closed, a drugging sleepiness overtaking her, making her limbs feel heavy, pleasantly numb.
Lazaro walked back in, his expression blank. “Vanessa …”
“Don’t,” she mumbled, sleep slurring her words. “I promise, we can fight in the morning, but right now, can we just … sleep?”
He returned to the couch, settling beside her and drawing her into his arms. She put her head on his chest, his heart thundering beneath her cheek. Tomorrow would be reality. For now, she was going to enjoy the fantasy.
Lazaro watched a shaft of pink sunlight catch one of the windows on a building outside, throwing its reflection into the living room of the penthouse, illuminating Vanessa’s perfect body.
He had built fantasies around the idea of what her body might look like, of the way her face would look when he brought her to the peak of pleasure. Of what her silken flesh would feel like beneath his fingers.
He had convinced himself that there was no way she, any woman, could live up to what he had made Vanessa in his mind. A fantasy spun in the mind of an eighteen-year-old, left to grow, had to be beyond reality. Beyond what was possible.
But Vanessa had surpassed a mere fantasy last night. She had been perfection, a taste of heaven and light and a kind of soul-deep satiation he had never believed existed.
He could not have conjured up something more, something better.
She was complete female perfection. Every curve. Every dip and swell. Skin like cream; plump, pink-tipped breasts that made his stomach tighten with desire. Everything about her—touch, taste, sight and scent—satisfied him in a way that was utterly foreign.
But, incredibly, coupled with that bone-deep satisfaction was a need for more that made him ache.
She stirred against him, her nipples brushing his chest, the contact lighting a fire in his blood. He moved his hand over the curve of her hip and she made a soft sound of pleasure and arched into him.
He dropped a kiss onto her bare shoulder and her eyes popped open. She rolled slightly and slid off the couch onto the floor, cursing before standing, her cheeks bright pink.
“Where are my clothes?” she asked, her voice rusty from disuse.
“Around,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position.
“Could you not look at me for a second please?”
“I’ve seen it, Vanessa. More than seen.”
“Please,” she said again.
He looked out the window, all his concentration taken by the effort it took to pull his focus away from her perfect body.
“You act as though you haven’t had a morning after before,” he said.
The telling silence made his stomach tighten, and he couldn’t keep himself from looking back at her. She was standing there, clutching her dress to her chest, biting her lip.
“You haven’t?” he asked.
She huffed out a breath, shifted her weight to one side, one bare hip looking more rounded, more prominent. “How many women have you slept with?”
“Excuse me?”
Her dark eyebrows shot upward. “Rude question, isn’t it?”
“Odd,” he said. “And pointless.”
“Then I don’t suppose I have to answer either.”
His heartbeat quickened. It really shouldn’t matter, and yet, he found it did. Because he wanted her to be his. His alone. The idea that no other man had ever been with her like that sent a rush of pure, unenlightened testosterone through him. His. In every way possible.
“I don’t know,” he said, disgust filling him as he spoke the words.
“You don’t know if I have to answer the question?”
“I don’t know how many women I’ve slept with,” he bit out.
She frowned. “Oh.”
He hadn’t anticipated this. That his vast experience could cause him shame. He didn’t brag about his luck with women, but inevitably, if there was an article about him written anywhere, his reputation with the opposite sex was mentioned. It had always earned him a certain measure of respect.
It wasn’t respect on Vanessa’s face. It was disappointment. It passed quickly, her expression neutral again, her eyes focused on a spot just past him.
Even though it was a fleeting impression of disappointment, it left a hollow feeling in his chest.
“I answered,” he said.
She met his eyes. “Then no, I haven’t had a morning after before.”
“How is that possible, Vanessa? I didn’t pick you out as a virgin when you were sixteen.”
“But I was. Well, obviously I was then, since last night I still was.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t you know how many women you’ve slept with?” she countered, clutching her clothes more tightly against her.
Because I was trying to forget you. He held back the stark, honest thought that filled his mind.
He shrugged and stood. “Because I’m a man, Vanessa. Once I made money, women were readily available and I took advantage.”
She stood, her focus on an undefined spot on the carpet. He didn’t like the look on her face. She sighed heavily and then lifted her face, meeting his eyes. “We’re trading, are we?” He nodded in confirmation. “Because, in addition to the fact that my father is a professional at chasing men out of my life, I wanted … someone to want me. Not my father’s money. Or my status. Or … I just hadn’t found that.” She averted her gaze.
“I didn’t care about your money or your status.”
“You just wanted sex?”
Her words bit into him. He shrugged. “I was eighteen. There isn’t much more a horny teenage boy wants. Not only that, I was experienced, too much for my age. It’s what we did. I think it was part of what made being so poor bearable. Taking advantage of those few moments of oblivion. It’s how I related to women, so, yes, it was what I wanted.”
“But it’s not all you want now. Now you want my connections too.”
“Things have changed.”
She nodded slightly. “Can you turn around again? I don’t want to have to back out of the room.”
“Why did you decide to sleep with me last night?”
Her lips flattened into a line. “When I figure that out I’ll get back to you.”
Lazaro turned his back and faced the view, letting
