Claiming Magique: 1 (20 page)

She was too far gone to respond, her
expression glazed with desire, her channel tightening around his rod. The added
friction pushed him past the point of no return. Increasing his pace, Hunt
plowed into her just as he’d wanted to earlier. She hung on to him, crying out
in delight as she came.

He kept at it for a few seconds
more,
then
succumbed to the powerful emotions surging
through him, making him weak and even greedier for the next time.
Because there would be that.

Another shiver tore through Hunt,
making it too difficult for him to remain as he was.
Alexa
knew. With her palms on his back, she invited Hunt into her arms, cradling him
close.

He suckled her neck.

She giggled,
then
whispered, “More.”

Was there another word more
beautiful in the English language? Before this evening ended, Hunt was going to
make certain she said the same thing to him in all the languages she spoke.
“More, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me a few
secs
.”

Her arms tightened around him. She
pressed her face to his shoulder. “You have two. That’s it. I mean it.”

Beneath her teasing Hunt heard
unexpected desperation. He wanted to believe it was nothing more than her
longing for them to make love again. No way did he want to consider it might be
something else.

That she needed to fill these hours
with as much joy as possible, because she intended to stay true to her promise
that this would be their last evening together.

“Thank you,” Ronnie said, taking the
Bordeaux from Wallace. She held her glass up to the firelight, aping the
movements of the snooty connoisseurs she’d studied over the years. Even without
their elevated sense of the divine or a high school diploma, she could see the
ruby color was exquisite.

After a brief whiff of the bouquet,
she hazarded a guess, “Château
Pétrus
?”

Presumably, it was the most
expensive wine in the world, costing three grand and up per bottle. Only the
best for Tim Bellamy, Hunt’s friend and colleague who’d been with Hunt that
first night he’d met
Alexa
. According to Ronnie’s
dossier on Tim, his late grandfather had owned this twenty-two-acre spread and
the Georgian Colonial mansion where she and Wallace now waited. The old man had
given Tim the place as a reward for passing the bar.

“Château
Margaux
,”
Wallace said. His suit jacket lay on an overstuffed chair to the side. He
gestured to the studded leather sofa where Ronnie sat.

She inclined her head, inviting him
to join her. This evening, both of them were watching over
Alexa
.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Bellamy doesn’t
own any Château
Pétrus
,” Wallace added. “I know
,
I searched his wine cellar thoroughly.”

Ronnie raised her glass in salute to
him. “You’re a good man.”

“Yes I am.” He took a sip of his
wine, studying the bobbing flames rather than her.

Good thing. Ronnie wasn’t immune to
Wallace’s interest. He’d been a faithful employee all these years not only
because of the great salary and benefits she provided but because he seemed to
genuinely like the person she was. Maybe he even got her. Who knew?

He’d never declared himself.
However, too many times, Ronnie had caught him regarding her with the same kind
of absorption men give to women they want. Even with her latest illness, he
hadn’t grown distant. If anything, Wallace had made certain he was available to
see to her every need, even having prepared the fire for her arrival tonight.

He’d learned such devotion from his
late wife. Stricken with Alzheimer’s in her late forties, she’d lasted only a
few years before succumbing to the disease. At the time, Wallace had bankrupted
his own limo service to pay for her care, which necessitated his working for
Ronnie.

If she’d asked him to hold her
tonight to ease her persistent pain—both physical and mental—she sensed he
would have done so readily.

Something deep within Ronnie stirred
at the thought, warming her more than the fire or wine ever could. Even so, she
couldn’t allow either of their feelings to lead them to bed
like
Hunt and
Alexa
. Not because those two were young and
had a corner on sex. Nor did it involve Ronnie being Wallace’s boss. She didn’t
want him seeing her without the ever-present headscarf or her clothing that hid
how frail she’d become. She couldn’t let him know how much she’d lost.

Even the best plastic surgeons
couldn’t hide all of her scars. Those imperfections shamed her as a woman and
worried her too. Which part of her body would the doctors take next if her
latest surgery and the current round of chemo didn’t work? Ronnie hadn’t lied
to
Alexa
about being on track and getting better…at
this moment.
But what about tomorrow and the next day?
There was no damn guarantee with a bitch like cancer.

On a heavy sigh, she took a sip of
the
Margaux
.

“You all
right?”
Wallace asked. He continued to face
the massive stone fireplace.

Ronnie swallowed, hoping the wine
would relax her. “I’m fine, thank you. Do you think
Alexa’s
okay?”

“My cell phone’s not ringing.” He
turned to her. “Mr. Prescott does have my number should anything go wrong.
Hopefully, he’d call me, not 9-1-1 if Ms. Marsh was giving him any problems.”

Ronnie worked her mouth so she
wouldn’t smile at his teasing. “You think I’m being a fool for coming here
tonight and waiting for her. After all, she’s only several acres away from this
house, and in a tent, no less.”

“You forget
,
she’s in that thing with Mr. Prescott.” Wallace sipped a bit of his wine.
“Trust
me, that
man has everything under control.”

Ronnie wasn’t worried about Hunt.
“You would know. You were there with
Alexa
when she
was stalking him.”

“When he came to our table, I
thought he was going to beat me up. I’m certain it crossed his mind.
Thankfully, she told him I was old, the only portion of her cover story that
wasn’t a lie. Once he’d taken a good look at me, he appeared to believe that
part.”

Ronnie grinned, liking how Wallace
looked. He was what women would call ruggedly handsome. Not a pretty or perfect
face like those owned by the boys who were current Hollywood stars, but one
with character lines that showed Wallace had lived and had loved. His wife had
been one lucky lady to have experienced his devotion. He deserved another woman
like her, rather than one who’d pretty much used up all of her chances at
happiness and might not last the year.

Wallace took another sip of his
drink and swallowed. “You know, you’re wrong about what I’m thinking.”

Heat prickled Ronnie’s cheeks. Had
the way she’d looked at him given away her thoughts? Was the attention he’d
shown her no more than a faithful employee worried about his boss? “I am?”

“No need to look so grim,” he said
hurriedly. “You love Ms. Marsh as you would a daughter. That’s wonderful.
Exactly what she needs.”

Oh. They were speaking about
Alexa
, not them. Thank god. Embarrassment wasn’t something
Ronnie wanted to experience tonight. She stopped fooling with her pearls. “Did
she seem happy when you dropped her off?”

“I gave her a chance to change her
mind and tell me to take her back to the city. She didn’t. She marched into the
tent like a trouper.”

Or a woman
driven by love.

“Should I leave?” Ronnie asked. “I
don’t want to mess up anything.”

As though they’d been doing this all
of their lives, Wallace reached over and took her hand. His was much larger and
delightfully warm. Combined with her drink, his touch soothed Ronnie more than
her many medications.

“You won’t,” he murmured. “She never
has to know you were here.” He looked at her and smiled.

His expression was so
intimate,
it stripped Ronnie of all artifice and made her
heart race. A more sensible woman would have pulled away, but then no one had
ever accused her of being judicious when it came to men.

“Thank you,” she said, squeezing his
hand.

Wallace laced his fingers through
hers and held tight.
“My pleasure.”

With each hour that passed,
Alexa
grew wilder, her carnal needs more intense. She
couldn’t help herself. The few minutes Hunt kept taking to rest made her greedy
for them to resume.

During the last time, he lay
sprawled on the mattress, barely conscious from their bed play. His limbs
formed a perfect X, as though he were skydiving. In the past,
Alexa
would have used his fatigue to escape, running across
the fields if need be, finding her way to the District.

Tonight, she’d brought him back to
what she required as fast as she could.

Facing his feet, she’d straddled his
body and took his spent cock in her hands. It was a deep scarlet from him
having mounted repeatedly, though always missionary style. When she finally
suggested another position, the guys surrounding the platform applauded to show
their agreement for something different.

“Knock it off,” Hunt had ordered
them,
then
insisted to her, “I want to look at you.”

Alexa
knew he needed to see her reaction, if she was faking
anything. With him, such a notion was ludicrous. Early on, she’d left claw
marks on his shoulders and back in her frenzy to get as close to him as she
could, to have him as she’d had no other man.

Thinking of that, she’d cradled his
rod in her palm and ran her fingers over his sac. So weighty and masculine, its
beauty stole her breath.
Alexa
licked her forefinger,
then
ran it across the wrinkled skin.

Hunt started as much from that as
from the wolf whistles of the few guys who hadn’t fallen into their own stupor.

“You’re awake,” she murmured and
glanced over her shoulder at him. “Good.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands.
“What are you doing?”

Wasn’t it obvious?
“Playing with you.”
She cupped his testicles and bounced
them against her palm.

He made an odd noise, a combination
of chuckling and a lewd moan. “You surprise me.”

She liked how that sounded.
As though she were different, special, one of a kind.
“Why’s
that?”

“I didn’t know you liked to play
ball.”

Alexa
laughed. “I do. But only if I have the right equipment.”

Sitting up, Hunt wrapped his arm
around her middle,
then
whispered in her ear, “Do you
have the right stuff now?”

Oh yeah. His cock was blossoming
beautifully, the shaft growing rigid, the crown bulky.
Alexa
was careful as she touched the small opening in the head, guessing it probably
stung. “Are you
sore
?”

“Yep.”
He sounded beyond proud.
“You?”

Wonderfully.
“Not at all,” she lied.

“You’re sure?” He positioned his
fingers on her ribs, no doubt ready to tickle her into confessing.

She giggled and conceded.
“Maybe a little—certainly not enough to stop.
Unless you
need more rest, you poor thing.”

“Poor what?
Take that back.”

“No. Why should—” She gasped at Hunt
tickling her. “Wait. Dammit.
Stop!”

Her shout roused the guys. They went
back into escort mode, whistling, applauding.

“Give it to her good!” Chris
shouted.

Alexa
swung her fist in his direction. “Shut up,” she panted,
then
squealed at Hunt’s continued tickling.

He paused again. Pressing his mouth
to her ear, he murmured, “The guys bothering you?”

Hell yeah. She wanted them to leave
so she could focus solely on Hunt…be alone with him. One on one as he’d
proposed. Not that she had the courage to tell him that, much less ponder why
anyone else’s presence was suddenly irritating her.

“They’re making too much noise,” she
huffed. “This is between you and me. Tell them they can only watch.”

“All of you quiet,” Hunt ordered.
“So you can listen to
Alexa
whine.”

She turned her face to his and
frowned. “I’m not whining.”

“You will.” He tickled her again.

She gagged out a laugh, then
shrieked and begged, “No—please—damn—don’t!”

He did, running his fingers up and
down her torso, not stopping until she was limp.