Page 92 of One Secret

I feel the damp touch of her tongue on my head and nearly jump out of my skin.

'Then,' she whispers against my erection, eyes burning up from between my legs... 'When I've brought you to the brink over and over. Never once giving you release... I'm going to get back on top of you...'

'Yeah...?' I gasp, totally feeling the sex talk.

Her tongue is hot as she starts to tease down towards the base of my shaft.

'...I'm going to fit this hard length of yours all the way inside me...'

'Mmm...!' My heels are digging into the mattress. My grip on the sheets threatens to tear...

'...and ride you 'til you can't breathe.'

12

'Attento, bella mia!'

I jump back as an old man on a bicycle hurtles by a little too close for comfort. Pressing myself flat against the wall, I knock my bag sharply against the stone and turn my toes in to save them from being smooshed under tires.

Had the wall been any lower, I might have accidentally somersaulted myself into the Aegean Sea below. As it stands, I just take a heavy bump to the small of my back.

Oblivious to any dangers caused, the old man on the bike merrily waves a hand over his head in apology and races down the winding cliffside road at a great rate of knots. I rarely shy away from an adrenaline rush but the way his wheels are haphazardly bouncing over centuries-old cobblestones has even my heart jumping up a few notches.

'Crazy old man...' I mutter to myself with a smile.

'Dio mio!' gasps a female voice from the other side of the street. 'Miss Calabrese!'

Startled to hear my name in a foreign environment, I plaster a smile in place when I spot Lana Caruso picking her way daintily across the street. Two scooters, a VW Bug, and three men lugging a cart all stop to let her pass.

Which seems only reasonable considering the vision before them.

Dressed in white skin-tight slacks and a creamy pink blouse, Lana is somehow both demurely feminine and sexy as hell today. With her thick hourglass figure, a tiny waist, and a shining mane of golden locks, Lana Caruso literally has a body that could—and obviously does—stop traffic.

'Darcy,' I correct her, as she tries to navigate the last few feet in her platform heels. Her toes, I notice absently, are painted a pretty hue of raspberry.

All this smarmy formality on the resort is making me itch.

'Are you all right?' She seems genuinely concerned. 'He came out of nowhere!'

'I'm fine,' I reassure her, before inspecting my carrier from the store. 'I think my bag took more damage than I did.'

I wrinkle my nose at the violence done to my bag—a heavy dent in the fancy cardboard—and tug at the corners to straighten out its folds.

'You're worried about a bag?' Lana's so surprised by this sentiment that she lifts her large, designer sunglasses to the top of her head so she can gaze at me in wonder.

I laugh.

'The dress inside cost too much. I'll be damned if they don't let me return it because the bag is busted.'

Nisí tou Chrysoú, I've discovered, does not cater to those with less than six-digit salaries. The stores are all high-end labels and the goods themselves supreme in quality. In half the dress shops I tried today, I was offered a glass of champagne whilst I browsed. Back home, I'm lucky to get a plastic bag free of charge, let alone Dom Perignon.

Of course, the service ended up being fully reflected in the cost of the gown. Which is why I fully intend to wear it to the Caruso’s shindig on Friday and then return it, label still attached, before flying home.

No harm, no foul.

This concept obviously baffles the born-rich Lana Caruso.

'Return?' Lana's button nose wrinkles in confusion... then clears entirely as her expression becomes one of sudden discovery. 'Oh! I see... It will not fit soon enough?'

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