Читать книгу One Night Of Consequences Collection - Ким Лоренс, Annie West - Страница 35
ОглавлениеKIRA curled in a ball on her bed, too heartbroken to cry. What good would tears do now?
Her father hadn’t just crushed André’s family. Edouard had ripped André away from everything he’d known. Everyone he’d loved. He’d somehow acquired the Chateau—the hotel André’s father had built for his mother—and he’d ensconced André’s sister there as his mistress.
She understood André’s agony, his rage, for she’d lived with something similar herself. Only it had been her own mother who’d abandoned her to Edouard’s care, and his brand of accepting responsibility had been to ship her off to boarding school in England.
From the day she’d first met Edouard he’d referred to her as his “shameful obligation.” She’d believed herself inferior to his legitimate family. Insignificant. And always unwanted.
To think she’d tried so hard to win Edouard’s favor, his attention, as a child hungry for affection. To think she’d been so desperate for love that she’d agreed to keep her paternity a secret all her life. That she’d never gone against Edouard’s wishes and contacted his “real” family.
Yes, she and André had both suffered at Edouard Bellamy’s hands, though she feared André would not view her experience the same way. Because she was a Bellamy, and there was nothing she could do about that.
A man like André did not forgive deceit. And she’d deceived him. Was still deceiving him.
Her hands glided over her belly, cradling the life that grew there. She should’ve told him the truth from the start. Gotten it out in the open before she lost her heart to him. Let her ghosts dance and rattle their chains along with his.
But she hadn’t, because postponing the inevitable was easier than facing the truth. Because she was afraid to trust that he’d do the right thing. Because she didn’t want anything to throw a pall over their passionate tryst on this island. She wanted to prolong the inevitable.
Now she was too tired to think straight—too exhausted from spent passion and from the tangled dreams she’d spun of her and André and their child. She was simply too heavy of heart to risk seeing the thin thread binding them snap in two.
She’d seek him out in the morning and tell him everything, for the guilt of lying to him was tearing her apart. She had to believe that love was stronger than hate.
André had been hunched over his desk since dawn, gaze fixed on the computer screen. The work he’d hoped to immerse himself in this morning stared back at him. The latest financial report was a jumble of words, none making sense. The spreadsheet might as well be random figures.
All he could think about was Kira and the stricken look on her face when she’d left his bedroom. He’d shocked her by admitting he was Suzette’s brother, and shocked himself by revealing so much about his family’s connection to Edouard Bellamy. None of his contemporaries knew. Not one. So why had he trusted Kira with the truth?
He caught a subtle whiff of her perfume a heartbeat before his door opened a crack. His gaze flicked from the wealth of auburn hair to her eyes that gleamed with moisture.
“Are you too busy to talk?” she asked.
He was, and talk was the last thing he wanted to do with her—especially if she was emotional. But he didn’t wish to turn her away either.
“Come in,” he said, rising and hoping she wouldn’t hear his heart slamming against his ribs. “What’s on your mind?”
She slipped inside like a shadow and closed the door, her eyes seeming too large for her face. She swallowed, looked away, then met his gaze again.
“Something you said last night…” She waved a hand in a classic gesture of nervousness and eased onto the chair, but sat on its edge as if ready to bolt. “I’ve never told anyone before.”
“A confession, then?”
“A secret, actually.”
His gut clenched, but he erased all emotion from his face. This was it. The declaration of guilt he’d dreaded to hear. Their affair would end swiftly and unpleasantly.
She took a deep breath. Expelled it slowly. His gut clenched again. He was dreading what truth would spill from her lush lips.
“My mother was a Las Vegas showgirl and my father—” She frowned. Swallowed. Paled. “My father—”
He took pity on her struggle for a way to tell him. “I’ve seen your birth certificate and I know you are illegitimate.”
A flush kissed her cheeks, but he couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. “Yes, my mother obviously wasn’t sure which was one of her lovers was my father when she gave birth to me.”
He stared at her, stunned for a heartbeat. In his mind he’d pictured her mother as a quiet Englishwoman, reserved and withdrawn. He’d imagined Kira had run away from the staid life she’d been born into to the glamour Bellamy promised.
“Your mother sent you to England to be schooled, then?” Away from the lurid nightlife and her liaisons?
A deeper red tinted her delicate cheekbones, and he knew at that moment that no matter what she told him she’d seen more than a young girl should. “She gave me up when I was quite young. Actually, I barely remember her.”
“Is she still alive?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve never tried to find her?”
“No, and I never will.”
André wasn’t sure what to make of that admission. Kira was compassionate to a fault. She wouldn’t cut her mother from her life without just cause—that cause being that the woman had obviously placed her lovers before her child. Yet Kira had followed in the woman’s footsteps—unmarried and pregnant.
But where her mother had obviously been derelict in her duty, André believed Kira would make a fine parent. He trusted she’d cherish her child. His soul knew she’d put her child first, even above him. He trusted her with the care of their baby.
He shook his head, keeping the last observation to himself. “I take it you were adopted?”
“No, I was simply a ward.” She looked at him then, the lonely ache of her childhood plain to see, touching his heart as nothing else ever had. “As I said before, I know how you felt, being foisted off on people who cared nothing for you.”
For a moment he thought she’d expand on her upbringing, but she stopped talking and frowned.
“Then you understand why I must bring down everything Bellamy built,” he said.
“No, I don’t understand that at all,” she said.
She couldn’t mean that. “I don’t believe you haven’t thought of ways to make your mother pay for abandoning you. Or wanted to lash out at the guardian who closeted you away instead of welcoming you into a family.”
Kira looked away, but not before he caught a flicker of anger in her expressive eyes. “I locked my ghosts away long ago. I knew to dwell on what I couldn’t change would turn me bitter and ultimately destroy me.”
He sensed there was more, that she was holding something back, something that she was hesitant to divulge. He understood her reluctance, for he suspected she had never allowed herself to be angry at the cloistered life meted out to her. She’d been conditioned to accept her fate.
“Will it help if you tell me about your ghosts?” he asked. “I assure you I’m not one to fear them.”
“André,” she said, her face too pale and too drawn.
André waited for her to go on, but she fell silent.
Mon Dieu! He longed to rip open the shroud on her past, to make whoever had hurt her pay for their callous disregard. He wanted to hold her and love her and promise her all would be well—that he’d slay her dragons too.
But he couldn’t bring himself to step over that last fence. For, like her, he wasn’t accustomed to divulging any of his secrets—especially personal ones.
They had the power to cause heartache. To draw blood.
Oui, he couldn’t totally trust her. But he could offer an olive branch.
“I read over your plans for the Chateau and I applaud your foresight,” he said.
Her expressive eyes went wide, and her smile brightened the room and his heart. “You did?”
“But of course that’s not what I wish to discuss now. I’d like your opinion concerning a resort I plan to redesign in Cap d’Antibes,” he said, turning his attention to the spreadsheet on the computer. Her radiant expression had burst inside him like the sun cresting the horizon, flooding him with new hopes, new dreams. It made him forget his quest for vengeance.
“Are you familiar with the area?” he asked, his voice sharper than intended.
“Only what I’ve read about the French Riviera,” she said.
He’d take her there. Give her a tour of the old city from a native’s viewpoint. Show her the castle steeped in history and the villas where movie stars and royalty spent their holidays.
He’d escort her to the casinos that never slept. Then do something he’d never done before—take a lover to the old villa where he’d been born.
“Please—tell me more.” She shifted in her seat, her eyes still wide with excitement.
Mon Dieu, to think his business enthused her so! To think her excitement was rubbing off on him—in more ways than one.
“I recently bought the hotel. It’s a fine property, but the last modernization stripped it of its charm.” He leaned forward, captivated by her interest. “I would like to reinstall its original nineteen-forties style.”
She sat back, her expression thoughtful. “You want to recapture its heyday?”
“Oui.” André rocked back in his chair, then tossed his pen on the desk, as if it didn’t matter whether she liked his idea or not. It did matter. He’d seen her credentials and knew she had a head for business.
“It’s daring. Unique.” She smiled, and his heart nearly stopped beating. “And a cutting-edge business strategy.”
“I’ll show you the plans—” His mobile phone chirped and he answered it.
“Bonjour,” said the manager of La Cachette, his high-class resort on St. Barthélemy. “Comment allez-vous?”
“I am well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A small matter, really.” The manager explained that there was a continuing problem with an employee—André’s distant cousin.
“Philippe is not doing his job?” André asked.
“No, his work is excellent.” There was a long, tense pause. “It is the ladies. He romances them, and there are complaints.”
André smiled at the mental image that conjured. “So Philippe is working his way through the female employees, non?”
“Employees, guests—it makes no difference to him. Complaints have been lodged.” His manager’s sigh crackled over the line. “Perhaps if you spoke with him?”
“Oui. I will arrive this afternoon. Prepare my suite.”
André ended the connection, then rocked back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyed he had to speak with Philippe again about his discretion and maintaining high business standards. Irked he had to leave Kira here. Though a night away from her might be just the thing to put his emotions back in perspective.
“Problems?” Kira’s voice reached across the desk to stroke over him in a silken caress.
“Oui. An ongoing one.” But no more. His cousin had been warned what would happen if he continued to play around.
He met her gaze, annoyed her excitement had vanished. Was she sorry to see him go, or was it a ruse?
No, she wasn’t deceiving him this time. He’d set out to bind her to him and he’d succeeded. But he’d not anticipated his plan would ensnare him as well.
He should leave her here and attend to business. But he selfishly wanted her to join him.
“We leave for St. Barth within the hour,” he said, clearly surprising her again.
Again her smile dazzled him, warming something that had been far too cold in him. “You’re taking me?”
“But of course.”
Her smile rivaled the sun.
Oui, she was excited to go away with him for the day. He hoped she wanted to see the island and La Cachette—to be alone with him in the romantic city. But she might be seeing this as her chance to contact Peter, perhaps even run away.
His jaw firmed, his heart chilling at those possibilities. He’d provide her with the means to deceive him. He’d charge his investigator to do a deeper investigation of her, turning over every rock in England if need be.
Then he’d have an answer. Then he’d know what the hell to do.
Kira wasn’t a neophyte when it came to five-star hotels, but the moment André escorted her into his hotel on St. Barth, there was something about La Cachette that set it apart from anything she’d seen before. Something besides the old-world beauty of the salmon-stucco structure trimmed in pristine white. Something other than what she’d read about the high-end suites that ran into many thousands of dollars a night.
The elegant hotel overlooking the expanse of turquoise sea made Chateau Mystique pale in comparison. It reduced the Chateau to what it really was—a glitzy hotel on the Las Vegas strip, an edifice of glass and steel and opulence meant to dazzle guests, like countless other ones in the neon town that played all night long.
Her nerves zinged and her senses absorbed the grandeur of it all as André tapped in a code to access a private lift. But once she and André stepped inside it, a far different excitement took root in her.
She’d been intimate with him in every way possible, yet she felt like an exposed novice trembling at his side. A good part of it was because of desire, for she wanted him with a hunger that shocked her.
But she was still shaken over taking the coward’s way out and holding her secret to her heart even after he’d asked for her opinion regarding his property on the French Riviera. At that moment she’d felt their relationship shift, and she hadn’t wanted to ruin it. And it had happened again when he’d offered that bit of praise for her ideas for the Chateau.
Her heart had melted.
After three months they’d gone from captive and captor, to sizzling lovers. Could they find even ground in a partnership in business? As parents?
Could they have even more?
She wanted to believe it was possible—that he’d not hold her paternity against her or their child. That he’d brought her to St. Barth not just because she was his willing mistress now.
She had to trust her heart that love would find a way.
That was so easy to do now, as his dark eyes glittered with blatant desire, caressing her in tantalizing increments. Her lips tingled, aching for his kiss. Her breasts felt heavy, tight, and her blood hummed with a strong sensual pulse.
His powerful presence filled the lift, filled her heart. She’d never met a man who captivated her so, who made her ache for such wicked pleasure in his arms.
Though the lift had whisked them to the penthouse, she was gasping for breath, her hand gripping the cool handrail as his gaze fixed on the juncture of her thighs. A deep throb of want vibrated low in her belly, her muscles contracting in erotic rhythm.
The apex of her thighs was growing hot, the scent of her sex making her cheeks warm more from arousal than embarrassment. She squirmed, as restless as if he’d touched her intimately.
The flames in his gaze blazed hotter. His wickedly sensual lips curved in a knowing smile—a triumphant smile, for he surely knew the power he had over her.
As if to prove it he licked his lips and moaned his pleasure. A tremor rocked through her and she pressed her thighs tight together, nearly coming in the lift, aroused simply by his gaze, by the carnal promise in his dark eyes.
With just one look she was lost. She was his.
He knew it, and so did she.
The lift door whispered open. André wrapped an arm around her shoulders and escorted her into the tower apartment, no doubt aware her legs trembled so badly she feared she’d collapse.
She’d expected him to whisk her to the bedroom, but he seemed in no particular hurry. If only she could be that relaxed.
Kira focused on the suite to calm her emotions. She’d not expected the apartment’s style to be so starkly elegant.
Open, yet intimate. The ultimate playpen for decadence.
Large windows on three sides welcomed sunlight to flood the open salon, which was sumptuously dressed in translucent swaths of lush green that mirrored the colors of the rainforest.
The curved sectional sofa in a warm butterscotch dominated the salon, affording an optimum view of the ocean and the vista stretching to the horizon. Her mind teased her with images of her and André frolicking on that sofa, having eyes only for each other.
An intimate glass-topped table for two sat by French doors that opened onto a white-railed Juliet balcony. A crystal vase overflowed with white lilies, cream isianthus and eucalyptus foliage to perfume the suite.
Her gaze climbed the curved staircase to the loft above. With André so close, and knowing what was to come, this was almost too much for her senses.
“The bedroom,” he said.
“Of course.” She studied the open plan again, noting one closed door on this level. “Are there others?”
“No.”
Her face flushed. She should be offended he’d brought her here. But all she could think of was making love with him on the plush sofa, and later in the tower bedroom.
“Do you want anything?” he asked.
She wanted him to take her now, to pleasure her—love her. “You,” she said simply.
An amorous glint lit his eyes. “Ah, ma chérie, you do speak my language. Unfortunately I have pressing business to attend to now.”
She crossed to him and laid a hand on his heart, emboldened by the strong rapid beat, unwilling to conform to the mistress’s role of waiting patiently for her lover. “When will you return?”
“An hour. Two at the most.”
A short time for him, but a boring afternoon for her. “Perhaps I’ll take advantage of the solitude and do a bit of shopping.”
“No—not with the paparazzi lingering.”
Her first impulse was to react with anger, but she didn’t want to confront the media. “Very well, I’ll stay here.”
“I’ll make your wait worth it.” His mouth closed over hers, hot, hungry, possessive.
She kissed him in kind, willing him to remember the promise awaiting him here. Willing him to hurry back to her.
He pulled back too soon, his eyes black with passion, his face taut. “Make yourself at home.” Then he was gone, disappearing into the lift and leaving her alone.
Kira stared at the green light on the lift’s keypad. He’d not locked it. Had he forgotten?
No, he wasn’t one to make that type of error. He’d left it unlocked for a reason. But what was it?
Kira fetched a bottle of sparkling water from the small refrigerator in the kitchen and paced the lavish salon, wondering if this was a test of her loyalty to him.
Could it be as simple as him knowing she wouldn’t go shopping and draw the media’s attention? Could he know she wouldn’t run away from him? Know that when he returned this evening she’d be here waiting for him?
Either way he trusted her—or at least had begun to.
She set the water aside and wrapped her arms around her middle, sick at heart that her secret would destroy that newfound trust. But even if she could prove she hadn’t conspired with Peter to ruin André, there was still the fact she was Edouard Bellamy’s daughter.
There was nothing she could do to forestall the inevitable. How much better it would’ve been to have lost him then rather than now. How much more heartache could she bear?
His avowal as they waited out the storm in the cave on Noir Creux came back to her. It’s too late. I paid your price.
But he didn’t know she’d been deceived, and she had nothing but her word to change his mind.
Kira crossed to the phone and quickly dialed the number of her solicitor. Her frustration hitched up another notch when the hotel operator answered.
“Pardon? I don’t understand,” Kira said.
The woman replied in French—then hung up on her! So much for placing a call.
She reclaimed her water and climbed the steps to the tower bedroom, her weariness eased marginally by the breathtaking view afforded by the bank of windows. No matter where she looked, her gaze fell on the sea.
A massive bed dressed simply and elegantly in jade and black dominated the space. She gripped her bottled water tighter, her body quivering with need. This was insane.
Her world was on the verge of collapsing and she was fantasizing about making love with him. Was she following in her mother’s footsteps?
No! She’d put her child first, even above her own needs.
She’d turned to descend to the main salon when she noticed a small desk set in an alcove near the far side of the room. It held a laptop computer and nothing else. Make yourself at home.
Doing just that, she sent a quick missive to her solicitor, demanding to know who’d forged her signature for the sale of her stock.
Time inched by as she waited on pins and needles for his reply. Alert, wary, and plagued with new guilt.
Her hands fisted. My God, how deeply André had woven her into his web if she felt guilty for contacting her solicitor about the takeover of the Chateau.
A soft tone issued from the computer as the “new mail” icon flashed on, seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness. She frowned as she read the reply from her solicitor.
He’d been forthright with her from the beginning, a loyal employee of Edouard’s. She’d trusted him without question.
But his cryptic reply worried her. Instead of answering her questions, he asked what game she was playing now?
She’d never played any game—that had been her father’s forte. Not hers. She’d been taken to Petit St. Marc against her will. She’d been robbed of her shares!
A ding below stairs alerted her that the lift had come up. She typed a quick response to her solicitor, telling him to explain in detail what he meant. She reiterated again that she was the injured party here. She’d never authorized the sale of her stock. Never. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.
She’d find a way to read his reply later. And if she couldn’t…?
Kira logged off just as the tap of shoes on tile echoed up from below. André had returned sooner than she’d expected.
She ran into the bedroom, then hesitated, knowing if she rushed down the steps that she’d either look guilty or eager to see him. She latched on to the latter, but when she got to the top of the stairs she froze.
It wasn’t André at all, but a woman. Her uniform was clearly that of a domestic. She set a box held tight with a crimson bow on the table and turned to leave, then stopped and looked up at Kira, as if sensing her there watching.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the woman said, and smiled. “A gift for you. Monsieur apologizes for being detained.”
“André sent me a gift?”
“Oui.” The maid walked back toward the lift.
Curiosity carried Kira down the stairs. The maid was gone before she reached the salon. She read the note attached to the box.
Instead of returning to Petit St. Marc this evening they would enjoy a dinner at the celebrated La del’ Impératrice Chambre.
The fact her casual clothes were unsuitable for the elite restaurant barely registered. All she could think of was spending the night in that massive bed with André, loving him.
Heat spread across her middle, fanning out in delicious shivers. They’d enjoy dinner out, like a real date, then spend the night here.
Kira’s hands shook as she tore open the box and swept ivory tissue aside. Her gaze lit on a silky blue fabric that caught the light and shimmered like sunrays skipping over the Caribbean waters.
She held it up, as excited as a child at Christmas. It was indecent. Seductive. Daring. She’d never worn anything like this—had never even tried on risqué clothes.
But André had chosen this for her. The reason was clear.
She was his mistress. He wanted to show her off—boast to other men that she was his possession, his kept woman. She was his conquest over Peter Bellamy.
Her excitement dimmed as that fact stole away the glow she’d been basking in. It would end soon, for she couldn’t go on avoiding the inevitable much longer.
Kira dropped her gaze to the designer gown clutched in her hands. She couldn’t wear it and keep her self-respect. But she couldn’t resist trying it on either. Just once.
She was about to retreat upstairs when a scrap of color in the box caught her eye. No, he hadn’t—
But he had.
She picked up the flesh-hued scrap of silk that was panties. They felt like heaven in her hand but were surely devilish in design, for the cloth was transparent.
She might as well be wearing none at all! No doubt André had thought the same when he’d bought them.
The square box that accompanied the larger one had to be shoes. Curious to see what he’d chosen, she slipped the ribbon free and flung off the lid.
Her hand trembled as she lifted one beautiful mermaid sandal from the box. Shoes were her passion. Her weakness. And these sexy stilettoes called to her.
What would it hurt to try the entire outfit on, as he’d intended her to do? Nothing. André wouldn’t return for hours. Nobody would know. Nobody but her.
Flushed and excited at the prospect of being that audacious—even in private!—she rushed upstairs to don the daring dress. The second it slid over her body she felt wicked and sensual. And horribly self-conscious.
The design was pure seduction. Thin strips of fabric covered her breasts and tied behind the neck, leaving her back bare nearly to the swell of her buttocks.
The silk caressed her with each step, each breath, the glide over her nipples teasing them erect, the whisper of cloth over her hips and thighs keeping her senses tuned to a high pitch.
Just like André’s hands and mouth would do.
She swallowed hard, near panting with desire. She’d never felt this sexually attractive in her life. Never been so aware of herself as a woman.
Kira allowed herself one last look in the mirror, scarce believing that temptress was her. But her bare feet ruined the effect. Damn, she’d left the sandals downstairs.
She glanced at the clock, sure she had time to try on the shoes. She hurried down the stairs and did just that. The fit was perfect, like a fairy tale.
Another ding rang through the apartment. She froze, her gaze locked on the lift door. Her stomach quivered; her pulse hammered. She knew André had arrived even before the door whispered open and he stepped from the lift.
She had no idea where he’d acquired the elegantly cut black tuxedo, or where he’d shaved, but he looked like a page torn from a designer magazine. He looked like the fantasy in every erotic dream she’d ever had. The essence of savoir-faire.
It was one of the few French phrases that had stuck with her. Oddly appropriate as André possessed social grace and aplomb. And a sensuality that seduced her across the room, robbing her of all thoughts save one—making love with him.
He strode into the salon and stopped, freezing in place like a mannequin, with a hand poised to smooth back his dark hair. His gaze locked on hers, hot and hungry.
Her stomach flip-flopped, tightening. Her thighs clenched. Her breasts felt full, the sensation of her nipples peaking against the silk almost too much to bear.
Her heart quivered, overflowing with love. Love?
Yes, I love him.
Forever. Fatalistically.
She smiled with all her heart and strode toward him, hating that she was continuing her deception. But she didn’t want to ruin this night either.
Tonight she’d be his willing lover. She’d love him as if there was no tomorrow. Because when the truth came out she feared there would be no future for them. She knew putting off telling the truth didn’t change it.
But when she did this affair would be over. Her life, her hopes, her dreams with André would end.
And when they did a part of her would die.
André’s chest was so tight he could barely draw air into his lungs. When he did manage it, he drew in the floral scent she wore as well as her womanly essence.
He’d known when he bought the gown that the sapphire silk would complement Kira’s wealth of auburn hair, known that the fabric would caress her full breasts, hug her lush hips, and glide down the expanse of strong shapely legs like his hands and mouth longed to do.
She was a vixen. The colors of the sea and the sand and temptation. A lover molded just for him.
And for Bellamy?
His hands fisted, his gut twisting, for he didn’t want his enemy to shadow him tonight. Not now, when this strange warmth was spreading over his chest, filling him with a sense of rightness.
For the first time in his life he had found a woman he wanted in all ways—as his lover, the mother of his children. As his wife?
Mon Dieu, he couldn’t marry Peter’s mistress. But the idea of another man touching Kira enraged him. His hungry gaze swept over her, stripping off the dress that set his blood on fire. His fingers tingled to put action to the thought.
Every man who saw her would feel the same. His gut clenched at the certainty. He’d be damned if he’d share her.
No one would see her luscious curves in that dress but him! Nobody but him would touch her, kiss her, desire her.
He would be the last lover she’d ever take, because it mustbeso.
It was so! He knew that now. Mother and child were his. His!
André strode toward her, his hunger for food gone, replaced by a carnal appetite that was stronger. He’d have her now. Hear his name on her lips as she climaxed. See her smile rest on his face before sleep claimed her.
Now and always.
He pulled her to him, his finesse shattering like fine crystal, his patience vanishing like smoke. “Our plans have changed. We will stay here.”
“Good,” she said, lifting her face to his. “I would just as soon order room service.”
“Oui, a late dinner,” he said, gliding his hands down her bare back, watching her beautiful eyes gleam with the same powerful desire that raged through him. “Much later.”
She was a worthy partner for him, capable of bringing him low with one innocent look, causing his blood to race out of control with that bed-me gleam in her eyes. Like they had now, her head bent just so, her tongue caressing her lips and making him crazy with want.
She was his to have. Without doubt. Without reservation.
André claimed her mouth, vowing he’d soon hold her heart and soul in his hands as well. She melded against him, capitulating to his sensual siege, her mouth surrendering.
Each stroke of her tongue fanned the flames of his passion, until he feared he’d spend himself here in the salon. He who always maintained control felt it crack as her greedy hands explored his torso and caressed his hips, her thumbs tracing over the ridge at his flanks, feeling like fire and ice and sweet, sweet heaven.
He swept his palms over her rounded hips, certain the finest satins and silks could not compare to the exquisite smoothness of her skin. The deep valley of her spine invited him to follow it in minute measures down to the soft swell of her bottom.
The gown was no barrier as he dipped his hands beneath the indecently low back and splayed his fingers over her satiny flesh, barely covered with the minuscule triangle of silk.
He smiled, pleased she’d worn his gift. For him. Only him.
She arched against him, her fingers wadding his shirt, the scrape of her nails sending fire licking through him.
He heard the rending of fabric, then sucked in great gulps of air as her palms swept over his bare chest, her thumbs brushing his nipples. “Aggression becomes you, ma chérie.”
“I want you naked, André. I want to feel you moving on me. In me.”
The growl that escaped him was foreign, feral. He swept her into his arms and mounted the stairs, their mouths straining at the other, their lips dueling with fierce intent.
They fell onto the bed, tearing at their clothes, thousands of dollars’ worth of silk rendered to rags. He moved over her, his sex tight and hard, poised at her moist cay.
“Yes,” she said, grabbing his sides. “Now.”
“Not yet.”
He palmed her breasts as his mouth moved down her body, tasting, teasing. She cried out his name, arching her back as if desperate to impale herself on him.
But that pleasure would come too soon. Too rushed to be appreciated at this moment in time.
He hooked his thumbs under the lace banding her panties and pulled them off by inches, his heart slamming hard as her scent filled his nostrils, driving him wild.
“André!” The reedy sound of his name on her lips roared through him like flame. “Please.”
He would. By God, he would please her. In her pleasure he’d find his own reward.
His breath rasped hard as he tossed aside her panties, his patience with obstacles and leisurely sex gone. She was gasping for air as well, her beautiful body bared to his hungry eyes, her lush breasts thrust forward, the nipples peaked, her sleek legs parted in wanton invitation.
“You are exquisite,” he said, his palms sliding up her legs to the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.
She grabbed for him, her fingers gliding off his slick chest, her eyes dark with passion. “Kiss me.”
And he did, bending his head to the heat of her, his fingers spreading her as his tongue flicked over her damp swollen flesh, certain nothing on earth was as delicious as she.
Mewling sounds came from her as her fingers twined in his hair and pulled, but he blocked out the slight pain and continued his ruthless oral seduction of her.
He laved her once, twice, his own need close to the edge, his fingers slick with her desire, his senses drunk on her essence. He felt her muscles clench, the spasms rippling through her and into him.
“No—yes,” she said, her fingers tightening on his scalp to hold him to her.
He speared her once more as the tremors rocked through her and her back bowed, a keening sound ripping through her. Nothing had ever sounded so sweet as he covered her body with his and plunged into her.
His teeth clenched with the effort to go slow, for he felt her body shudder to adjust to his size, feared he’d hurt her. But she took control, wrapping her legs around him and arching, seating him deeper in her.
Her fingernails raked his back, his flanks, and hung on. He surrendered to her. He who never lost control with a woman did so then.
The pleasure of two bodies joined heart and soul poured through him, raging as a river, cleansing away the strictures he’d abided by all his life.
The pretense was stripped bare. Over. Ended.
Nothing could ever be more right than this moment, André thought as he held her to his side in the aftermath of the most explosive passion he’d ever felt. She was his sun and moon, his addiction.
She shifted closer and sighed. “I love you.”
The avowal was a whisper of sound so hushed he nearly didn’t hear it. He frowned, considering how this changed things.
This was what he’d hoped to gain—her love. But he no longer wished to crush her.
No, he had better things in store for Miss Montgomery.
He stared at her in sleep, growing more certain of his decision by the moment. It was right. It was time.
He was going to propose marriage.
