifying sound of a rapid-fire camera taking endless pictures. Pictures of the Golden Prince’s face pressed between Roxanne Medina’s legs that could potentially be sold for thousands.

  And seen by millions.

  March: Night Three

  Mateo held Roxanne Medina’s slender, fine-boned hand in his, their fingers entwined, and brought it up to his lips. Her hand lotion—or maybe it was just her—made him think of the boudoirs of his teenage fantasies, rooms tempting with candlelight and incense and satin-clad women who commanded with a smile. He smoothed his lips over the fine skin before he kissed it, enjoying the tensile strength of her bones under all of that delicateness, while he stared into Caribbean-blue eyes that swallowed him whole.

  “Would you be able to keep your hands off this woman if you were married to her?” he asked, loud enough for the bank of microphones in front of him to catch every lust-drenched word.

  He fought to keep from blinking as flashes exploded like strobe lights all around them. He could see Roxanne’s thick, black lashes twitching as she fought to do the same.

  As soon as the dance party died down, Roxanne leaned close to the microphones without taking her eyes off of him. “We understand we had no presumption of privacy, doing what we were doing, in a public park, but...” She let her eyes flutter away from him demurely, let her teeth bite into that lush lip she’d painted a shell pink. She smiled shyly and sweetly into the cameras. “We hope everyone can understand that a couple, newly married, can sometimes...forget themselves. No matter who they are.”

  Jesus Christ, she was brilliant. It had been her idea to veer the “sex in public” hysteria that the press had flown with into a “two crazy kids in love” story. Now, during this mideve
ning press conference in the lobby of the Medina Building, she was using the standard misogynistic fantasy about women—a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom—to her advantage. The delicate pleats on her knee-length, dove-gray skirt, the little lace collar on her matching short-sleeved sweater, and the ponytail that curled like a comma between her shoulder blades all suggested a woman too innocent to like and chase sex, to demand it whenever and however she needed it.

  That skirt had been up around her waist as she’d ridden him hard in an empty office five minutes before the press conference. There was too much damage control to do to get a hotel room, she’d insisted. There’d been little pleasure in the act for either of them.

  Or at least, probably not for her. Although she’d been wet and he’d been hard and there’d been this spine-melting hitch in her throat when he’d pinched her nipple through her sweater.... Stripped of pride, resources, and alternatives, Mateo saw little reason to deny the orgasms she wanted from him. She truly was his only hope.

  Roxanne’s attorney, William LaPierre, stood just to the left of Roxanne and pointed at one of the dozens of hands waving in the seated rows. A crop of photographers sat on the floor in front of the podium and the blank eyes of video cameras stared from the back of the room.

  A mousy man in wire-rimmed glasses cleared his throat. “What do you think about the photographer getting eight million for that photo?”

  Roxanne’s small smile turned to Mateo, and with their entwined hands pressed against his chest, she adjusted her weight to lean against him slightly. Wanting her man. Depending on him. Mateo fought the urge to smirk. “We would have paid him nine million,” he said, shrugging at the reporter and earning a laugh from the audience.

  Roxanne had actually planned on offering the man ten million when they found him, ten million with a promise of calling in “alternative methods” to convince him if he didn’t accept. Mateo shuddered to think what those alternative methods were. But while Roxanne’s unlimited resources and Mateo’s extensive experience with the paparazzi had allowed them to track who was bidding on the photo, they hadn’t found the source by the time the shot premiered in the morning print version of a British tabloid and, an hour later, was viewable online throughout the world.

  The photographer had only gotten two useful shots before Mateo had flung his coat over them, shielding them both. And while the photo didn’t reveal anything pornographic, the overwhelmed pleasure on her face, that full, open mouth and anguished squeeze of her eyes and thrown-back tilt of her head, was enough to stiffen the cock of every man walking. Mateo personally wanted to punch every one of them in the teeth. The photo didn’t show his face, but the adamant squeeze of his fingers into the bunch of her skirts, keeping her attached to his mouth, spoke volumes.

  She’d been delicious on his tongue. He’d still be at it now if he hadn’t had to extricate himself to chase the photographer, whose dash to a quiet-as-a-mouse Prius hadn’t been hampered by a roaring erection.

  “Don’t you mean she would have paid nine million?” the mousy man interrupted Mateo’s thoughts with a scoff. “There’s no ‘we’? It all would have been Roxanne’s money, right? I mean, your kingdom doesn’t have some secret stash of cash, does it?”

  Mateo’s life—and therefore his kingdom—had become the farce he’d dreaded and worked his whole life to avoid. The Monte now looked like a penniless backwater whose prince hid between his wife’s thighs. Maybe it was the lack of sleep that kept him from caring. Or maybe it was Roxanne, who leaned close to the microphones and closed the conversation with a simple word.

  “We,” she said distinctly. She looked at William. He pointed at another raised hand.

  The billionaire was doing what she’d promised, circling the wagons and making sure Mateo and the Monte del Vino Real were in its protective enclosure. For the first time in his life—another first—Mateo wasn’t bearing the burden of the Monte alone. The contract, which days before had been a sword in his side, now staunched his wounds. The worst had happened. He had no other options. He had no recourse but to shag the stellar Roxanne Medina on a regular basis.

  “Ms. Medina, whose bright idea was it to go up there, yours or his?” a smarmy younger reporter asked. “Because you can say ‘we’ all you want, but the stories coming out for the last month make it pretty clear who wears the pants in the marriage.”

  Mateo stiffened and glared at the reporter. But Roxanne squeezed his arm and stayed as pristinely unruffled as the swaying pleats on her skirt. “I understand a salacious motive will make this story more interesting, but it just doesn’t exist. My husband wanted to show me a beautiful view of the city.” She let go of his hand to raise her hand to the side of her mouth and leaned comically close to the microphones. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a pretty big guy. There’s not a lot I can force him to do.”

  A voice from the back of the room called out, “We heard his ‘size’ is why you married him,” and the laughter that rolled through the crowd was ugly. Mateo suddenly realized that maybe the reporters weren’t buying their story as well as he’d thought. William’s chest puffed up and he stepped forward, about to end the press conference.

  A petite brunette woman stood up and raised her pencil, an impatient scowl on her face. “Ms. Medina, there is a rumor circulating that you are paying Príncipe Mateo for sex. Do you have a comment?”

  Mateo felt his jaw harden and worked to keep it relaxed. Fuck. That was the one revelation that could make their world implode. If the contract was ever revealed, Mateo would be known as a man who sold himself and his child. Roxanne... Roxanne might be hailed by some as a feminist hero, but it would be difficult to explain the contract as rational decision-making to the stockholders of her publicly owned and traded company. And their child—the perfect princess Roxanne wanted—would always carry the stigma of being bought and sold.

  For the first time in their relationship, the powerful, manipulative, and sexy as hell billionaire had no response. She blinked, opened her mouth, and then closed it. She looked vulnerable. She looked young.

  Mateo was going to destroy his father.

  But his smile was slow and easy as he slid his hand around her waist to bring her close to him and let all of his Golden Prince shine for the cameras. “In what crazy, upside-down universe would this woman have to pay for sex?” The crowd gave a titter that let him know the women, and some of the men, had felt the glow.

  But the brunette reporter was unaffected, her pencil still in the air. “You have to admit that there is an imbalance to your relationship. Príncipe Mateo, you bring very little to the table.”

  Mateo forced himself to chuckle as Roxanne held herself imperceptibly away from him. “Well, that’s not pulling any punches. True, the Monte del Vino Real is not as prosperous as I would like, but I plan to make improvements soon that will...”

  The reporter interrupted him. “Is the king aware of your plans? We understand that he’s been ensconced with his bishop all day and is refusing to comment. Have you spoken to him?”

  Right, ensconced with his bishop. The king honored only one deity: Money. But Mateo now knew why his day had been eerily free of screaming phone calls. The king had been making his own calls, spreading his own rumors about the reality of Mateo’s marriage. He’d suggested just enough to humiliate Mateo without jeopardizing the terms of the agreement. The man was no fool; he still wanted Roxanne’s money.

  “I have not spoken to my father. He understands foolish mistakes,” he said darkly.

  “Príncipe, do you feel your marriage is one of them? So far, all it has done is highlight your weaknesses.”

  “Okay that’s enough,” William jumped in, waving an arm. “Thank you all for coming.”

  As the room exploded with shouted questions and clicking flashes, Roxanne turned away from him. Mateo realized he was clenching the fabric at her hip, and he let go a bare secon
d before the press noticed, before a photo caught Mateo literally clinging to his wife’s skirt.

  Jesus.

  He followed her off the dais surrounded by a gauntlet of security—he scowled at the way her good-looking bodyguard took a place at her side—and down a hall to a small yet elegant lounge where Roxanne’s private retinue waited. “Everybody out!” Roxanne commanded her assistant and nurse as she entered the room, her tiny gray heels clicking on the marble like a fancy-footed general. Mateo followed her and grabbed a sparkling water out of an ice bucket, twisting off the cap and flinging it into a trash bin as her bodyguard leaned down to murmur something in her ear. Roxanne nodded and touched his mammoth forearm appreciatively. Helen, the nurse of Mateo’s nightmares, shot a glare of promised torture at Mateo before the bodyguard ushered her out and clicked the door closed behind all of them.

  Roxanne swung on Mateo, her blue eyes flashing and her dark ponytail flying like a banner signaling an approaching army. “Did you do it?”

  “Do what?” he asked, taking a glug of the crystal-cold water.

  “Did you leak our arrangement to the press?”

  Mateo barely swallowed before he choked. “Coño. Are you kidding me?” He slammed down the bottle. “Of course not.”

  But the accusation in her throaty voice made it clear she’d already made up her mind.

  “You’ve resisted this arrangement from the start.”

  “Of course I did. Any sane person would. If you’d continued humiliating me with your made-up courtship stories, maybe I would have told someone.”

  She reared back. “So you considered it?”

  “I’ve also considered strangling you,” Mateo said, glowering at her. “Yet so far I’ve restrained myself.”

  Goddammit. After last evening’s date and their all-night effort to find the photographer and the unified front they’d presented to the press, he thought they’d made some progress toward...camaraderie. But now he watched her mouth drop open in dawning horror. “Did you arrange that whole event with the photographer?” she accused. “Is that why you took me up there? Is that why you did...that to me?”