Contents

Also by Beth Kery

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Special Excerpt

About the Author

Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery

WICKED BURN

DARING TIME

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery

SWEET RESTRAINT

PARADISE RULES

RELEASE

EXPLOSIVE

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane

ADDICTED TO YOU

EXPOSED TO YOU

eSpecials by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane

BOUND TO YOU

CAPTURED BY YOU

Because You Are Mine

Part I

Because You Tempt Me

Beth Kery

InterMix Books, New York

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / July 2012

Because You Are Mine Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

Excerpt from Wicked Edge Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-60849-4

INTERMIX

InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

My deepest gratitude to Leis Pederson, Laura Bradford, Mahlet, and my husband. I couldn’t have made this project happen without you. Also, thank you to all the readers who have supported my books over the years. I most definitely couldn’t have made this career happen without you.

Chapter 1

Francesca glanced around when Ian Noble entered the room, mostly because everyone else in the luxurious restaurant bar did the same thing. Her heart jumped. Through the crowd she saw a tall man dressed in an impeccably tailored suit remove his overcoat, revealing a long, lean body. She immediately recognized Ian Noble. Her gaze lingered on the elegant black overcoat draped over his arm. The random thought hit her brain that while the black coat was right, the suit was all wrong. He belonged in jeans, didn’t he? Her observation made no sense whatsoever. He looked fantastic in the suit, for one, and for another, according to a recent article she’d read in GQ, he was reputed to almost single-handedly keep London’s Savile Row thriving. What else would a businessman who was the scion of a minor branch of the British monarchy wear? One of the men who had entered with him reached to take his coat, but he shook his head once.

Apparently, the enigmatic Mr. Noble wasn’t planning on doing more than making a cursory appearance at the cocktail party he was hosting in Francesca’s honor.

“There’s Mr. Noble now. He’ll be so pleased to meet you. He loves your work,” Lin Soong said. Francesca heard the subtle note of pride in the woman’s voice, as if Ian Noble was her lover instead of her employer.

“He looks like he has far more important things to do than meet me,” Francesca said, smiling. She took a sip of club soda and watched as Noble spoke tersely on a cell phone while two men stood nearby, his overcoat remaining slung in the crook of his arm in readiness for a quick getaway. The subtle slant of his mouth told her he was irritated. For some reason, this all-too-human display of emotion relaxed her a little. She hadn’t revealed it to her roommates—she was known for possessing a ‘whatever, bring it on attitude’—but she’d been strangely anxious about meeting Ian Noble.

The crowd returned to their conversation, but the energy level of the room had somehow amplified with Noble’s arrival. Odd that such a distinctive, sophisticated man would become an icon for a tech-savvy, T-shirt-wearing generation. He looked to be thirtyish. She’d read Noble had earned his first billion with his breakthrough social-media company years ago, before he’d put it up for a public offering, made thirteen billion more, then promptly started another hugely successful Internet retail business.

Everything he touched turned to gold, apparently. Why? Because he was Ian Noble. He could do anything he damn well pleased. Francesca’s mouth curved in amusement at the thought. It somehow helped to think he was arrogant and unlikeable. Yes, he was her benefactor, but like artists throughout history, Francesca had a healthy dose of distrust for the patron shelling out the money. Sadly, all starving artists needed their Ian Nobles.

“I’ll just go and tell him you’re here. As I’ve mentioned, he was quite taken with your painting. He chose it hands down over the two other finalists,” Lin said, referring to the competition Francesca had won. The winner would be granted the prestigious commission to create the centerpiece painting for the grand lobby of Noble’s new Chicago skyscraper, which they were in. The cocktail reception in Francesca’s honor was being held in a restaurant called Fusion, a trendy, pricey restaurant located inside Noble’s high-rise. Most importantly to Francesca, she would be awarded a hundred thousand dollars, something she could sorely use as a struggling master of fine arts graduate student.

Lin magically materialized a young African-American woman named Zoe Charon to converse with Francesca in her absence.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Zoe said, flashing an orthodontist’s dream smile as she shook Francesca’s hand. “And congratulations on your commission. Just think: I’ll be looking at your painting every time I walk into work.”

Francesca suffered an increasingly familiar pang of discomfort over her clothing in comparison to Zoe’s suit. Lin, Zoe, and just about every person at the reception in her honor were appareled in the height of sophisticated, sleek fashion. How was she to know that boho chic wouldn’t work at a Noble cocktail party? (How was she to know that her brand of boho chic wasn’t really chic at all?)

She learned Zoe was an assistant manager for Noble Enterprises, in a department called Imagetronics. What the hell was that? Francesca wondered distractedly as she nodded in polite interest, her gaze flickering again toward the front of the restaurant.

Noble’s mouth softened slightly when Lin reached him and spoke. A few seconds later, a detached, bored expression settled on his features. He shook his head once and glanced at his watch. Clearly Noble didn’t want to go through the ritual of meeting one of the many recipients of his philanthropic efforts any more than Francesca wanted to meet him. This cocktail party in her honor had been one of the onerous activities that accompanied the winning of the commission.

She turned to Zoe and grinned broadly, determined to enjoy herself now that she’d confirmed her anxiety about meeting Noble had been a waste of time.

“So what’s the deal with Ian Noble?”

Zoe started at her bald question and glanced toward the front of the bar where Noble stood.

“The deal? He’s a god, in a word.”

Francesca smirked. “Not much for understatement, are you?”

Zoe broke into laughter. Francesca joined her. For a moment they were just two young women giggling over the most handsome man at the party. Which Ian Noble was, Francesca conceded. Forget the party. He was the most arresting man she’d ever seen in her life.

Her laughter ceased when she noticed Zoe’s expression. She turned. Noble’s gaze was directly on her. A hot, heavy sensation expanded in her belly. She didn’t have time to draw breath before he was stalking across the room toward her, leaving a surprised-looking Lin in his wake.

Francesca experienced a ridiculous urge to run.

“Oh . . . he’s headed this way . . . Lin must have told him who you were,” Zoe said, sounding as bewildered and caught off guard as Francesca felt. Zoe was more practiced in the art of social elegance than Francesca, however. By the time Noble reached them, all traces of the giggling girl were gone and in its place stood a contained, beautiful woman.

“Mr. Noble, good evening.”

His eyes were a piercing cobalt blue. They flicked off Francesca for a split second. She managed to suck some air into her lungs during the reprieve.

“Zoe, isn’t it?” he asked.

Zoe couldn’t hide her pleasure at the fact that Noble had known her name. “Yes, sir. I work in Imagetronics. May I introduce Francesca Arno, the artist you chose as the winner in the Far Sight Competition.”

He took her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Arno.”

Francesca just nodded. She couldn’t speak. Her brain was temporarily overloaded by the image of him, the warmth of his encompassing hand, the sound of his low, British-accented voice. His skin was pale next to his dark, stylishly coiffed, short hair and gray suit. Dark Angel. The words flew into her brain, unbidden.

“I can’t tell you how impressed I am with your work,” he said. No smile. No softness in his tone, even if there was a sharp curiosity in his stare.

She swallowed uneasily. “Thank you.” He released her hand slowly, causing his skin to slide against hers. A horrible moment of silence passed as he just looked at her. She gathered herself and straightened her spine.

“I’m glad to have this opportunity to thank you in person for awarding me the commission. It means more to me than I can convey.” She said the rehearsed words in a pressured fashion.

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and waved his hand negligently. “You earned it.” He held her stare. “Or at least you will.”

She felt her pulse leap at her throat and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I earned it, yes. But you gave me the opportunity. It’s that I’m trying to express my thanks for. I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the second year of my master’s program if you hadn’t given me this chance.”

He blinked. From the corner of her vision, Francesca noticed Zoe stiffen. Francesca glanced away in embarrassment. Had she sounded sharp?

“My grandmother often says I’m ungracious in the face of gratitude,” he said, his voice quieter . . . warmer. “You’re right to scold me. And you’re also very welcome for the opportunity, Ms. Arno,” he said, giving a nod of acknowledgement. “Zoe, would you mind taking a message to Lin for me? I’ve decided to cancel dinner with Xander LaGrange after all. Please have her reschedule.”

“Of course, Mr. Noble,” Zoe said before she walked away.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked, nodding at an unoccupied circular leather booth.

“Sure.”

He waited behind her while she scooted into the booth. She wished he wouldn’t. She felt awkward and ungainly. After she’d settled, he slid beside her in one graceful, swooping motion. Francesca smoothed the gauzy skirt of the vintage beaded baby-doll dress she’d bought at a secondhand store in Wicker Park. The early September evening had been cooler than she’d expected when planning for the cocktail party. The casual denim jacket she wore had been her only choice, given the thin straps of her dress. It struck her how ridiculous she must appear, seated next to this immaculately dressed, thoroughly masculine male.

She fussed anxiously with her collar, and then sensed his stare on her. She met his eyes. Her chin went up defiantly. A small smile flickered across his mouth, and something clenched in her lower belly.

“So you’re in the second year of your master’s program?”

“Yes. I’m at the Art Institute.”

“A very good school,” he murmured. He rested his hands on the table and leaned back in the booth, looking thoroughly comfortable. His body was long, relaxed, and taut, reminding Francesca of a predatory animal whose seeming calmness could leap into full-out action in a split second. Even though his hips were slim, his shoulders were broad, suggesting some serious muscles beneath that starched white shirt. “If I’m remembering your application correctly, you studied both art and architecture at Northwestern University?”

“Yes,” Francesca said breathlessly, pulling her gaze off his hands. They were elegant hands, but also large, blunt-tipped, and very capable-looking. The vision of them disturbed her for some reason. She couldn’t help but imagine what they would look like against her skin . . . wrapped around her waist . . .

“Why?”

She started from her totally inappropriate thoughts and met his steady stare. “Why did I study both architecture and art?”

He nodded once.

“Architecture for my parents and art for me,” she replied, surprising herself by the honesty of her answer. She usually made a show of being coolly disdainful when anyone asked the same question. Why should she have to choose between her talents? “My parents are both architects, and it was their lifetime dream that I become one as well.”

“So you granted them half a dream. You earned the qualifications of an architect but don’t plan to make it your career.”

“I’ll always be an architect.”

“And I’m glad of it,” he said, looking up when a handsome man with dreadlocks and pale gray eyes that contrasted with his dark skin approached the table. Noble shook his hand. “Lucien, how is business?”

“Booming,” Lucien replied, his gaze shifting to Francesca with interest.

“Ms. Arno, this is Lucien. He’s the manager of Fusion. I handpicked him from the best restaurant in Paris. Lucien Lenault, meet Francesca Arno.”

“A pleasure,” Lucien said in a delicious, French-accented voice. “What may I get you?”

Noble looked at her expectantly. His lips were unusually full for such a rugged-featured, masculine man, striking her as sensual yet firm.

Stern.

From where had that strange thought leapt?

“I’m fine,” Francesca replied, although her heart started to beat erratically.

“What is that?” he asked, nodding at her half-empty drink.

“Just my usual drink, club soda with lime.”

“You should be celebrating, Ms. Arno.” Was it his accent that made her ears and neck prickle when he said her name? There was something unique about it, she realized. It was British, but some other influence seemed to slide into his syllables occasionally, something she couldn’t quite identify. “Bring us a bottle of the Roederer Brut,” Noble told Lucien, who smiled, gave a slight bow and walked away.

Her confusion mounted. Why was he bothering to spend so much time with her? Surely he didn’t drink champagne with all of the recipients of his philanthropy. “As I was saying before Lucien arrived, I’m glad about your architecture background. Your skill and knowledge in that field is undoubtedly what gives your artwork so much precision, depth, and style. The painting you submitted for the contest was spectacular. You exactly caught the spirit of what I wanted for my lobby.”

Her gaze skimmed across his immaculate suit. Somehow, his apparent love of a perfectly straight line didn’t surprise her. True, her artwork was often inspired by her love of form and structure, but precision wasn’t what her work was about. Far from it. “I’m glad you were pleased,” she said with what she hoped was a neutral tone.

A smile ghosted his lips. “There’s something behind your statement. Aren’t you happy that you’ve pleased me?”

Her mouth dropped open at that. She stifled the words that flew to her throat. I do my art to please no one but myself. She stopped herself just in time. What was wrong with her? This man was responsible for changing her life.

“I told you earlier, I couldn’t be happier about winning the contest. I’m thrilled.”

“Ah,” he murmured as Lucien arrived with the champagne and ice bucket. Noble didn’t glance in Lucien’s direction as the other man busied himself opening the bottle, but continued to study her as though she was a particularly interesting science project. “But being glad of your commission isn’t the same as being glad you pleased me.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” she sputtered, looking at Lucien when he uncorked the champagne with a muffled popping sound. Her bewildered gaze returned to Noble. His eyes glinted in an otherwise impassive face. What in the world was he talking about? And why, despite the fact that she didn’t have the answer to that, had his question made her so flustered? “I am glad that you liked the painting. Very much so.”

Noble didn’t reply, just watched detachedly as Lucien poured the sparkling fluid into flutes. He nodded and murmured his thanks before Lucien walked away. Francesca picked up her glass when he reached for his.

“Congratulations.”

She managed a smile as their flutes touched ever so fleetingly. She’d never tasted anything like it; the champagne was dry and icy and felt delicious sliding across her tongue and down her throat. She gave Noble a sideways glance. How could he seem so oblivious to the thick tension in the air when she felt as if she’d suffocate from it?

“I guess since you’re royalty, a cocktail waitress won’t do for serving you,” she said, wishing her voice hadn’t quavered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I just meant—” She cursed silently to herself. “I’m a cocktail waitress—I do it to help pay the bills while I’m in grad school,” she added, slightly panicked at how cool, and a little intimidating, he suddenly appeared. She lifted her flute and took a too-large gulp of the icy fluid. Wait until she told Davie how she botched this whole thing. Her good friend would be exasperated with her, even if her other roommates—Caden and Justin—would roll with laughter at her latest incident of apparent social idiocy.

If only Ian Noble wasn’t so handsome. Disturbingly so.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just—I’d read that your grandparents belonged to a minor branch of the British royal family—an earl and a countess, no less.”

“And you were wondering if I despise being waited on by a mere serving girl, is that it?” he asked. Amusement didn’t soften his features, just made them more compelling. She sighed and relaxed a little. She hadn’t completely offended him.

“I did most of my schooling in the states,” he said. “I consider myself to be an American, first and foremost. And I assure you, the only reason Lucien came to wait on us himself is that he chose to. We’re fencing partners in addition to being friends. The custom of the English aristocracy preferring the status of a manservant over a maid exists only in Regency English novels in the present day, Ms. Arno. Even if they did still exist, I doubt they’d apply to a bastard. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Her cheeks felt like they were boiling. When would she learn to keep her big mouth shut? Was he telling her he was illegitimate? She’d never read anything regarding that before.

“Where do you waitress?” he asked, seeming color blind to her scarlet cheeks.

“At High Jinks in Bucktown.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she muttered under her breath before she took another sip of champagne. She blinked in surprise at the sound of his low, rough laughter. Her eyes widened when she looked at his face. He looked so pleased. Her heart dipped. Ian Noble was spectacular to behold at any given moment, but when he smiled, he was nothing short of a menace to a female’s composure.

“Would you mind coming with me . . . walking a few blocks? There’s something crucial I’d like to show you,” he said.

Her hand paused in the action of lifting the flute to her lips. What was going on here?

“It directly relates to your commission,” he said, suddenly crisp. Authoritative. “I want to show you the view I want for the painting.”

Anger sliced through her shock. Her chin went up. “I’m expected to paint whatever you want me to?”

“Yes,” he said without pause.

She set down the flute with a loud clicking sound, jarring the contents. He’d sounded completely unyielding. He was every bit as arrogant as she’d imagined. Just as she’d expected, winning this prize was going to end up being a nightmare. His nostrils flared as he stared at her unblinkingly, and she glared back.

“I suggest you see the view in question before you take undue offense, Ms. Arno.”

“Francesca.”

Something flashed in his blue eyes like heat lightning. For a split second, she regretted the edge to her tone. But then he nodded once.

“Francesca it is,” he said softly. “If you make it Ian.”

She willed herself to ignore the flutter in her belly. Don’t be beguiled, she warned herself. He was the exact type of domineering patron that would try to dictate, and crush her creative instincts in the process. It was worse than she’d feared.

Without another word, she slid out of the booth and walked toward the entrance of the restaurant, sensing, with every cell of her being, him moving behind her.

***

He hardly spoke at all when they left Fusion. He led her to a sidewalk that ran along the Chicago River and Lower Wacker Drive.

“Where are we going?” she broke the silence after a minute or two.

“To my residence.”

Her high-heeled sandals faltered clumsily on the sidewalk, coming to a halt. “We’re going to your place?”

He paused and looked back, his black coat fluttering around his long, strong-looking thighs from the brisk Lake Michigan wind. “Yes, we’re going to my place,” he said with a subtle, mock-sinister tone.

She frowned. He was clearly silently laughing at her. I’m so glad I can be here to entertain you, Mr. Noble. He inhaled and stared in the direction of Lake Michigan, obviously exasperated with her and trying to gather his thoughts.

“I can see that makes you uncomfortable, but you have my word: This is completely professional. It’s about the painting. The view I want you to paint is from the condominium where I live. Surely you can’t believe I’m going to harm you in any way. A room full of people just saw us walk out of that restaurant together.”

He didn’t need to remind her. It felt as if every eye in Fusion had been trained on them as they left.

She gave him a wary sideways glance as they began to walk again. His dark hair ruffling in the wind seemed familiar to her somehow. She blinked and the sense of déjà vu vanished.

“Are you telling me that I’m supposed to work from your apartment?”

“It’s very large,” he said dryly. “You won’t have to see me at all, if you prefer.”

Francesca stared at her painted toenails, hiding her expression from him. She didn’t want him to suspect that unwelcome images had popped into her mind’s eye at his statement; visions of Ian walking from the shower, his naked body still gleaming with moisture, a thin towel draped on his lean hips the only thing separating herself from a vision of total male glory.

“It’s a little unorthodox,” she said.

“I’m a lot unorthodox,” he said briskly. “You’ll understand when you see the view.”

He lived at 340 East Archer, a classic 1920s Italian Renaissance building that she’d admired since studying it in one of her classes. It suited him, somehow, the elegant, brooding, dark brick tower. She wasn’t entirely surprised when he told her his residence encompassed the entire top two floors.

The door of his private elevator slid open without a sound, and he extended his hand in an invitation to walk before him.

She entered a magical place.

The luxury of the fabrics and furniture were obvious, but despite the richness, the entryway managed to convey a welcome—an austere welcome, perhaps, but a welcome nonetheless. She caught a quick glimpse of herself in an antique mirror. Her long reddish blonde hair was hopelessly windblown, and her cheeks were stained pink. She’d like to think the color was from the wind but worried the effect came from being with Ian Noble.

Then she noticed the artwork, and she forgot everything else. She wandered down a wide hallway that was also a gallery, her mouth hanging open as she stared at painting after painting, some of them new to her, some of them masterworks that sent a jolt of exhilaration through her to see firsthand.

She paused next to a miniature sculpture set on a column, a very fine replica of a renowned piece of ancient Greek art. “I’ve always loved Aphrodite of Argos,” she murmured, her gaze detailing the exquisite facial features and the graceful twist of the naked torso miraculously carved into hard alabaster.

“Have you?” he asked, sounding intent.

She nodded, overwhelmed by wonder, and continued walking.

“I just acquired that one several months ago. It wasn’t easy to get,” he said, starting her out of her ecstatic amazement.

“I adore Sorenburg,” she said, referring to the artist who had created the painting before which they stood. She turned to look at him, suddenly realizing that several minutes had passed and that she’d wandered like a sleepwalker deeper into the hushed depths of his condominium without invitation, and that he’d allowed her intrusion without comment. She now stood in a parlor of sorts decorated with decadently rich fabrics of yellow, pale blue, and dark brown.

“I know. You mentioned it in your personal statement in the application for the contest.”

“I can’t believe you like expressionism.”

“Why can’t you believe it?” he asked, his low voice making her ears prickle and goose bumps rise along her neck. She glanced up at him. The painting she referred to was hung above a deep cushioned velvet couch. He stood closer than she’d realized, so lost had she become in wonderment and pleasure.

“Because . . . you picked my painting,” she said weakly. Her gaze skimmed over his body. She swallowed thickly. He’d unbuttoned his overcoat. A clean, spicy smell of soap filtered into her nose. A heavy, hot pressure settled in her sex. “You seem to like . . . order so much,” she tried to explain, her voice just above a whisper.

“You’re right,” he said. A shadow seemed to come over his bold features. “I do abhor sloppiness and disorder. But Sorenburg isn’t about that.” He glanced at the painting. “It’s about making meaning from chaos. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Her mouth hung open as she stared at his profile. She’d never heard Sorenburg’s work described so succinctly.

“Yes, I would,” she said slowly.

He gave her a small smile. His full lips had to be his most compelling feature, aside from his eyes. And his firm chin. And his incredible body—

“Do my ears deceive me,” he murmured, “Or is that a note of respect I hear in your tone, Francesca?”

She turned to stare sightlessly at the Sorenburg. Her breath burned in her lungs. “You deserve respect in this. You have impeccable taste in art.”

“Thank you. I happen to agree.”

She risked a sideways glance. He was staring at her with those dark-angel eyes.

“Let me take your jacket,” he said, extending his hands.

“No.” Her cheeks heated when she heard how abrupt she’d sounded. Self-consciousness slammed into her haze of enthrallment. His hands remained extended.

“I will take it.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him but paused when she noticed his hooded gaze and slightly raised eyebrows.

“The woman wears the clothes, Francesca. Not the other way around. That’s the first lesson I’ll teach you.”

She gave him a fake glance of exasperation and shrugged out of her jean jacket. The air felt cool next to her bare shoulders. Ian’s gaze felt warm. She straightened her spine.

“You say that like you plan on teaching me more lessons,” she muttered, handing him the jacket.

“Perhaps I do. Follow me.”

He hung up her coat, then led her down the gallerylike hallway before turning down a narrower one that was dimly lit with brass sconces. He opened one of many tall doorways, and Francesca stepped into the room. She expected to see yet another room filled with wonders, but instead entered a large, narrow space that ran the length of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by the skyscrapers and the reflective lights of them in the black river. She walked to the windows without speaking. He came to stand next to her.

“They’re alive, the buildings . . . some more than others,” she said in a hushed voice after a moment. She gave him a rueful glance and was awarded with a smile. Embarrassment flooded her. “I mean, they seem like it. I’ve always thought so. Each one of them has a soul. At night, especially . . . I can feel it.”

“I know you can. That’s why I chose your painting.”

“Not because of perfectly straight lines and precise reproductions?” she asked shakily.

“No. Not because of that.”

His expression went flat when she smiled. Unexpected pleasure filled her. He did understand her art after all. And . . . she’d given him what he wanted.

She stared at the magnificent view. “I understand what you meant,” she said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “I haven’t taken any architecture classes now for a year and a half, and I’ve been so busy with my art classes I haven’t kept up with journals, or I would have known. Still . . . shame on me for not seeing it until now,” she said, referring to the two most prominent buildings that lined the black-and-gold-speckled shimmering river. She shook her head in wonderment. “You made Noble Enterprises a modern, streamlined version of a Chicago architecture classic. It’s like a contemporary version of the Sandusky. Brilliant,” she said, referring to the echo that the Noble Enterprises building made of the Sandusky Building, a Gothic masterpiece. Noble Enterprises was just like Ian—a bold, strong-lined, elegant, and modern version of some Gothic ancestor. She smiled at the thought.

“Most people don’t see the effect until I show them this view,” he said.

“It’s genius, Ian,” she said feelingly. She gave him a questioning glance, noticing the glints in his eyes caused by the lights from the skyscrapers. “Why didn’t you brag about it to the press?”

“Because I didn’t do it for the press. I did it for my own pleasure, just like I do most things.”

She felt trapped by his gaze and couldn’t respond. Wasn’t that a particularly selfish thing to say? Why, then, did his words cause that heavy sensation to grow at the juncture of her thighs?

“But I am pleased that you’re pleased,” he said. “I have something else to show you.”

“Really?” she asked breathlessly.

He merely nodded once. She followed him, glad he couldn’t see the color in her cheeks. He led her to a room almost completely surrounded by filled, dark walnut bookcases. He paused inside the door, watching her reaction as she glanced around curiously, her gaze finally landing and latching onto the painting above the fireplace. She froze. She walked to it as if in a trance and studied one of her own pieces.

“You bought this from Feinstein?” she whispered, referring to one of her roommates—Davie Feinstein, who owned a gallery in Wicker Park. The piece she was staring at was the first painting of hers he’d sold. She’d insisted upon giving it to Davie as a deposit on her share of the rent a year and a half ago, when she’d been broke before they’d moved into the city.

“Yes,” Ian said, his voice telling her he stood just behind her right shoulder.

“Davie never mentioned—”

“I asked Lin to procure it for me. The gallery probably never knew who actually bought it.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat as her gaze ran over the depiction of the solitary man walking down the middle of a Lincoln Park street in the dark early morning hours, his back to her. The surrounding high-rises seemed to gaze down at him with a detached aloofness, as immune to human pain as he appeared to be to his own suffering. His opened overcoat streamed out behind him. His shoulders hunched against the wind, and his hands were jammed deep in his jean pockets. Every line of his body exuded power, grace, and the resigned sort of loneliness that hardens into strength and resolve.

She loved this piece. It’d killed her to give it up, but rent must be paid.

“The Cat That Walks By Himself,” Ian said from behind her, his voice sounding gruff.

She smiled and laughed softly at hearing him say the title she’d given the painting. “‘I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.’ I painted this in my sophomore year of undergrad. I was taking an English literature class at the time, and we were studying Kipling. The phrase seemed to fit somehow . . .”

Her voice trailed off as she stared at the solitary figure in the painting, her entire awareness sharply focused on the man who stood behind her. She glanced back at Ian and smiled. It embarrassed her to realize tears burned in her eyes. His nostrils flared slightly, and she turned abruptly, wiping her cheeks. It had touched something deep inside her, seeing her painting in the depths of his home.

“I think I’d better get going,” she said.

Her heart started to do a drumroll in her ears in the heavy silence that followed.

“Perhaps it’s best,” he said eventually. She turned and gave a sigh of relief—or was it regret—when she saw his tall form exiting the room. She followed him, murmuring a thanks when he held up her jean jacket once they reached the entryway. He resisted when she tried to take it from him. She swallowed and turned her back to him, letting him put it on her. His knuckles brushed against the skin of her shoulders. She repressed a shudder when he slid his hand beneath her long hair, skimming her nape in the process. He gently drew her hair out of the jacket and smoothed it over her back. She couldn’t repress a shiver and suspected he felt it beneath his hand.

“Such a rare color,” he murmured, still stroking her hair, sending the alert status of her nerves up another notch.

“I can have my driver Jacob take you home,” he said after a moment.

“No,” she said, feeling foolish for not turning around to speak. She couldn’t move. She was paralyzed. Every cell in her body prickled with awareness. “My friend is going to pick me up in a little while.”

“Will you come here to paint?” he asked, his deep voice echoing just inches from her right ear. She stared in front of her, unseeing.

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to start on Monday. I’ll have Lin provide you with an entry card and password to the elevator. Your supplies will be ready for you when you come.”

“I can’t come every day. I have class—mostly in the morning—and I waitress from seven to close several days a week.”

“Come whenever you can. The point is, you’ll come.”

“Yes, all right,” she managed through a constricted throat. He hadn’t removed his hand from her back. Could he feel her heart throbbing?

She had to get out of there. Now. She was way out of her depth.

She lurched toward the elevator, pushing a button on the control panel hastily. If she’d thought he’d try to touch her again, she’d thought wrong. The sleek elevator door slid open.

“Francesca?” he said as she hurried inside.

“Yes?” she asked, turning.

He stood with his hands behind his back, the posture causing his suit jacket to open, revealing a shirt-draped lean abdomen, narrow hips, a silver belt buckle, and . . . everything beneath it.

“Now that you have some financial security, I would prefer you didn’t wander the streets of Chicago in the early morning hours in order to find your inspiration. You never know what you might encounter. It’s dangerous.”

Her mouth dropped open in stunned amazement. He stepped forward and pushed a button on the panel, causing the doors to slide closed. The last glimpse she had of him was his gleaming blue-eyed stare in an otherwise impassive face. Her heartbeat escalated to a roar in her ears.

She’d painted him four years ago. That’s what he was telling her—that he knew she’d observed him walking the dark, lonely streets in the dead of the night while the rest of the world slumbered, warm and content in their beds. Francesca hadn’t realized the identity of her inspiration at the time, nor had he probably known he was being observed until he saw the painting, but there could be no doubt of it.

Ian Noble was the cat who walked by himself.

And he’d wanted her to know it.

Chapter 2

He managed to fully put her out of his mind for a full ten days. He traveled to New York for a two-night stay and finalized the acquisition of a computer program that would enable him to begin a new network that combined social aspects and a unique gaming application. He made his regular monthly visit to his condominium in London. While he’d been in Chicago, meetings and work had kept him at the office until far past midnight. By the time he’d reached the penthouse, the interior was dim and silent.

It wasn’t entirely accurate to say that he’d kept Francesca Arno fully out of his mind, though. Or honest, Ian conceded sternly to himself as he rode the elevator to his penthouse Wednesday afternoon. His awareness of her would come to him in quick, powerful flashes, penetrating his focus on the details of the everyday world. Mrs. Hanson, his housekeeper, innocently gave him updates during her typical banter about how her weekly projects were going in the house. He’d been pleased to learn that the elderly Englishwoman had befriended Francesca, inviting her to the kitchen occasionally to join her for tea. He’d been glad to hear Francesca was becoming comfortable in his home, and then asked himself why it mattered one way or another. The painting was the only thing he wanted, and surely the working conditions were adequate for that.

Once, he’d told himself that he was being rude by ignoring her. Surely his avoidance was putting too much emphasis on her, making more of the situation than was warranted. Last Thursday evening, he’d gone to her studio with the intent of asking her if she’d like to take some refreshment with him in the kitchen. The door was ajar, and he’d entered without knocking. For several seconds, he’d stood and watched her work, unnoticed.

She’d been standing on a short ladder, working on the upper-right-hand corner of the canvas, completely absorbed. Although he had been quite sure he hadn’t made a noise, she’d suddenly turned and froze, regarding him with startled brown eyes, her pencil still on the canvas. A heavy swath of gleaming hair had fallen out of the clip at the back of her head. There had been a charcoal smear on her smooth cheek, and her dark pink lips had been parted in surprise at the sight of him.

He’d asked her politely about her progress and tried not to notice the throb of her pulse at her throat or the roundness of her breasts. She’d taken off her sweat jacket as she worked and wore a tight tank top. Her breasts were fuller than he’d realized before, the size of her breasts an erotic contrast between her narrow waist and hips, and long coltish legs.

After thirty seconds of stilted conversation, he’d fled like the coward he was.

He told himself that his hyperawareness of her was completely natural. She was an incredible beauty, after all. The fact that she seemed completely oblivious to her sexuality fascinated him. Had she grown up in some kind of hole? Surely she was used to having males perk up whenever she walked into a room, salivating at the vision of her silky rose-gold hair, velvety brown eyes, and tall, willowy figure. How could she not have learned by age twenty-three that her flawless pale skin, lush, dark pink lips, and slender, lithe body had the power to fell a strong man?

He didn’t know the answer to that question, but after close study, he could say with confidence her lack of awareness wasn’t an act. She walked with the long-legged, lanky stride of a teenage boy and said the most incredibly gauche things.

It was only when she’d been bewitched as she gazed at his artwork, or when she’d stared out the window at the skyline, or when he’d secretly spied on her while she sketched that night, utterly lost in her art, that her beauty was fully revealed.

And a more compelling, addictive sight he couldn’t recall viewing.

He paused presently in the foyer of the penthouse. She was there. No sound emanated from the depths of his residence, but somehow he knew Francesca worked in her ad hoc studio. Was she still sketching on the massive canvas? He suddenly pictured her perfectly, her beautiful face tense with concentration, her dark eyes flickering back and forth between her quickly moving pencil and the view. She became somber and formidable as a judge when she worked, all of her self-consciousness burned to mist by her brilliant talent and an uncommon grace that she didn’t appear to know she possessed.

She also was ignorant of her potent sexual appeal. He, on the other hand, was acutely aware of its promise and power. Unfortunately, he was equally conscious of her naïveté. He could practically smell it surrounding her; her innocence intermingled with an untested sexuality, creating a heady perfume that had set him off balance.

Sweat gathered on his upper lip. His cock swelled to full readiness in a matter of seconds.

Frowning, he glanced at his watch and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He tapped a few buttons and walked down the hallway, veering off toward his bedroom. Thankfully, his private quarters were on the opposite end of the condominium from where Francesca worked. He needed to get her out of his mind. Purge her.

A voice answered his call.

“Lucien. Something important has come up, and I’m running behind. Can we meet at five thirty versus five?”

“Certainly. I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes. Hope you’re feeling thick-skinned, because I’m in a real mood.”

Ian smiled wryly as he closed his bedroom door behind him and locked it. “I have a feeling my sword is hungry for blood today as well, my friend, so we’ll see who requires the thick skin and who doesn’t.”

Lucien was still laughing when Ian hung up. He stowed his briefcase and withdrew a fencing uniform from his dressing room, laying out a plastron, breeches, and a jacket. He stripped quickly and efficiently. From his briefcase, he withdrew a key. Two large dressing rooms adjoined his private quarters. Mrs. Hanson—anyone save Ian—was prohibited from entering them.

It was Ian’s private territory.

He unlocked the mahogany door and walked naked into the high-ceilinged room. It was lined with drawers and cabinets on either side and was always kept meticulously neat. He opened a drawer on his right and withdrew the items he wanted before padding back out to his bed.

It was his fault for not realizing this useless desire was mounting to dangerous levels. Perhaps he would arrange to bring a woman here this weekend, but in the meantime, he needed to diminish the sharp edge of his sexual hunger.

He squirted some lubricant onto his hand. His erection hadn’t abated. Shivers of pleasure rippled through him when he rubbed the cool lubricant over his cock. He considered lying on the bed, but no . . . standing was better. He picked up the transparent silicone sleeve and grasped his heavy cock. He’d had the masturbator custom made for his dimensions, specifying he wanted the silicone to be clear. He enjoyed watching himself ejaculate. The manufacturer had followed his directions to perfection, the only exception being the addition of adding a dark pink circle around the top ring of the implement. Ian had thought the addition harmless enough at the time, so he hadn’t complained. The masturbator wasn’t a substitute. He could have any number of skilled, willing women give him head at a moment’s notice. Over the years, he’d learned the crucial lesson of discretion. He’d pared down his once considerable list to include two women who knew precisely what he wanted sexually and understood the parameters of what he would give in return.

The masturbator’s use was purely practical. He owed the sex toy nothing after it’d served its purpose.

But today, a shudder of excitement went through him at the sight of the thick head of his cock penetrating the tight pink ring. He flexed his arm, pushing the snug silicone sheath along the swollen staff of his cock within an inch of the root. He moved his hand like a piston, appreciating how quickly the heat from his flesh mounted within the thick, cushy silicone.

Oh, yes. This is what he needed—a good balls-emptying orgasm. His abdomen, ass, and thigh muscles tightened as his fist pumped. The suction chambers squeezed and sucked at him as he moved, mimicking oral sex. He withdrew the sleeve all the way to the head of his cock and plunged into the warm, slippery depths again and again.

Usually, he closed his eyes and engaged in a sexual fantasy while he masturbated. Today, for some reason, his gaze remained fixed on the sight of his cock penetrating the pink ring. He thought of pink puffy lips in the place of the silicone ring. He saw huge dark eyes looking up at him.

Francesca’s lips. Francesca’s eyes.

You have no time or business seducing an innocent. Didn’t you once get burned doing that?

He was a reluctant dom, perhaps, but a full-blown sexual dominant nonetheless. He’d long ago grown to accept his nature, knowing it matched his solitary fate in life. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone. He was just wise enough to realize it was inevitable. He was consumed by his work. A control freak. Everyone said it of him—the media, members of the business community . . . his ex-wife. He’d resigned himself to the fact that they were all correct. Fortunately, he’d grown used to his solitude.

No right at all subjecting a woman like Francesca to his demanding nature.

The warning voice in his head was drowned out by the sound of his pounding heart and low grunts of arousal as he pumped his cock.

He would use her for his pleasure, ravish her sweet mouth. Would she be a little alarmed by his forceful possession? Aroused?

Both?

He groaned at the thought and jerked his arm, stroking more rapidly, every muscle in his body growing hard and rigid.

His cock looked enormous when he shoved the shaft fully into the thick silicone sleeve. He didn’t want to come by his own hand. He wanted something he shouldn’t, however, so his hand would have to suffice.

Even if what he really wanted was to restrain a long-limbed, golden-haired beauty, order her to kneel before him, and pound his cock into her wet, tight mouth . . . even if what he really wanted was to witness the flash of excitement in her eyes when he erupted in climax and gave himself to her.

Orgasm slammed into him, sharp and delicious. He gasped as he watched himself ejaculate into the transparent sleeve, his semen shooting against the sides of the inner suction chamber. After a moment, he clenched his eyes shut and moaned harshly, continuing to come.

Christ, he’d been a fool not to do this earlier in the week. He couldn’t stop climaxing. He’d clearly needed a release. It wasn’t typical for him to ignore his sexual needs, and he couldn’t imagine why he’d remained abstinent this week. It’d been foolish.

It might have led to a loss of control, a prospect he couldn’t abide. People who didn’t attend to their needs ended up making mistakes, growing sloppy and haphazard.

His muscles went slack as the final weakened shudders of orgasm rippled through him. He slid the sheath off his sensitive penis. He wrapped a hand around the naked, slippery staff and stood there, breathing rapidly.

She was a woman like any other.

But perhaps she wasn’t? She’d caught him unawares with her painting. It made him uncomfortable, that knowledge, like a burr under his skin. It made him want to capture her, in return . . . make her pay for looking into his mind somehow, seeing things she shouldn’t see with her unique talent of soulful precision.

He would master this slicing, powerful desire. He turned and stalked to his bathroom to clean up and prepare for his fencing exercise.

Later, as he dressed, he noticed that his cock was still overly sensitive and that his erection hadn’t completely dissipated. Damn.

He’d inform both Francesca and Mrs. Hanson that he wanted privacy this weekend. He’d make a phone call. Clearly, he required an experienced female who knew precisely how to please him in order to vanquish this strange need.

* * *

Lucien hadn’t lied. He was in a feisty mood. Ian retreated under his friend’s aggressive advance, parrying his rapid thrusts, calmly waiting for the extension that would make him vulnerable. He’d fenced regularly with the other man for two years now, and he’d come to understand his style and how his emotions affected his combat. Lucien was a skilled, smart fighter, but he had yet to learn how Ian’s moods could influence his actions with the blade.

Perhaps that was because Ian made a point of mastering his emotions and reacting out of pure logic.

This evening, Lucien was surging with volatile energy, stronger than usual, but incautious as well. Ian waited until he saw triumph in every line of Lucien’s attacking form. He recognized his opponent’s second intention, accurately parrying against the second stroke intended to finish Ian once and for all. Lucien grunted in frustration when Ian riposted and landed a hit.

“You’re a mind reader, damn you,” Lucien muttered, whipping off his mask, his long dreadlocks whisking around his shoulders. Ian, too, removed his mask.

“That is always your excuse. In fact, it’s all quite logical, and you know it.”

“Again,” Lucien challenged, lifting his sword, his gray eyes fierce.

Ian smiled. “Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

Ian gave him a dry glance as he removed his glove. “The woman who has your blood pumping like a randy goat.” It puzzled him, this frustrated quality in Lucien, who was usually so popular with women.

Lucien’s expression tightened, and he looked away. Ian paused in the action of removing his other glove. His brow furrowed in consternation. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lucien said in a quiet, pressured voice.

“Well then?”

Lucien glared at him. “Are Noble employees allowed to see one another?”

“It depends on their positions. It’s very clear-cut in the employment contract. Managers and supervisors are prohibited from seeing inferiors, and will be terminated if it’s discovered they have. It’s highly discouraged for managers to date each other, although not prohibited. It’s made clear in the contract that if any adverse situations arise at work from a relationship outside the office, the grounds for termination are met. I think you know it’s bad form, Lucien. Does she work at Fusion?”

“No.”

“Does she work in a supervisory capacity for Noble?” Ian asked as he stripped off his other glove, plastron, and jacket, leaving only the fitted breeches and undershirt.

“I’m not sure. What if the employment with Noble is . . . unorthodox?”

Ian gave him a sharp glance as he set down his sword and picked up a towel. “Unorthodox . . . as in the manager of a restaurant versus a manager of a department of business?” he asked wryly.

Lucien hesitated, then nodded, his face an unreadable mask. They both started when a knock was heard on the door to the fencing room.

“Yes?” Ian called, his brows slanted in puzzlement. Mrs. Hanson usually didn’t bother him during his workout. The knowledge that he wouldn’t be interrupted helped him to find a zone of total concentration on both his fencing and exercise routines.

He went still in amazement when Francesca entered the room. Her long hair was loosely restrained at the back of her head. A few strands of it brushed her neck and cheeks. She wore not a smudge of makeup, a pair of formfitting jeans, a shapeless hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of gray-and-white running shoes. The shoes weren’t the highest quality, but Ian quickly appraised that they were the most expensive item she wore. At the opening of her jacket, he saw the thin strap of another tank top. The image of her supple body outlined in the tight garment zoomed into his brain.

“Francesca. What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice unintentionally sharp in annoyance at the vivid, uncontrollable memory. She paused several feet from the fencing mat. The lushness of her pink lips made even her frowns sexy as hell.

“Lin needs to speak with you about something urgent. You weren’t answering your cell phone, so she called the house line. Mrs. Hanson was on the way out to the store to get a few missing ingredients for your supper, so I said I’d come give the message.”

Ian nodded once, using the towel he’d draped around his neck to wipe some perspiration off his face. “I’ll call her as soon as I shower.”

“I’ll tell her,” Francesca said, starting to back out of the room.

“What? She’s still on the line?”

Francesca nodded.

“There’s an extension in the hall just outside the exercise facility. Tell her I’ll call her back soon.”

“All right,” Francesca said. She glanced quickly at Lucien and gave him a fleeting smile before she turned.

Irritation spiked through him. Well, in all fairness, Lucien didn’t bark at her like you did.

“Francesca.”

She spun around.

“Would you come back once you’ve passed the message to Lin, please? We haven’t had the opportunity to speak much all week. I’d like to hear about your progress.”

She hesitated for a split second. Her gaze dropped over his chest, making him go still in sudden awareness.

“Sure. I’ll be right back,” she said before she strode out of the room. The door to the fencing room clicked shut behind her.

Lucien was grinning when he glanced over at him. “When I visited the American south, they had a saying . . . ‘A long, tall drink of cool water.’ ”

Ian did a double take. “Hands off,” he said succinctly.

Lucien looked taken aback. Ian blinked, a mixture of primitive aggression and shame at the harshness warring in his blood. Something occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Wait a second . . . the woman you were talking about just now that works for Noble—”

“Not Francesca,” Lucien said, his eyes gleaming as he gave Ian a sideways glance and opened the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “Seems to me you ought to take your own advice about intercompany romantic interests.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So you’re not interested in that gorgeous creature?” Lucien asked.

Ian whipped the towel off his neck.

“I meant that I don’t have an employment contract,” he said, his brisk tone making it clear the conversation was over.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Lucien said wryly. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Lucien.”

He turned.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Ian said.

Lucien shrugged. “I know what it means to be on a tight leash. Tends to make a man a bit . . . tetchy.”

Ian didn’t respond, just watched as his friend walked away. He thought of what Lucien had said about Francesca being a long, tall drink of cold water. Lucien had been right.

And Ian was clearly thirsting in the desert.

He glanced toward the entry door warily and saw Francesca walk back into the room.

* * *

She was sorry to see Lucien give her a friendly wave and walk out of the room when she entered. The atmosphere of the large, well-equipped exercise room grew heavier when the door closed behind him and she was left alone with Ian. She paused at the edge of the mat.

“Come closer. It’s all right. You can walk across the piste in your running shoes,” he said.

She approached him cautiously. It made her uncomfortable to look at him. His handsome face was impassive, as usual. He looked ungodly sexy wearing a pair of formfitting breeches and a simple white T-shirt. She supposed it was necessary for the shirt to be so tight because he wore other fitted garments over it. It left little to the imagination, revealing every ridge and slanting line of his lean, muscular torso.

Obviously, working out was a high priority to him. His body was a beautiful, honed machine.

“Piste?” she repeated as she crossed the mat and neared him.

“The fencing mat.”

“Oh.” She eyed the sword on the table curiously, trying to ignore the subtle scent emanating from his body—clean, spicy soap mingling with male sweat.

“How are you?” he asked, his polite, cool tone not quite matching the gleam in his blue eyes. He confused her to no end. Like that time last Thursday night, for instance, when she’d turned to find him studying her while she sketched. His manner had been almost formal, but she’d grown breathless with expectation when she saw the way his gaze lowered and lingered on her breasts, making her nipples tighten. She couldn’t help but recall how they’d parted on the first night he’d asked her to the penthouse, how he’d touched her as he put on her coat . . . his reference to her painting.

Had he been pleased or angry that she’d painted him? And was it her imagination, or had he been warning her that her title for the painting hadn’t been as whimsical as she’d once thought, that the subject of her painting truly did walk through life alone?

Nonsense, she chastised herself as she forced herself to meet his piercing stare. Ian Noble didn’t think twice about her beyond her use as an artist.

“Busy but good, thanks,” she answered him. She gave him a quick recap of her progress. “The canvas is prepped. I’ve sketched. I think I’ll be able to actually start painting next week.”

“And do you have everything you require?” he asked as he stepped past her and opened a refrigerator. He moved with masculine grace. She’d love to see him fence—leashed aggression in graceful action.

“Yes. Lin did a very thorough job in getting my supplies. I needed one or two things, but she immediately procured them for me last Monday. She’s a miracle of efficiency.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Don’t hesitate to speak up if you need the smallest thing.” He cracked the cap on the water bottle with a brisk twist of his wrist. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of the shirt, looking hard as stone. A few veins popped on his strong-looking forearms. “And is your schedule manageable? School, your waitressing duties, painting . . . your social life?”

Her pulse began to throb at her throat. She lowered her head so he wouldn’t notice and pretended to be studying one of the swords on a storage rack.

“I don’t have much of a social life.”

“No boyfriend?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head as she ran her fingers over an etched pommel.

“But surely you have friends that you like to spend spare time with?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him. “I’m very close with all three of my roommates.”

“And what do the four of you like to do in your free time?”

She shrugged and touched a different sword grip. “Free time is a bit of a rarity these days, but when I have some, the usual—play video games, go out to the bars, hang out, play poker.”

“That’s usual for a group of girls?”

“My roommates are all men.” She glanced up in time to see the shadow of displeasure that crossed his stoic features. Her heartbeat leapt. His short, glossy, near-black hair was damp at his neck from perspiration. She suddenly imagined herself slicking her tongue along his hairline, tasting his sweat. She blinked and glanced away.

“You live with three men?”

She nodded.

“What do your parents think of that?”

She gave him a sharp glance over her shoulder. “They hate it. Much good it does them. It’s their loss. Caden, Justin, and Davie are awesome people.”

He opened his mouth but paused. “It’s unconventional,” he said after a few seconds, his clipped tone telling her that he’d edited what he’d been about to say.

“Unorthodox, perhaps. But that shouldn’t seem unusual to you, should it? Didn’t you tell me the other night you were a lot of that?” she asked, returning her attention to the swords. This time she wrapped her hand around the grip and squeezed, liking the sensation of hard, cold steel in her fist. She ran her hand up and down along the column.

“Stop that.”

She started at his tone, dropping her hand as if the steel had suddenly burned her. She looked up at him in amazement. His nostrils were slightly flared. His eyes blazed. He jerked his chin and took a rapid swing of water.

“Do you fence?” he asked her briskly as he set the bottle of water on a table.

“No. Well . . . not really.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, stepping toward her, his brow furrowed.

“I do a fencing program with Justin and Caden, but . . . I’ve never touched a sword before,” she said sheepishly.

His puzzlement faded abruptly. He smiled. It was like seeing the sunrise over a dark, brooding landscape. “Are you talking about playing on a Game Station?”

“Yes,” she admitted a little defensively.

He nodded toward the rack. “Take that end one there.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take the last sword. Noble Enterprises designed the original program for that fencing game you play. We sold it to Shinatze a few years back. What level do you play at?”

“Advanced.”

“You should understand the basics then.” He held her stare. “Pick up the sword, Francesca.”

There was a hint of a dare to his tone. His smile still lingered around his full lips. He was laughing at her again. She lifted the sword and glared at him. His grin widened. He grabbed another sword and handed her a mask. He tilted his head toward the mat. When they faced each other, Francesca’s breathing becoming rapid and choppy, he tapped his blade against hers.

“En garde,” he said softly.

Her eyes went wide in panic. “Wait . . . we’re going to . . . right now?”

“Why not?” he asked, taking his stance. She glanced nervously at her sword, then his unprotected chest. “It’s a practice sword. You couldn’t hurt me with it if you tried.”

He thrust. She parried instinctively. He advanced, and she retreated clumsily, still blocking his blade. Even through her haze of alarm and bewilderment, she couldn’t help but admire the flex of his honed muscles, the coiled strength in his long body.

“Don’t be afraid,” she heard him say as she defended desperately. He hardly seemed to be exerting himself at all. He might have been taking an evening stroll, with as much effort as he exhibited. “If you know the gaming program, your brain knows adequate movements to engage with me.”

“How do you know?” she squeaked as she leapt out of the way of his blade.

“Because I designed the program. Defend yourself, Francesca,” he said sharply at the same moment he lunged. She yelped and blocked his blade just inches from her shoulder. He continued to attack without withdrawing, pressing her backward on the mat, the metallic clangs and hisses of their swords filling the air around them.

He advanced quicker now—she felt the amplification of his strength along the shaft of her blade—but his expression remained completely calm.

“You’re leaving your octave unguarded,” he murmured. She gasped when he struck her right hip with the side of his blade with casual precision. He’d barely tapped her, but her hip and buttock burned.

“Again,” he said tensely.

She followed him to center of the mat, his cool, effortless besting of her making her blood boil in her veins. They tapped swords and she attacked, lunging toward him.

“Don’t let your anger at being beaten make you foolish,” he said as they engaged.

“I’m not angry,” she lied through clenched teeth.

“You could be a good fencer. You’re very strong. Do you work out?” he asked almost conversationally as they thrust and parried.

“Run long distance,” she said, and then squawked in alarm when he landed a particularly strong blow.

“Concentrate,” he ordered.

“I would if you’d be quiet!”

She grimaced when he chuckled. A drop of sweat skittered down her neck as she used all of her energy to parry his thrusts. He feinted, and she fell for it. Again, he tapped her right hip.

“If you don’t protect that octave, you’re going to get a bruised bottom.”

Her cheeks flamed. She resisted an urge to touch the side of the buttock that still stung from his blade. She straightened and forced her breathing to even. His stare was fixed on her shoulder. She realized the opening of her hoodie had fallen down during their swordplay, and she tugged the jacket back into place.

“Again,” she said as calmly as possible. He nodded once in polite acquiescence.

She gathered herself and faced him at the center of the mat. She knew she was being foolish, knew it perfectly well. In addition to being an expert fencer, he was a male in prime physical condition. She’d never best him. Still, her competitive spirit would not be silenced. She tried to recall some of the fencing moves from the game.

“En guard,” he said. They tapped swords.

This time, she let him advance, carefully guarding all her quadrants. He was too strong and quick, however. As he drew closer, he choked off her ability to attack offensively. She parried wildly, straining to hold him. Her excitement mounted as he closed in on her. She fought desperately, but they both knew he would triumph.

“Stop,” she cried out in frustration when he pushed her to the edge of the piste.

“You submit,” he said, his sword striking hers so hard she almost lost her grip. She barely blocked his next strike.

“No.”

“Then think,” he snapped.

She desperately tried to follow his instructions. Things were too tight to lunge, so she extended her arm, forcing him to leap backward.

“Very nice,” he murmured.

His blade flicked so rapidly it was a blur. She never felt the metal on her skin. She stopped parrying and glanced down in shock. He’d sliced clean through the strap of her tank top.

“I thought you said the swords weren’t sharp,” she cried out in a choked voice.

“I said that yours wasn’t.” He flipped his wrist, and her sword flew through the air, landing with a useless thud on the mat. He whipped off his mask. She stared at him, aghast. She resisted an urge to run, he looked so fearsome in that moment.

“Never leave yourself undefended, Francesca. Never. The next time you do, I will punish you.”

He tossed his sword aside and lunged toward her, reaching. He jerked off her mask and tossed it on the mat. One hand cradled the back of her skull, the other bracketed her neck and jaw. He swept down and took her mouth with his own.

At first, his surprise attack on her senses made her go rigid in shock. Then his scent penetrated her awareness, his taste. He tilted her head back and slid his tongue between her lips, clearly intent on consumption. He thrust, exploring her. Owning her.

Liquid heat rushed between her thighs, the total response to his kiss unprecedented in her experience. He brought her closer, pressing her against his body. He was so hot. So hard. Lord have mercy. How could she have thought he was indifferent? His arousal raged against her. It was like being suddenly shoved into a male inferno of lust and left to helplessly burn.

She moaned into his mouth. His lips shaped and caressed hers skillfully, leaving her open for his tongue’s possession. She slid her tongue against his, engaging in the kiss just as she had the swordplay. He groaned and stepped closer yet, making her eyes roll behind her shut lids when she felt the full extent of his erection. He was huge and hard. Her sex clenched tight. Her thoughts splintered in a million directions. He urged her backward, and she submitted, hardly knowing what she was doing. He never stopped kissing her as she staggered several feet.

The air whooshed out of her lungs and into his marauding mouth when he backed her against the wall. He pressed, sandwiching her body between two rock-hard surfaces. She rubbed against him instinctively, feeling his defined muscles, stroking his enormous erection.

He hissed and tore his mouth from hers. Before she ever guessed his intention, he shoved down her tank top on the side where the strap was sliced. His long fingers skimmed over the upper curve of her breast as he peeled back the cup of her bra, reaching inside. Her nipple popped out of the fabric, the cup now beneath her breast, plumping the flesh above it, lifting it . . . displaying it. His gaze was hot and greedy as he stared at her bared flesh. She felt his cock lurch against her lower belly and moaned. His nostrils flared and his head dipped.

She made a choking sound when his wet, hot mouth slipped over her nipple. He sucked hard, making her nipple stiffen and ache, causing a tug between her thighs and another rush of warmth. She cried out. Ah, God, what was happening to her? Her vagina squeezed unbearably tight, aching, needing to be filled. Perhaps he heard her cry, because he ceased pulling on her nipple and soothed with a warm, laving tongue. Then he sucked again.

His obvious hunger thrilled her. He was hurting her a little, pleasuring her a lot. What excited her most was his scorching hunger. She longed to feed it . . . make it grow. She arched against him and whimpered helplessly. Never had a man dared to kiss her so roughly or touch her body with such a potent combination of hot greed and consummate skill.

So how was she to know how much she would love it?

He plumped her breast in his hand and molded it to his palm as he continued to suckle her. A harsh moan tore from her throat. He lifted his head, and she gasped at the abrupt cessation of his warmth . . . of her pleasure. He studied her face, his expression rigid, his eyes ablaze. She sensed the rising tension in him, the war. Was he going to pull away? she wondered suddenly. Did he want her or didn’t he?

He suddenly moved his free hand, cupping her entire sex through her jeans. He pressed. Francesca whimpered helplessly.

“No,” he rasped, as if arguing with himself. His dark head dipped again to her breast. “I’ll take what’s mine.”

Read more of Francesca and Ian’s red-hot romance in

Part II of BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE

BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST

Available from InterMix on August 7, 2012

Want to know what all the buzz is about? Keep reading

for a taste of Beth Kery’s popular novel

WICKED BURN

Available now from Berkley Sensation!

The goddamned walls in his temporary apartment residence might as well be made of cardboard, Vic Savian thought as he came into full wakefulness at the low, mellow sound of a voice emanating from the hallway. He’d never actually heard the mystery woman who lived across the hall from him speak, but he recognized her immediately, nonetheless.

Weird. Just her voice made his cock stir and stiffen against the cool sheets.

He’d seen her twice now, once in Louie’s—the steak-house located in the lobby of Riverview Towers. The other time they’d been alone on the elevator together.

He’d have bet the finest stallion in his stable that she was as aware of him on that elevator ride as he was of her.

Sort of an understatement, actually, to say that Vic had been aware of her. He’d noticed everything about her . . . the light sprinkling of freckles on her nose, the movement of her lips when they closed and parted, the pulse at her elegant throat, the shape of her breasts beneath the conservative yet sensual silk blouse she wore.

She was beautiful. Vic knew better than most how overused that word was when it came to women. But other descriptors—pretty, attractive, sexy—fell far short when it came to the woman across the hall.

She was luminous.

He liked women. He liked them smart, feisty, sexy, skilled, and hot. But this woman’s beauty irked him. He steered clear of beautiful women. Ever since the debacle with Jenny.

His head came up off the pillow when he heard her speak again. Did her voice sound strained?

When he heard a man respond in an angry tone, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his jeans.

“Evan, I’ve made it very clear where I stand with you. I’ve never played coy. And no, I can’t give you some kind of timeline as to when I might feel differently,” she said before Evan had the chance to say the predictable.

What was it about getting dressed up for a black-tie affair that made a man think he was going to get laid? Niall Chandler wondered dispiritedly. God, she was an idiot. She should never have agreed to accompany him to the Chicago Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art fund-raiser tonight. As a member of the museum’s board of trustees, Evan Forrester had the potential to make her job very difficult if he chose to play the part of a rejected lover.

“You’re not even giving this a chance. Look, I don’t have any of the details, but I’d have to be an idiot not to know that I’m supposed to treat you like fine china, given all the vague references and dirty looks your boss is always giving me, not to mention that secretary of yours. But sometimes the only way to get over something is to just take the plunge. Come on, Niall . . . jump off that pedestal of ice, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “The weather down below is nice and hot.”

Niall’s eyes widened in disbelief not only at his knowing, almost sly tone but the fact that he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back, sandwiching her between the door and his body. She twisted her face away when he tried to kiss her, but he merely transferred his attentions to her neck.

“You were driving me crazy tonight in this dress,” he muttered against her skin. His hands began to press and slide along her back and waist.

“Evan, stop it,” Niall insisted. When he brushed aside her wrap and planted a kiss on the top of her right breast, her hand rose instinctively. He looked up when she gave him a hard, flat-palmed thump to the side of his head.

“Why . . . you little bitch, that hurt!”

Niall barely had time to register the tall shadow out of the corner of her eye before Evan cried out and winced in pain. He crashed loudly into the far wall of the hallway, then bounced forward, looking stunned and dazed. He grabbed frantically for his ear, as if to assure himself that it was still attached to his head. Niall realized that the man who stood with them in the hallway must have twisted it viciously before he threw Evan off her.

“Get out of here,” the stranger said tersely.

Niall stared up at the man in amazement. His tone had been one of annoyance and profound distaste, as if he’d just come out into the hallway and seen a dog humping her leg instead of a man pawing her body without her consent. It was especially striking, that tone, since Evan was the picture of urbane sophistication in his tuxedo and black cashmere overcoat.

Her savior, on the other hand, brought to mind comparisons to ruthless cowboy outlaws and primitive, raw sex.

Niall blinked in surprise at her turn of thought. Well, it wasn’t the first time her mind had strayed that way against her will. It had done the same on the other two occasions she’d seen the man who lived across the hall from her, especially when she’d been forced to breathe his spicy male scent in the six-by-six-foot confines of an elevator.

He made her nervous, agitated . . . stirred up.

At least on the elevator he’d been wearing clothing, though. Tonight he wore nothing but a partially fastened pair of faded jeans that looked like they’d been washed and worn so many times that they’d shaped themselves perfectly to his lean hips, tight butt, and long, hard thighs.

Niall forced her eyes away from that compelling sight when she heard Evan speak.

“Who the hell are you to think you can tell me to leave like that?” Evan sputtered in furious disbelief. He took several rapid steps down the hallway, however, almost tripping on his own feet, when Niall’s neighbor abruptly lunged toward him. The tall man never responded verbally, but Niall thought she saw Evan’s answer in his rigid profile and steely gaze.

He’s the guy who looks like he’s ready to kick your ass from here to next week if you don’t get a move on, Niall thought.

“You’d better just go, Evan,” she managed shakily. “Please,” she added when Evan opened his mouth like he was going to argue. He finally turned, keeping the grim, tall figure that menaced him in the corner of his eye until the last second before he headed down the hallway.

Niall exhaled unevenly when she heard the ding of the elevator door as it closed. She found it difficult to meet her neighbor’s stare.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You okay?”

His voice reminded her of a stark landscape of open plains domed with the vast mystery of a starlit sky.

“Sure.” She laughed a little unevenly. “Feeling a bit dense, actually. I didn’t see it coming.”

“How about a drink?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m all right. He just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t asking if you wanted to have a drink with me in order to calm you down.”

Her eyes snapped up to his. For the first time, she saw that they were a light gray, the outer rim edged by a defining black line.

A second passed . . . then several. A tiny smile pulled at his well-shaped lips, softening the hardness of his mouth infinitesimally.

Had he really just propositioned her so casually? Niall questioned herself. And was she really considering taking him up on the offer?

Something flamed to life inside of her as she met his steady stare . . . something Niall had assumed had been snuffed out of existence three years ago. His lips twitched slightly, and she realized she’d been wrong.

What she experienced at that moment wasn’t anything she’d ever known in her thirty-three years of life on this planet.

“All right,” she agreed softly.

He stepped back so that she could move past him toward the door of his apartment. Niall noticed that he didn’t look smug at her acceptance.

Nor did he seem even vaguely surprised.

Niall smiled a moment later as she glanced around his living room while he moved about in the kitchen.

“I see we have the same decorator,” she said through the little window over the counter that overlooked the kitchen. She heard the anxious tremor in her voice and admonished herself for it. Just because she had agreed to have a drink didn’t mean that she was going to sleep with him—a complete stranger.

His dark brown hair fell over his brow as he bent to retrieve a bottle from a lower shelf. When he stood, her gaze brushed appreciatively across his ridged abdomen, the sweep of his wide shoulders, and the hard, defi ned muscles of his upper arm. Most of the men that she knew would have put on a shirt in this situation. But Niall was glad that he hadn’t.

He was such a beautiful, sinuous male animal that it seemed a shame to cover his body.

He never responded to her attempt at small talk, but Niall found that his silence didn’t make her feel awkward. When he handed her a glass through the window, she held it up in a brief salute and took a drink. Her sensual appreciation of the taste must have shown on her face, because he gave a small smile before he took a swallow of his own. Heat expanded in Niall’s lower belly at the sight of the muscular movement of his throat.

“You approve,” he stated rather than asked.

Niall blinked. Had he been reading her mind? A modicum of common sense returned to her, however, and she realized that he’d been referring to the liquor, not his beautiful body.

“I don’t drink much, but when I do, I’m a Scotch drinker. This happens to be my favorite brand,” Niall said. She realized that her voice had become unintentionally husky as she stared at his mouth. His upper front tooth slightly overlapped the one next to it. She thought of what it would feel like to run her tongue over that sexy little imperfection, and then wondered how many women he encountered every day who had the exact same fantasy.

She forced her eyes away from him and transferred her gaze to the windows. It unnerved her, this strong, unprecedented physical reaction to him. She felt awkward and foolish, like a gangly teenage girl.

She took a deep, uneven breath and tried to focus on what she saw.

His apartment faced east, granting him a spectacular panoramic view of Chicago. The lights of the high-rises shimmered in the black, winding river. The Riverview Towers offered their residents every luxury and convenience: a concierge, a dry cleaner, grocery delivery, shopping, and a central location in downtown Chicago. Residents and the corporations for which they worked paid sky-high prices for the flexibility and conveniences of the apartments. But to Niall the temporary residences felt depressingly sterile. She longed for the stability of a home again.

“So what’s your excuse for staying in this god-awful place?” she asked him when he came around the corner into the living room. She glanced up when he leaned his hip against the counter next to where she sat on a stool.

“I’m working in the city for a while. I sleep here Tuesday through Thursday nights and drive home on Friday.”

“To the suburbs?” Niall asked as she took another sip of Scotch. With him standing and her sitting, her eye level was at his chest. His nipples were dark brown and even more erect than she’d speculated when he was feet away from her instead of inches. She inhaled slowly, and the male scent that she recalled all too well from sharing the elevator with him filled her senses, more subtle, but nevertheless more potent, than the fumes of the Scotch.

The desire that he’d awakened in her reared its head, causing a shimmering sensation of heat to spread along her tailbone, only to surge and swell at her sex, liquefying her in a matter of seconds.

His singular gray eyes flickered down to her lap when she stirred restlessly on her stool.

“I have a farm downstate. You?”

She blinked. “Oh . . . I’m waiting for my condominium to be finished. Hopefully, I’ll be out of here in a month or two, but they keep putting me off.” She shrugged and gave a shaky laugh. “It could be worse. I work downtown at the Chicago Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art, so Riverview Towers are convenient. If it weren’t for the fact that I feel like I live in a beige and white nightmare, things would be great,” she added with a chuckle.

“What’s your name?”

She paused in her mirth. “Oh, sorry. I’m Niall. Niall Chandler.”

She started to put out her hand for a friendly handshake but paused in surprise when he began to laugh. “What’s so funny?” she asked in amazement.

He set his drink on the counter as he stilled his mirth. “Your name. You’re the most feminine thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and you’ve got a boy’s name.”

Niall inhaled sharply. He was usually so terse and impassive that it unsettled her to hear him compliment her—for that was undoubtedly what it had been, given the warm, husky tone of his deep voice.

Her anxiety mounted when he took her glass from her stiff hand and set it next to his on the counter.

“I’m Vic.”

His hand rose to cradle her chin, lifting her face until she met his gaze. Niall’s pulse throbbed madly at her throat when she saw the heat in his gray eyes as they fixed on her mouth.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way . . .” His head dropped slowly. “Let’s get down to the good stuff, Niall.”

From the very first, Vic incinerated her. The thought of pushing him away never entered her mind, Niall realized the next day. It should have, logically. Not ten minutes before, she’d put a halt to Evan’s attempts to get her into bed.

But this was different. Vic seduced her so effortlessly. The strength of her desire for him burned away the few remaining insubstantial shadows of rational thought.

The hand that wasn’t already holding her chin came up to join its twin, holding her steady for the onslaught of his kiss. His tongue drove between her lips without preamble. He didn’t seem particularly interested in mutuality at that moment. He probed deeply, sweeping his tongue everywhere, establishing dominance over her body with a stunning attack on her senses.

Niall moaned as his taste registered in her brain. Her hands clutched desperately at his back as he continued to fuck her mouth with his tongue. He tasted like premium Scotch with just a hint of mint. Her fingertips explored the sensation of smooth skin stretched tautly across dense muscle. Heat resonated off his body. Niall pressed closer, wanting to share that heat, needing to be thawed . . . desperate to be burned.

Her hands began to move over him greedily. He groaned, deep and savage, and tore his mouth from hers. For a tense moment, he just stared down at her. Then he lifted her in his arms. Niall held on tightly to his shoulders. A kaleidoscope of images from his apartment spun before her eyes as he quickly moved toward his bedroom, adding to her chaotic emotional state.

He tore off the wrap she wore around her shoulders before he lowered her to his bed. The zipper of her sophisticated little black cocktail dress came down next.

“Arms up,” he muttered.

She complied. He tossed aside her black dress a second later.

Niall’s hips moved restlessly on the bed, instinctively trying to relieve the pressure growing at her sex when his gaze dropped over her. She wore a black bra and panty set and some thigh-high stockings. And her pearls. As if that counted for anything, she thought with a touch of hysteria.

Vic’s expression didn’t alter much, but his eyes blazed so hot as they toured her body that she felt sexually scorched.

“Take off your panties and move back on the bed.”

She felt like she was in a dream as she did exactly what he’d demanded. But it was a very hot, exciting dream . . . and she hadn’t the slightest desire to resist the carnal allure of it.

He covered her body with his own by the time her head hit the pillows. He palmed her thighs, spreading them to accommodate his body in the process. He immediately took possession of her mouth again. Their tongues tangled and mated wildly. His hands ran down her sides, one pausing at a silk-covered breast, the other sliding down her waist and cradling her hip.

He tilted her pelvis up and pressed himself to her, forcing her to feel the strength of his desire.

Niall moaned into his mouth. He felt so vibrant next to her, so alive. It was a dizzying sensation for someone who had been one of the walking dead for the past three years to suddenly awaken as if from a jolt of sexual electricity. He molded her breast in his palm gently, then roughly . . . always surely. Niall strained up, desperate for more of the sensation of him. Her hands ran over his back and shoulders, sliding and rubbing, consuming him with her touch.

Vic grunted at the feeling of her slender, curvy body pressing to him so tightly. Her skin felt like warm silk. Her nipple pressed into the center of his palm like a hard little dart, maddening him. The feeling of her hands moving anxiously over him blinded him with lust.

He rolled off her onto his left hip, ripping at the button fly of his jeans. He shoved them down his thighs with precise, rapid movements. His cock sprang free, stiff, tight, straining toward her. His eyes caressed her body. She was the color of pale honey, looking like she could tan easily if she chose, but refrained. She’d tasted so good . . . her skin, her mouth, her sweat.

He couldn’t wait to eat her pussy.

He winced in agonized pleasure when he moved and his cock brushed the bare, satiny skin of her thigh. She whimpered.

She reached for him, but he stopped her by grabbing both of her wrists, then transferring both of them to one hand.

The feeling of her small, cool hands on his body had enflamed him earlier. Vic didn’t think he could take it right now and maintain his control. He pushed her wrists down over her head at the same time that he reached between her thighs.

He watched her face while he burrowed his fingers through damp, silky pubic hair, dipping into the warm cream of her pussy before he spread the abundant moisture between her labia, sliding and pressing against her clit.

Her back arched up off the bed. She squirmed frantically at the restraint of his binding hand.

But he only gripped her wrists and held her tighter. He played a hard, ruthless rhythm with his

fingers, plucking and strumming the nerve-packed flesh until the tension in her body broke and she cried out sharply in stunned ecstasy. Two of his fingers plunged into her tight sheath. He watched her intently as her body clamped and convulsed around him.

She was ready for him so quickly. It excited him to know that she was as hungry for him at that moment as he was for her. He stretched, reaching for a condom in the drawer of his bedside table. His excitement to be inside her made him roll it on his cock in record-breaking time.

Without a word he spread her thighs and arrowed into her. Her body resisted him, but he was crazed by the sensation of her hot, narrow channel as it enclosed the thick head of his penis.

“You’re tight,” he grated. He held the base of his cock with one hand, working it into her clamping channel with subtle up-and-down motions while his hips provided a steady, hard pressure. She moaned, still in the aftershocks of her climax. Her slender body undulating and straining against him made him desperate. He thrust.

Hard.

He might have been half-crazed with lust, but he paused when he heard her cry out. His cock had burrowed less than half its length into her.

“Shhh, try to relax, baby,” he soothed. His head dropped next to hers. He pressed hot kisses along her neck, pausing to run the elegant strand of pearls that she wore between his lips, licking at the smooth globes lightly before he nipped at her tender skin. Her lips were parted when he found them, the taste between them sweet and addictive. His cock throbbed painfully inside of her as his tongue sank into her warm cavern.

Pearls and honey.

She was driving him right over the edge. Her pussy gripped at him mercilessly.

He pushed back a smooth thigh, opening her body to him, demanding admission. His thumb found her clitoris, circling, plucking, and coaxing. She groaned into his mouth and pushed up for more pressure, seating his cock farther into her body in the process.

“That’s right,” he whispered gruffly next to her damp lips. “Let me in, Niall.”

Niall cried out in sharp desire as he began to pulse his

hips. His cock felt too large to be in her body, invading her, forcing her to make room for him . . . but indescribably good as well. His pressing thumb on her clit drove her further into a frenzy of lust. A friction began to build in her unlike anything she’d ever known. She began to push and rotate her hips around his cock, up and down, around, in and out, desperate to feed the mounting flame that grew and expanded in her sex and belly. Niall saw the way his lip curled, the way his light eyes gleamed as a result of her actions. She mewled in pleasure and increased the pressure against him, desperate with need.

She writhed and whimpered beneath him, begging him in a primitive fashion to take total possession of her. He accepted her wordless invitation. He drove his cock into her, pressing his balls tightly to her damp hilt, grunting in animallike pleasure. When she cried out and arched her back, he secured her wrists tighter, pushing her back to the bed.

He began to thrust into her with tight, concentrated strokes.

“You’ve got a hot little pussy, but you’re teasing me with it, aren’t you, Niall?”

Niall just shook her head when he growled out the question ominously. She was too tight with mounting pleasure, too full of him . . . too close to orgasm to speak. His cock massaged her more deeply than she’d ever been touched, stimulating her with a hard, relentless pressure. He pried her body open to make way for him, but she was wild to get him back deep every time he withdrew from her, needing to have the thick, hard knob of his penis stabbing and rubbing and demanding something from her that she had only just learned she could give.

She gasped loudly when he leaned down and encircled her silk-covered nipple in the heat of his mouth. The suction that he applied made the inferno at her sex fl ame higher. When he bit at the tender morsel and thrust into her hard, creating a loud smack of flesh against flesh, she exploded again.

Vic grunted savagely as he felt her squeeze and convulse around his cock in orgasm. Her heat flooded around him. His eyes crossed at the sensation.

He reached up and roughly pushed down both of the thin pieces of black silk that covered her breasts. He bent and sampled one hard, pointed crest, lashing with his tongue, sucking hard, nipping and biting with his front teeth. She tasted so good—like berries, sweet cream, and musky woman. He wanted to eat her up in two ravenous bites. When he leaned up slightly, the sight of her white, thrusting breast capped by an erect, glistening pink nipple nearly sent him over the edge.

He focused on her sweat-dampened face. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was scattered across the pillow. She stared at him with desire-glazed eyes, her breath coming in choppy, shallow pants. The muscular, tight walls of her vagina tormented him. Every time he moved out of her, she pulled and sucked at his cock, demanding that he sink back into her depths before he was ready.

He pushed back first one thigh, and then the other, into her chest and began to pound into her. She shrieked in shock. It might have been in pain. It might have been in desire.

The only thing Vic knew for certain was that she had the tightest, sweetest little pussy he’d ever ridden.

“Vic! Vic?” she cried out in disbelieving ecstasy. He rocketed into her again and again, every driving downstroke pushing her body farther and farther up on the bed until her forearms were trapped between her skull and the wrought iron headboard.

Vic paused for a moment, still fully sheathed in her, and reached between their sweat-dampened bodies. His fingers spread the lips of her outer sex wide before he ground his pelvis against the nerve-packed tissues between her labia. She shimmered around him in post-orgasmic bliss. Her whole body began to tremble and shake when he surged up against her, scraping the narrow path of hair that trailed from his taut bellybutton to the thatch around his cock against her sensitive, exposed cleft and erect clit, applying a steady, relentless pressure.

When she groaned in misery, Vic knew she shook not only in post-orgasmic bliss but also in pre-orgasmic anticipation.

She opened her eyes dazedly. Vic watched her through narrowed eyelids.

“You want to come again?”

“Yes,” she entreated.

He smiled at the stark evidence of her need. He used his forearm to push her knees down hard into her shoulders. She keened at the increased pressure from the altered angle of his cock stabbing deeply into her body. When he grabbed a round buttock and smacked her ass twice lightly, she cried out in surprise.

“Give it to me, then,” he demanded harshly.

Her entire body began to shudder and shake once again in release.

Vic gave a tense bark of laughter, immensely pleased and aroused when he felt her heat rush around him.

“You liked that, baby?” he rasped as he began to pound into her quivering, hot pussy with quick, ruthless thrusts. Not that he expected her to answer. She was too busy climaxing, gushing liquid heat around him and squeezing his cock until he saw only a red haze in front of his eyes. Silk and pearls aside, Niall had liked it when he had spanked her plump little ass.

He struck their flesh together rapidly now, holding back nothing, striving madly to find relief in her farthest depths. She was immobilized against the headboard. He smacked their flesh together once more, the walls of her vagina still convulsing and pulling and taunting him.

God, she was a sweet fuck, he thought dazedly in the seconds before orgasm ripped through his flesh. He threw his head back and roared between clenched jaws, pumping her hard and fast, shooting off what felt like gallons of his semen in a gloriously scalding climax.

Niall’s eyes clenched closed at the sensation of Vic throbbing in release even as he continued to fuck her. Tears leaked onto her cheeks. The truth of the matter was that the sensation of him coming so powerfully in her body was one of the two most poignant, profoundly wonderful experiences she’d ever had in her life.

The other had been when she’d first heard the sound of her baby’s cry and felt the slight, precious weight of his damp, warm body against her breast.

This had been, by far, the craziest, most impulsive thing Niall had ever done in her life. She didn’t even know Vic’s last name.

She couldn’t regret a second of it, though. Not then. Not at that moment, when blood pounded in her veins, vibrant and hot.

She felt reborn—raw, confused, shaky . . . and utterly, completely alive.

* * *

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Beth Kery lives in Chicago where she juggles the demands of her career, her love of the city and the arts, and a busy family life. Her writing today reflects her passion for all of the above.

Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery

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