The Married Mistress (5 page)

‘Go on,’ he encouraged huskily, his tone pure enticement. ‘You know it’s what we both want.’

Her throat was agonisingly dry; her lips felt as if they were cracking, they were so parched. She slicked her tongue over them in an attempt to ease the situation and saw from the faint flicker in the jet-dark stare that he was aware of the small betraying movement. But his gaze never faltered for a moment, holding her mesmerised so that she felt she had no will of her own, but was only capable of following his command.

‘Touch me…’

‘Yes…’

His will was hers anyway, she told herself, shrugging off the tiny pinpricks of doubt. What he wanted was what she wanted.

‘Oh, yes…’

It came out on a long, slow sigh as her fingers trailed down the taut muscle cording his throat and along the hard, straight line of his shoulder. She watched his reaction intently, saw the tiny, involuntary jerk that he was unable to control, and a small, satisfied smile curved her lips.

‘I’ll touch—but only if you promise to do the same.’

Damon made a rough, raw sound deep in his throat as her hands drifted lower.

‘You can be sure of that, lady,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘Depend on it.’

He gave her free rein to wander where she would, standing still and unflinching under her caress. He swallowed hard when her teasing touch circled first one small, dark male nipple, then the other, making them tighten, harden instantly, his jaw clenching hard against a gasp of response. But a second later he had himself back under control again, though the pulse that beat at the base of his neck and his uneven, ragged breathing betrayed the amount of effort he was having to exert in order to remain that way.

‘You’re very—strong…’ Sarah murmured, deliberately edging the last word with an emphasis that made its double meaning plain. ‘Have you been working out?’

‘Some.’

It rasped from a throat so raw that he sounded as if he hadn’t used his voice in weeks.

He had had to do
something
to distract his mind from the fact that she had walked out on him with not even a backward glance, without a word of warning. He had come back from a business trip to find a bed that had been empty so long that the sheets were thoroughly chilled, and a note that was even colder, icy as the Arctic. The punishing physical routine he had set himself in the gym had helped to drain the burning energy from his body, leaving him drenched in sweat and limp with fatigue. It had filled hours in the day, but it had done little to ease the hungry longing that clawed at him in the night, keeping him wide awake and in restless torment from his thoughts and his memories.

It was in the darkness that images of her luscious body would come back to haunt him, hardening him in an instant, and refusing to ease the erotic hold they had on him. In the silence of the night he could almost feel her there beside him, hear the soft sound of her breathing. He could recall with agonising accuracy the warmth of her skin, the soft
scent of her body, the tiny, wildly arousing murmurs she had made in her sleep as she shifted, stretching with a sensuousness that grabbed at his loins and twisted cruelly. No matter how he had shifted and adjusted his position on the luxurious bed, he had been unable to get comfortable, the hope of sleep just an unattainable fantasy.

‘I—needed the exercise.’

‘I like it…’

She more than liked it. He felt wonderful. He even smelt wonderful, the intensely personal scent of his skin intoxicating her senses in the way that no alcoholic drink, however potent, could ever manage. He felt leaner and harder and more powerful than ever before and it was strangely shocking to have such a fiercely masculine creature standing still and submissive under her lightest touch.

Almost submissive.

She couldn’t deceive herself that he was actually under her control in any way. He was
letting
her do what she wanted with him right now because it suited him, and only for that reason. If he changed his mind, grew impatient, decided enough was enough, then she would stand as little chance against him as a buzzing fly that he would flick away with arrogant ease.

And it seemed that his patience was fraying, wearing thin.

Her ears, sharpened into acute sensitivity by the burning awareness of everything about him, caught the tiny hiss of a rawly indrawn breath as her wandering fingers drifted lower. She saw the quiver of his tanned flesh, the twitch of long, strong fingers and instinctively tensed in wary apprehension, green eyes locking with burning jet-black.

‘Losing your nerve, darling?’ he questioned huskily.

‘Never…’ she managed, though there was a disturbingly revealing tremble in the word.

His unwavering gaze challenged her to continue and, still
with her eyes fixed on his, she let her fingers move again, tracing soft, curving patterns over his skin, drifting across his chest, down—

‘Enough!’

A hard hand snapped out, clamped over hers, stilling the teasing caresses in an instant.

‘Enough,’ he said again. ‘It’s my turn now.’

The hungry possessiveness in his tone turned her bones to water and she had to stumble backwards, sinking weakly onto the bed before she fell. The view she had from this position, of Damon’s lean, muscled waist, the wide leather belt around his waist, the close-fitting jeans where the swollen force of his erection pushed at the taut fabric, did nothing at all to help her regain any sort of composure.

‘Or, rather,’ Damon went on, ‘it’s your turn.’

‘My…?’

With an effort she dragged her gaze from the stretch of blue denim straight in front of her and looked up. And immediately wished she hadn’t.

Standing above her like this, black eyes blazing down into hers, broad shoulders blocking out the light from the window, Damon seemed even bigger, stronger, more powerful, more
male
, than ever. And when his hands came down onto her shoulders it was all she could do not to flinch away in apprehension.

But all he did was to tug gently at the pale green linen of her shirt, flicking the collar with one contemptuous finger.

‘Now you’re the one who is wearing too many clothes. This will have to go.’

For all the softness in his words, it was clearly a command; one he intended to have obeyed. And Sarah didn’t have the strength or the will to oppose him. Instead, she lifted her hands like someone in a dream, her eyes still fixed on his, and dealt unseeingly with the one remaining button
which was all that held the blouse together at the neck. Then slowly, with a natural grace, she let the fine material drop, slithering down the length of her arms to lie in a soft, crumpled pool behind her on the bed.

Damon stayed as still as a marble statue, watching her through hooded eyes. She could feel the burn of his stare on her exposed skin; see the glitter of desire through the lush black lashes.

‘Good…’ he said at last, drawing in one long, deep breath and expelling it on a sigh, ‘for a start… And what about the rest?’

The movement to reach the back fastening of her bra arched her spine, pushing her chest forward, making gold flames flare in the darkness of his gaze. But when she would have slipped the lacy straps down from her shoulders he moved suddenly, his hands coming out again to stop her.

‘No—let me…’

Crouching down in front of her, he hooked his thumbs under the straps, sliding them down over her arms in a blatant caress that made her skin shiver at the promise of delight it held. He took his time about it, watching her for every long, enticing second, so that he couldn’t have been unaware of the way that her eyes widened, and darkened, revealing her inner response to him.

But from the moment that the silky confection dropped away from her, letting her breasts tumble out into the hard heat of his waiting hands, everything changed. In the space of a thudding heartbeat, the atmosphere in the room became electrically charged, heavy with a dark sensuality that was primitive in its force.

‘Theos…’
Damon muttered, almost reverentially. ‘You are so lovely…’

His hands closed over soft flesh, cupping, smoothing,
caressing, and Sarah moaned aloud at just the delight of his touch.

She had been starved of this. Hungered for it. And after so long an abstinence, the feeling of joy overwhelmed her. It rushed straight to her brain like the effects of some potent alcoholic spirit and she felt her head swim uncontrollably.

Heat coiled in the pit of her stomach, spiralled through her body, and she closed her eyes the better to experience the glorious sensations. Leaning back on her hands, she concentrated fiercely on what was happening to her, hearing the roughly muttered words in Greek in the same moments that she felt his mouth speaking them against her skin.

And then there was silence as the heat and softness of his lips closed over one nipple, his tongue circling it, arousing it, waking it to tight, yearning sensitivity. And only when it peaked in hungry demand did he take it fully into his mouth and suckle hard.

‘Damon…’

The sound of his name was a swooning cry of surrender blended with an unspoken demand for more of the same. And yet when he moved his dark head to devote the same attention to the other breast, the erotic blend of stinging pleasure flooded so wildly through her that she felt she might actually lose consciousness from the joy of it.

‘Damon…’

It was stronger now, harder, needier. And that need pushed her from simply taking, accepting the pleasure that he was giving her, into wanting to give, to return the delight she was experiencing, and reduce him to the same molten, mindless, abandoned state.

‘Let me kiss you…’

Her hands clenched tight in the ebony silk of his hair, clutching at thick handfuls and pulling him upwards, forcing his head up towards hers.

‘Kiss me,’
she muttered fiercely, struggling to drown the
anguished protest of every fiercely awakened nerve at the abrupt cessation of the pleasure they had known under another, different, but equally drugging sort of delight.

The pressure of Damon’s mouth against her own crushed her lips open, hot tongues tangling, two breaths mixing into one. And if it hadn’t been for the support of his hands at the back of her head, holding her upright, she would have tumbled back onto the mattress behind her, falling under the hot, heavy weight of his strong body.

Damon went with her willingly, following her muttered demands with a sense of relief. His beleaguered body needed some moments to gather its resources, recover some degree of control. If he didn’t then this lovemaking would be over before it began. As it was, he was more than tempted to simply fling her back onto the bed, force her skirt up, rip away the flimsy silk and lace barrier that came between him and the secret, female core of her, and bury himself deep and hard inside her welcoming body.

And that would be all he would be capable of doing. He knew that as soon as his flesh touched hers, in the seconds that the hot, slick sheath closed around him, he would be lost. He would come in a wild, uncontainable rush, all thought, all possibility of restraint leaving him in a split-second.

And so now he plundered her mouth instead of her body, seeking the moments needed to draw breath, get himself back in hand, so that he could make this into the experience it should be for both of them.

But she wasn’t making it easy for him. In the same seconds that her mouth opened under his, inviting his intimate invasion, her hands started wandering, visiting all the most sensitive parts of his body, sparking off explosive reactions wherever they touched. He was kneeling astride her, his legs on either side of hers on the bed, the mattress giving under their joint weight. His chances of staying in control
were reduced from low to impossible in between one breath and another, and when she fell back amongst the tangled bedclothes, still clutching at him, he had no choice but to go with her.

As they rolled together, twisting, turning so that he ended up as the one on his back, Sarah on top, he felt her hands move to his waist, tugging and pulling at the buckle of his belt.

‘Sarah!’

Her name was pushed from him on a breath that combined laughter and protest, a tiny sense of desperation creeping in at the thought of how things had got so hot so fast.

He should be thinking—trying to think! This wasn’t what he had planned on—or was it?

What
had
he planned on? He didn’t know—couldn’t remember—frankly, didn’t care.

With a smothered half laugh, half groan of surrender, he gave up the attempt at using his mind and flung his arms open wide, stretching them out on the bed so that she could have free access to what was left of his clothing.

And froze as his left hand made contact with something cold and hard and metallic.

‘What the hell…?’

It was partly hidden under the pillow, just a small section of chain sticking out across the sheet, and as he pulled on it he twisted his head to one side to see what it was.

A chain.

A thick, heavy-linked gold chain, with a circular St Christopher medal hanging from it.

A very
masculine
gold chain.

The sort of chain he could well imagine Jason the rat wearing.

And as he moved his head again he caught the heavy, musky aroma of some overly potent aftershave that was
still clinging to the pillow covers. He recognised that scent immediately. It had been thick on the air downstairs—when Jason had come close as he walked past and out the door.

From being close to white heat, his blood cooled immediately, freezing in his veins. All trace of desire left him in a rush, to be replaced by a volatile mixture of cold fury, bitter betrayal and sheer blind frustration. Nausea grabbed at his stomach, making it twist violently.

‘Damon?’

Sarah had noticed the change—how could she not? Her hands had stilled at his waist, the belt buckle lying open, and she lifted cloudily questioning eyes to his face.

‘What?’

He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He could only lift his hand, the chain and medallion dangling from his fingers.