Contents

Also by Beth Kery

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Special Excerpt

About the Author

Because You Are Mine

PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME

PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST

PART III: BECAUSE YOU HAUNT ME

PART IV: BECAUSE YOU MUST LEARN

PART V: BECAUSE I SAID SO

PART VI: BECAUSE YOU TORMENT ME

Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery

WICKED BURN

DARING TIME

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery

SWEET RESTRAINT

PARADISE RULES

RELEASE

EXPLOSIVE

One Night of Passion series

ADDICTED TO YOU (WRITING AS BETHANY KANE)

EXPOSED TO YOU

One Night of Passion eSpecials

BOUND TO YOU

CAPTURED BY YOU

Because You Are Mine

Part VI

Because You Torment Me

Beth Kery

InterMix Books, New York

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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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 TORMENT ME

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / September 2012

Because You Are Mine Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

Excerpt from Wicked Burn Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-60854-8

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Chapter Eleven

The next morning, Francesca placed the pill on her tongue and tipped some water between her lips, swallowing. She glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, looking away quickly when she registered her reflection. Seeing herself take the birth-control pill brought last night back to her in a vivid rush: Ian taking her for a private dinner for two with a breathlessly romantic view, her confusion by his aloofness, her sharpness in response to his withdrawal even while he was seemingly so solicitous . . .

. . . their spat and his walking away.

Why was she even bothering to take the birth control after the way Ian had behaved last night? She really was mad for agreeing to this venture with him—both in the crazy and angry definitions of the term. Her stupidity had never been more evident than since he’d first walked away after such an incredibly erotic and intimate experience yesterday.

It’d been incredibly erotic and intimate to Francesca, anyway. Ian must have considered it par for the course.

Or another example of the good service he deserved.

Anger flared in her at the incendiary thought.

True, he’d spent time with her after they’d . . . done what they’d done—she didn’t know what to call it, precisely. She would have said made love, but Ian clearly wouldn’t agree. After he’d instructed her on how to give him pleasure with her mouth? After they’d brought each other off? After he’d made her lose herself so greatly in need that it was now difficult to look at her own reflection in the mirror?

He not only had spent time with her, to a casual observer, he’d treated her to a once-in-a-lifetime experience. After they’d both showered in separate bathrooms, he’d reappeared, looking extremely handsome in a pair of gray pants that highlighted his long legs and narrow hips, a light blue button-down shirt and sport jacket.

“Are you ready? We’re having dinner at Le Cinq,” he said, standing in the entry to the bedroom suite.

She gasped and looked down at herself in alarm. “I thought we were ordering food here in the suite. I can’t go to Le Cinq dressed like this!” she exclaimed, recalling everything she’d read and heard about the exclusive restaurant housed in the hotel. Why had Ian changed their plans? He’d said they’d just order the food in. Did he perhaps think that the atmosphere of the private suite was suddenly too intimate?

“Certainly you can,” he’d said, his manner all brisk British aristocrat. He’d held out his hand expectantly before he registered her disbelief. “I’ve requested a private outdoor terrace for us.”

“Ian, I can’t! Not like this,” she’d protested, sweeping her hand over her attire.

“You will,” he’d said, giving her an amused glance. “We won’t be seen by the other patrons. And if a single nose is turned up at your Cubs T-shirt, I’ll deal with the offending nose personally.”

What he’d said had been assuring, and even sweet, but with her growing awareness of him, Francesca still sensed the distant preoccupation that had descended upon him after their electric, erotic encounter earlier.

Feeling extremely doubtful, she’d hurried into her shoes upon Ian’s request, and put her hand in his. She’d trailed him into the elevator and down corridors, the whole time hissing worried protests behind him that they’d kick her out of the luxurious restaurant for showing up in jeans and a T-shirt. Ian had never replied, just led her on without comment.

The smiling maître d’ of the posh restaurant had greeted Ian like an old friend. Francesca had stood there awkwardly while the two men exchanged conversation in rapid French, wishing the sleek marble floor would open up and swallow her. The maître d’ had only smiled broadly at her, however, when Ian introduced her, making her blush when he took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles like she was Cinderella on the night of the ball instead of awkward, T-shirt-wearing Francesca Arno.

She’d stared in openmouthed amazement a moment later when the maître d’ led them onto a candlelit private terrace with a stunning view of the glowing lacework steel Eiffel Tower. Two heat lamps had warmed the pleasant, cool autumn evening. The table had been a glittering visual delight of flame, crystal, and gold dinnerware and a lush flower arrangement of white hydrangeas.

She’d looked over at Ian in surprise and saw that the maître d’ had left. They were alone on the terrace, and Ian was holding her chair for her.

“Did you arrange all this?” she’d asked him, looking over her shoulder to hold his stare.

“Yes,” he’d said, seating her.

“You should have let me dress for dinner.”

“I told you once before that a woman wears the clothes, Francesca,” he’d said as he sat across the table from her. His eyes had been the color of the midnight-blue sky in the candlelight. “If a woman recognizes her power, she can present herself in rags and people will recognize her as a queen.”

She’d scoffed. “That sounds like the type of thing an earl’s grandson would be taught. I’m afraid I live in a different world, Ian.”

They’d eaten a luxurious meal, exchanging conversation, sipping red wine, and sampling items from the sumptuous gourmet tasting menu, being waited on hand and foot by not one but two waiters, neither one of which so much as blinked an eye at Francesca’s apparel. Apparently, being Ian’s guest conferred a special status. When she’d shivered at a brisk breeze, Ian had stood and removed his jacket, insisting that she put it on.

Anybody else would probably have thought it a storybook romantic evening, but as the dinner progressed, Francesca’s uncertainty and frustration at Ian’s distance had only amplified. He was solicitous and polite . . . the perfect companion. At first, she’d blamed some of the strained atmosphere on the omnipresence of the hovering waiters during their meal, but as time wore on, she knew that wasn’t it.

He’d definitely shut himself off from her after teaching her how to pleasure him. Why? Had she done it all wrong, and he was too polite to tell her the truth?

Had he perhaps had his fill of her already?

Her suspicions were confirmed when they returned to the suite later and he’d asked her if she minded if he attended to some work. She’d responded with a careless “Of course not,” but her uncertainty was quickly morphing to anger. She’d gone into the bedroom and checked her e-mails on her phone.

At one point, he’d entered the bedroom, causing her heart to jump. However, he’d merely handed her a package. She’d opened it to find a three-month supply of birth-control pills inside.

“These were just delivered. Aaron, the pharmacist, says you may begin taking them immediately. I had him include instructions in English,” he’d said.

“How considerate of you.”

He blinked at her quiet sarcasm.

“Are you upset about my suggesting you go on the pill? I’m having the results of a recent medical exam sent to me. I’ll show it to you. I want you to be reassured that I’m clean and perfectly healthy, as well. As long as we’re together, I won’t be with anyone else.”

“That’s not what I was thinking about,” she said, even though relief had gone through her at his words. She should have brought up that topic before.

His gaze ran over her face searchingly. “You’ve noticed that I’ve been preoccupied this evening? I’m sorry,” he said after a pause. “I needed to get some work done. I have a very important acquisition that I’ve been planning for ages finally coming to fruition next week.”

She’d given him a bland glance. It wasn’t his work that had her irritated and anxious, either, and he must know that. It was the contrast of their incredibly intimate sexual experience and his current aloofness.

He’d stared at her silently for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Anticipation had risen in her about what he was about to say, her sarcastic expression easing. She’d experienced an overwhelming need to take his hand in reassurance.

“Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

She’d closed her eyes briefly as disappointment flooded her at his question.

“I told you I was abominable with women,” he’d said in a harsh, restrained tone. She’d opened her eyes.

“You also once told me you weren’t a nice man. I can’t help but notice that neither on that occasion nor this one have you expressed an ounce of remorse for your shortcomings . . . not a hint of a struggle.”

Anger had leapt in his eyes at that.

“I suppose you feel you can make me a better man,” he’d said, his full lips twisting as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Take a word of advice, Francesca, and save yourself the effort. I am what I am, and I’ve never lied to you about being anything more.”

She’d stared at his tall form as he walked out of the room, mute with rising bewilderment, anger, and hurt.

Is that what he thought? That she wanted to change him just because she was confused by his withdrawal after they’d had sex?

Or was he right to admonish her? He’d been completely attentive to her every wish all evening, treating her to an exclusive dining experience while overlooking the most romantic skyline in the world.

He hadn’t offered her his heart; he’d promised her experience and pleasure, and he’d delivered both in spades.

Her thoughts had only tangled her up further, creating an anxious knot in her belly. She’d tried to read an e-book on her phone but mostly stewed in her confusion and hurt until she’d fallen asleep.

This morning when she’d wakened, he was nowhere to be seen. She had a vague recollection of the hard, warm length of him pressing against her at some point in the night—his arms around her, his mouth moving across the skin between her neck and shoulder in a taut, electric kiss. It was difficult, however, to determine if the stirring memory was a dream or reality.

There had been a note on the bedside table next to the bed.

Francesca,

I had a breakfast meeting in La Galerie downstairs. Feel free to call room service if you like. We’re due to leave Paris for Chicago at 11:30. Please get packed and ready, and I’ll return to the suite to retrieve you at 9:00.

Ian

She scowled when she read the message. He’d made it sound like she was a package or a suitcase.

At ten minutes past nine, she stood in the living room of the suite, her purse and packed duffel bag on her shoulder, both regretful about leaving the exquisite Parisian suite where Ian had taught her so much about desire, and longing for the normalcy—the mundane sanity—of her everyday life.

She checked her watch and scowled. No Ian.

Screw this.

Feeling restless, she dashed off a quick note to Ian that she’d meet him in the lobby and exited the hotel suite. It’d get her mind off things to sit in the luxurious lobby and watch all the sophisticated, well-heeled patrons while she waited.

Downstairs, she sunk into one of the plush lobby chairs and dug into her purse for her cell phone, meaning to check messages. Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. When she realized it was Ian’s tall, singular form that had snagged her focus, she leaned back in the chair, peering around the barrier of the upholstered winged back. He was walking out of La Galerie, one of the hotel restaurants, his arm around a well-dressed dark-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Francesca couldn’t hear their conversation at this distance, but their exchange struck her as intense somehow . . . intimate.

Was that why she’d instinctively ducked back behind the barrier of the chair?

Ian reached into the handsome sport jacket he was wearing and handed the woman an envelope. She accepted it with a smile and went up on her toes, kissing his cheek. Francesca’s heart leapt and then slowed to a sluggish throb as she watched Ian put his hands on the attractive woman’s shoulders and kiss both of her cheeks in return.

They gave each other a smile that struck Francesca as poignant . . . sad. The woman nodded once, as if to silently reassure him everything would be all right, before ducking her head and turning to walk across the shining white marble floor of the lobby, tucking the envelope Ian had given her into the leather briefcase she carried. Ian just stood there for a moment watching the woman depart, an expression she’d never seen before on his bold, masculine features.

He looked a little lost.

Francesca leaned back in the chair, blindly staring at the extravagant fresh flower arrangement on the table before her. Her heart seemed to shrivel in her chest. It felt like she’d just walked in on him in the midst of a very personal act. She didn’t understand completely what she’d just seen, but somehow she just knew it’d been something important to Ian . . . something charged.

Something he wouldn’t have wanted her to see.

When she spied him walking into a jewelry shop housed in the hotel lobby a moment later, she sprang up from the chair and charged toward the elevator bank.

“Hi. I thought I’d wait for you in the lobby,” she said to him a few minutes later with false cheerfulness. They’d met in front of the elevators, Francesca acting as if she’d just arrived on the lobby level.

He blinked at her unexpected appearance. “I thought I’d asked you to meet me in the suite,” he said, looking a little nonplussed . . . and amazingly gorgeous. Would his dark, intense male beauty ever cease to hit her like a physical blow?

“Yes. I saw your note.” She noticed his near-black brows rise in a silent challenge. “I left a note, too, telling you I’d meet you down here.”

His full lips twitched, but she wasn’t sure if it was in irritation or amusement.

“I owe you an apology for my lateness. I had an important appointment with a close family friend who happened to be in town, at a conference. I’ll just go up and get my things and join you in the lobby.”

“Okay,” she said, wondering all the while about the identity of this beautiful, close family friend who had the ability to pierce Ian’s seemingly impenetrable emotional armor.

Had he bought something in the jewelry store for that mysterious woman?

Knowing she couldn’t ask that question, she started to walk past him. She halted when he put his hand on her upper arm.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

She just stared at him, mute with surprise at his admission and what seemed to be genuine regret in his tone.

“Which part?”

“I think you know which part,” he said quietly after a moment. “I was a million miles away last night. I fear you felt abandoned.”

“Wasn’t I?”

“No. I’m still right here, Francesca—for whatever that’s worth,” he added grimly. He leaned down and seized her mouth in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. Was it her imagination or did that kiss seem to tell her something Ian couldn’t say?

Francesca just stared at his broad retreating back a moment later, experiencing her typical bewilderment when it came to Ian, her heart still throbbing all the way to her clenched sex from his kiss.

* * *

Despite his earlier apology, she still sensed Ian’s preoccupation as Jacob drove them to the airport and they boarded his private jet. She was torn between feeling concern for him—compassion for that lost-looking Ian she’d glimpsed in the hotel lobby—and lingering irritation at his apparent ability to shut his awareness of her out like a light.

“What’s this important acquisition you said you had coming up later this week?” Francesca asked once she was seated across from him on the plane and he bent to retrieve his computer from his briefcase.

“I’ve been wooing a particularly coy—well, actually, annoying as hell, to be honest—owner of a company for over a year now, and it appears that we’re finally getting to a compromise,” he said, opening his computer. “I’m not that interested in the company itself, but the deal includes a patent on a piece of software I absolutely require for this new social media gaming venture I’m starting.” He glanced up at her and then apologetically at his computer. “Would you mind?”

“No, of course not,” Francesca said, meaning it. He may confuse and vex her, but she wasn’t so clingy that she constantly required his attention. He immediately plunged into work when they arrived on the plane, reading files, typing fleetly, and occasionally making a terse phone call.

Francesca learned from a message on her cell phone that Lin Soong had e-mailed her the “Illinois Rules of the Road” manual. When had Ian made the request of his assistant? Last night, while he’d been ignoring her after their romantic dinner?

Didn’t that mean he’d thought about her . . . even a bit?

And weren’t those precisely the kind of slavish thoughts a supposed submissive had, constantly gauging her world by whether or not her master was thinking about her, whether or not he was pleased by her?

Disgusted by the mere idea, Francesca determinedly turned her attention away from the compelling man who sat across from her. She e-mailed a warm thank-you message to Lin, then briskly asked Ian if she could borrow his tablet.

“Why?”

“To read something.”

“The ‘Rules of the Road’ that I had Lin send you?”

“No,” she lied without blinking. “A trashy novel.”

She gave a small smile at his dry glance. He handed her the tablet without hesitation or further comment.

Fortunately, Francesca could be nearly as focused on a task when she wanted to be as Ian. She diligently memorized each rule of the road on the flight home, oddly determined to get her driver’s license now that Ian had brought the issue to the forefront. The experience of being in control behind the wheel had exhilarated her. After a while, she forgot her irritation at Ian, feeling comfortable with his presence as they both attended to their separate concerns.

She napped for a while and used the restroom. In her absence, Ian had brought both of them a refreshment from the wet bar. She sipped on her chilled club soda and watched him for a moment as he worked. He really was a force of nature. If he could patent that intense focus of his, he’d be the wealthiest man on the planet.

He already is one of them, she reminded herself wryly with a shake of her head before she went back to studying.

When the pilot’s voice came through the intercom and told them they were beginning their descent into Indiana, Ian glanced up, blinking several times, as if seeing the world around him for the first time. He shut off his computer and raked his fingers through his short, stylishly mussed hair, making Francesca experience a sudden longing to have her fingers where his were.

“How did your studying go?” he asked, his voice sounding a little hoarse from not using it for so long.

“Excellent,” she replied, not at all surprised by the fact that he knew she’d been lying about the novel. Not much got past him.

“You say that with a great deal of confidence,” he said, sipping his ice water and eyeing her over the rim of the glass.

“No reason I shouldn’t.”

He put out his hand expectantly. She held his stare and handed him the tablet.

He began to question her on the material. Francesca rattled off the correct answers without hesitation. The pilot informed them to prepare for landing, and Ian closed the tablet, sliding it into his briefcase. His handsome face was impassive, but she had the impression he was pleased.

“I have meetings this afternoon and all of tomorrow at the office, but I’ll ask Jacob to take you out for some driving practice. Another time or two behind the wheel, and you’ll be ready to get your license,” he stated with confidence.

Francesca ignored the flare of irritation she felt—it was as if getting her license had been added to some kind of mental checklist that he planned to complete in methodical Ian fashion. Instead of commenting on that, however, she focused on something else that he’d said that surprised her.

“This afternoon? What time is it in Chicago?”

He checked his Rolex. “About the same time that we left Paris: eleven forty.”

“Wow, it’s like we transported.”

He flashed an unexpected smile. The plane dipped as they went in for a landing, amplifying the swooping sensation in her belly. That smile always made him more approachable. She had an overwhelming desire to ask about the woman she’d seen him with this morning, to ask him why he’d seemed so affected by the meeting . . .

. . . to demand that he tell her something that helped her understand the enigma of him.

But Ian had another agenda altogether.

“You mentioned being a financial disaster,” he said. Francesca stared at him, openmouthed. It was as if he’d just resumed a conversation they were having yesterday, without a beat. “What do you plan on doing with the money you earned for the painting commission?”

She gripped the armrest, jolting slightly when the plane hit the runway. Ian never blinked.

“What do you mean what do I plan to do with it? I plan to use it for my education . . . my future.”

“Naturally, but it’s not as if you’ll have to write a check for a hundred thousand dollars anytime soon, will you?”

She shook her head.

“Why don’t you let me invest the bulk of it?”

“No,” she blurted out. She saw his blank expression of incredulity at her adamancy. There were thousands of people who would be turning cartwheels at the prospect of financial wizard Ian Noble offering to invest their money for them.

“You can’t leave that much money in a checking account,” he stated as if saying the most obvious thing on the planet. “It makes no sense whatsoever.”

“It makes sense to me! People like me don’t invest money, Ian.”

“People like you? Do you mean other fools? Because that’s what you’d have to be to leave that amount of money in a checking account,” he said, blue eyes sparking.

She started forward in the lounger, prepared to retort hotly, and then reconsidered. She leaned back and regarded him. He stilled when he noticed her speculative look.

“What?” he asked, slightly suspicious.

“I’ll invest it myself if you teach me how.”

The wary gleam in his eyes transformed into one of amusement.

“I haven’t got time to tutor you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Not on personal investing, anyway,” he added, a sexy grin pulling at his lips. Her pulse skipped. God help her, he was beautiful. He unfastened his seat belt when the plane came to a halt.

“Would you really like to learn about finances?”

“Sure. I need all the help I can get.”

He said nothing as he clicked his briefcase closed and stood. He donned his sport coat and came over to her, reaching for her hand. She unfastened her seat belt, and he gently pulled her up next to him.

“We’ll have to see what we can manage between your other lessons,” he murmured, dipping his head and fitting his lips to hers.

What was it about the contrast between Ian’s aloofness at times and his sudden, immense heat that created such a sharp, overwhelming longing in her?

It felt strange to her a half an hour later to see the Chicago skyline set against a cornflower-blue sky. It looked the same as it always had, but she felt different. When Jacob veered the limousine onto North Avenue from the interstate, she mentally prepared herself for returning to her former life. It was hard to mentally fit this Francesca into the former Francesca’s world. Paris had done that to her.

Ian had.

Even if he walked away today, could she really regret her sensual awakening, the widening and deepening of her world?

“Are you painting tomorrow after class?” Ian asked from where he sat across from her on the leather bench seat in the back of the limo.

“Yes,” she said, gathering her purse. Jacob had just come to a stop in front of Davie’s Wicker Park townhome. She glanced at Ian, feeling a little awkward at the realization that now they would return to their separate worlds. Jacob rapped once on the window, and Ian casually leaned over and rapped once back. The door remained closed.

“I would like you to have dinner with me Thursday evening,” he said.

“All right,” she said, both pleased and flustered by his statement.

“And on Friday and Saturday, I’d like to have you. Period.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. A profound sense of relief struck her. Given the edge to his tone just now, he definitely wasn’t finished with her yet.

“I have to work on Saturday night.”

“Sunday then,” he said, unconcerned.

She nodded.

“I’ve asked Jacob to take you driving later this afternoon, and tomorrow afternoon as well. You two can arrange a time for tomorrow. Today, he’ll pick you up at four. Maybe you’d like to rest before then.”

“Not likely,” she said wryly. “I’m going to take a run, and then I need to get some work done for school.” He regarded her silently, his face cast in the shadows of the interior of the cab. She swallowed and gathered her purse closer to her body. “Thank you. For Paris,” she said in a rush.

“Thank you,” he replied simply.

She edged toward the door, feeling self-conscious.

“Francesca.” He dipped his hand into an inner pocket of his sport coat and handed her a leather box. Her breath froze when she recognized the name of the jeweler that had been in the Paris hotel.

He’d gone into the jeweler this morning to get something for me, not the mysterious woman.

“I told you that I would get you something for your hair when we arrived in Paris, but you wouldn’t let me take you shopping. I hope they’re to your liking. I’m not accustomed to choosing such feminine things without Lin’s assistance.”

Swallowing thickly, she opened the box. She gasped. Nestled in black velvet were eight large hairpins, each with a delicate crescent of stones at the tip. Once they were pushed into a twist of hair, it would appear that the upswept style glittered with diamonds. It wasn’t only a luxurious gift, it was incredibly tasteful and personal.

She looked at Ian, eyes wide in amazement.

“I told the jeweler about the amount of hair that you had, and she assured me this number of pins would restrain even your glory.” He blinked when she didn’t speak. “Francesca? You like them, don’t you?”

If she hadn’t heard the hint of uncertainty in his usually level, brisk tone, she might have had the wherewithal to refuse what she suspected was a very expensive gift. As it was—

“Are you kidding? Ian, they’re gorgeous.” Her lips trembled as she looked back at the pins. “They’re not real diamonds, are they?”

“If they’re rhinestones, I paid a great deal too much,” he said dryly, all traces of his former uncertainty gone. “Will you wear them? Thursday night at dinner?”

She looked into his shadowed face. Why was it so difficult to say no to him? It wasn’t that need to please him that she experienced with him sexually. It was something else . . . a desire to show him that she’d found his gift thoughtful . . . beautiful . . .

. . . that he was beautiful to her.

“Yes,” she answered, wondering how diamond-studded hair and jeans would look together.

Ian’s slow smile was reason enough to accept the luxurious gift. She forced herself to look away from that addictive sight and reach for the door handle.

“And Francesca?”

She glanced back, breathless.

“Just so you know,” he said, his smile now seeming to laugh at himself, “if it weren’t for this damn acquisition, I’d have you in my bed right this second, and we’d be continuing your lessons with vigor.”

* * *

The next several days flew by as Francesca ricocheted from homework, class, painting at Ian’s penthouse, and her new driving lessons with Jacob. The latter ended up being more fun than she’d expected. Ian’s driver was pleasant, fun company. Plus, Jacob possessed two important qualities for sitting in a passenger seat while Francesca piloted one of Ian’s luxury automatic vehicles: nerves of steel and a sense of humor.

On Wednesday evening, she drove for the first time in the city. When she pulled up in front of High Jinks and put the car in neutral, she gave Jacob a hopeful glance, which the middle-aged driver returned with a wide grin.

“I think you’ll be ready to take your test anytime you say the word.”

“You really think so?” she asked.

“I really do. We’ll go out to the suburbs to take the test. It’ll be a lot easier taking it there than in the city.”

“I feel bad about taking you away from your duties so much this week,” she said, gathering her purse. She was working a shift tonight at High Jinks, and Jacob had suggested she drive herself there as part of her lesson.

“My duties are whatever Ian tells me they are,” Jacob said, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “And he tells me my duty is to make sure you get your driver’s license . . . oh, and to keep you safe at all costs in the process.”

She lowered her head to hide her pleasure at his off-the-cuff comment. “He doesn’t ask much, does he?” Francesca asked, thinking about the handful of times she’d just missed hurtling the two of them into wrecks on Chicago streets this afternoon.

Jacob chuckled. “It’s been a nice break from my normal routine. Besides, Ian has been holed up in his office since we got back from Paris, hammering out the details for a deal going down this week. He hasn’t needed me.”

Francesca had been glad for this tidbit of news. She certainly hadn’t caught a glimpse or heard a peep from Ian since they’d returned to Chicago. His absence just made her anticipation for having dinner with him—of seeing him, period—on Thursday all that much sharper.

Unfortunately, he never called her to say the time he expected to see her for dinner. As a result, she did her best to focus on her painting Thursday afternoon and into the evening. Mrs. Hanson would tell him she was in the studio if he inquired. Slowly, as her work commenced, all of her fluttery, nervous excitement about spending time with Ian slipped away, and she entered the sublime zone of creative focus she craved as an artist.

When a shoulder cramp sliced through her concentration at about seven o’clock that evening, she was forced to lower her brush and consider what she’d wrought.

“It’s incredible.”

The hair on her arms and on the back of her neck stood up in awareness of the familiar quiet, hoarse voice. She spun around. He stood just inside the closed door, wearing an immaculately cut dark gray suit, white shirt, and pale blue tie. His hair was sexily mussed, as if he’d walked home from the office through a Lake Michigan breeze. Francesca walked over to a table in order to dry the excess paint off her brush, needing a moment to catch her breath at the sight of him.

“It’s coming along. I’m having some trouble getting the light just the way that I want it on the Noble Enterprises building. I need to go over and stand in the lobby of Noble Enterprises to check the light there, as well . . . see what it’ll look like once it’s hung.”

From the corner of her vision, she saw him walking toward her, his approach like that of a sleek, powerful animal’s. She placed her brush in a solvent and turned to face him. His blue eyes captured her stare and held tight.

Like always.

“The painting is amazing. I was referring to you, though. It’s incredible to watch you work. It’s a little like catching a goddess while she creates a small part of the world,” he said, reaching up to touch her cheek, a self-deprecating smile on his full lips at his whimsical turn of thought.

“Do you really like it? The painting?’ she asked, unable to pull her gaze off his mouth. He stood close enough that she caught his scent—English milled soap, the subtle fragrance of spicy aftershave, and just a hint of the fresh breeze he’d just been in. Her body responded immediately, perking up in sensual awareness.

“Yes. But that’s no surprise to me. I knew whatever you painted would be brilliant.”

“I don’t know how you could know that,” she said, glancing aside in embarrassment.

“Because you are,” he said, shifting his hand to cradle her jaw, tilting her face back up to his. He leaned down and kissed her with firm deliberation. No brushing, shaping lips this time. He almost immediately penetrated her mouth with his tongue, as if he’d craved her taste and could wait no longer. Heat and pleasure rushed through her sex when she registered his heat and flavor . . . when she acknowledged his complete dominance of her senses.

When he lifted his head a moment later, Francesca blinked open her eyelids sluggishly, still drunk from his potent kiss. At the touch of his fingers moving fleetly, unfastening the buttons of her blouse, her eyes went wide.

“Mrs. Hanson?”

“I locked the door when I came in,” he said.

Liquid heat surged from her sex at the sensation of his fingers moving in the sensitive valley between her breasts. He flicked his wrist, and the front clasp of her bra snapped open. He peeled the fabric back and stared, his nostrils flaring.

“Why am I so greedy when it comes to you?”

“Ian—” she began, moved by his intensity, but he cut her off, leaning down to take a prickling nipple into his warm, wet mouth. She gasped as pleasure rushed through her sex, her hand flying to his head. He agitated and whipped at the crest with a firm, sleek tongue, and then drew on her. She moaned, her fingers clawing in his hair. He massaged her other breast, pressing the nipple against his palm, and then pinching at it tenderly with his fingers. Her head fell back as she abandoned herself to rioting pleasure.

He raised his head after a moment and studied her bared, flushed breasts. “So beautiful. I don’t know why I haven’t spent at least an entire day worshipping them,” he murmured as if to himself, stimulating both beading nipples at once. “I want to spend a whole day worshipping each square inch of you, but there aren’t enough hours in a day. Besides,” he said, his mouth becoming hard. “I always lose control before I can.”

“It’s okay to lose control, Ian. Sometimes,” she said softly.

He looked up, his gaze piercing her as he continued to finesse a nipple with one hand. He began to unfasten her jeans, holding her stare all the while.

“I want to watch while you lose control. Right now,” he said. He didn’t shove her jeans down her thighs, just opened the button fly and slipped his long fingers beneath her panties.

“Oh!” she gasped when he burrowed between her labia and began to agitate her clit. He grunted in satisfaction.

“Creamy. Did you like having me suck on your beautiful breasts?” he muttered, his gaze roaming over her face, reading her reaction to his intimate touch.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Put your hands on your breasts. Squeeze them. It will please me,” he added when he noticed her hesitation.

It was all he needed to say. She gathered her breasts in her hands, massaging them, experiencing her own flesh in a whole new way because of Ian’s hot stare on her. He continued to rub her clit with expert precision. With his other hand, he cradled her jaw and caressed her tenderly with his thumb, the contrast between his demanding, intimate touch on her sex and his gentle stroking of her cheek driving her wild for some reason. His gaze flickered down to her chest. He watched as she played with her breasts for his pleasure . . . and, increasingly, her own.

“That’s right. Pinch the nipples,” he said, his voice growing rough, his movements between her thighs more forceful. “Now hold them up—present those pretty pink nipples to me.”

Francesca blinked through a haze of rising arousal. She lifted her breasts from below, unsure of what he expected. He swept down suddenly and treated first one nipple, then the other, to a sweet, hot suck. It was too much. When she felt the scrape of his teeth against a painfully erect nipple, she broke in delicious climax. Sharp, jagged pleasure tore through her.

When she came back to herself, his hand was still moving between her thighs, but he stood erect, watching her as she came. Slowly, his hand fell away from her sex.

“Forgive me. I thought I could wait until after dinner, but watching you paint is the most potent kind of aphrodisiac,” he said, his eyes gleaming with heat. She glanced down and saw him lowering his pants.

Chapter Twelve

When he withdrew his cock, she understood why he’d had to stretch the waistband so wide to free himself. He was huge and hard. Her clit twanged in arousal. When she saw the rigidness of his bold, handsome features, she immediately sunk to her knees. No handcuffs this time. No vibrator.

Just Ian’s naked need . . . and her own.

His fingers furrowed in her hair when she angled his penis with one hand. She was stunned at the weight of it, the pulsing warmth . . . the teeming life. She used her other hand to touch a thigh, which felt iron hard and was dusted with crisp dark hair. She couldn’t get enough of the sensation of him—so virile, so flagrantly male. He grunted when she brushed the flaring crown of his cock against her cheek and then her lips, experimenting with sensation. His testicles felt round and taut beneath her seeking fingers.

She sighed in pleasure and slipped him into her mouth, his girth stretching her lips.

He was letting her touch him for the first time, and she luxuriated in the experience. She slid her tongue around the delineated crown of the head, loving the way his fingers tightened in her hair, sucking him into her mouth, pulling on him hungrily.

She closed her eyes and was lost in the voluptuous, eternal moment. Her entire world narrowed down to the sensation of Ian’s hard, throbbing flesh—the very essence of him—thrusting between her sensitive, squeezing lips, the feeling of the thick staff sliding through her tight fist, his taste being pounded into her awareness until her craving for the distilled flavor of him overwhelmed her.

She took him into her throat, not because he wanted it but because she did. Her need was that absolute.

Distantly, she became aware of him saying her name, sounding desperate . . . a little lost. Her mouth and jaw hurt from squeezing him so hard, and her throat was being punished by his thrusts, but she sucked harder, wanting to alleviate his pain . . .

. . . if only for one bright, shattering moment.

Her eyes sprang wide, her thick, lust-induced spell shattered at the sensation of his cock swelling impossibly large in her mouth. He erupted while lodged deep, Francesca feeling both utterly at his mercy and completely in control, because she trusted him not to harm her. Sure enough, he withdrew with a guttural groan and continued to come on her tongue, his fingers fisted in her hair as he controlled the motions, moving her mouth back and forth over his length, stroking her shallowly. She sucked until the last sweet, musky drops of his semen spilled onto her tongue, his ragged pants echoing in her ears, his fingers loosening from a grip in her hair to a caress.

“Come here,” she heard him say harshly a moment later.

She reluctantly slid his cock out of her mouth, preferring to stay there and milk the softening but still formidable flesh, play with him . . . learn him. He helped her to her feet and immediately swept down to seize her lips in one of his patentable forceful yet tender kisses.

“You’re so sweet,” he said a moment later, his breathing still choppy against her puffy sore lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, smiling full out. Something about his honest need and her ability to answer it had pleased her greatly. His head bent over her, he touched his thumb to her smile.

“You make me lose control, Francesca.”

Her smile faded slightly when she saw the shadow fall in his eyes. She had the distinct impression that he wasn’t entirely pleased about his greediness for her.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Is there?”

He blinked, and the shadows dissipated.

“I suppose not. But we have a schedule,” he murmured, leaning down to rain kisses on her cheek and then her ear. She shivered, her sex heating again. “God you smell good,” he muttered, his warm lips now examining her neck.

“Ian? What schedule?” she managed with difficulty.

He lifted his head, and she wished she hadn’t asked.

“We have reservations for dinner at eight thirty.”

“We could be a little late, couldn’t we?” she coaxed, furrowing her fingers through his short, thick hair, relishing in the sensation. He so rarely let her touch him. She hated the idea of stopping because of a schedule.

“Unfortunately, we can’t be,” he said regretfully, stepping away from her and refastening his pants. She did the same with her own. He grabbed her hand and started to lead her out of the studio. “We’re dining with the owner of a company that I’ve been maneuvering to buy. I have good reason to believe that tonight Xander LaGrange is going to stop playing his infuriating games of cat and mouse and sign on the dotted line. I think I’ve finally sweetened the deal sufficiently to something even that greedy prick can’t refuse,” he muttered under his breath as he led her down the silent plush hallways of his penthouse.

“Oh,” Francesca said, practically running to keep up with his long-legged stride. She was surprised he’d asked her to such an important business meeting. Was it entirely wise on his part, she wondered, as the nerve butterflies started to flicker around in her belly. Her parents would certainly have said it was a terrible decision on Ian’s part. “Where do we have reservations?”

“At Sixteen,” he said, pulling her into his bedroom suite and shutting the door after them.

She blinked. “Ian, that’s one of the nicest restaurants in the city,” she said, panic starting to encroach. “I haven’t got anything to wear to a dinner like that . . . in one hour!” she added, horrified by the realization. “Did you reserve another private room?”

“No.” He waved at her in a follow-me gesture. He opened the door and flipped on a light. She entered, staring around in wonder at the rows of perfectly hung suits. She’d thought it was a closet, but it was a dressing room. It was bigger than her bedroom, long and narrow. The scent of Ian’s aftershave clung in the air along with the smell of something pleasant and spicy. She noticed perfectly aligned cedar hangers and rows and rows of highly buffed shoes, and realized the hangers and cedar shoe trees were the origin of the scent.

Ian waved his hand in front of a rack, and she stared for a moment, not comprehending what she was seeing.

Why were there dresses in his closet? And women’s shoes and accessories?

Her throat suddenly seemed to swell closed. She stared at him, aghast.

“I’m not wearing other women’s clothes!” she said, stung to the core that he’d even suggest her putting on clothing that had once belonged to his former lovers.

He looked a little nonplussed by her reaction. “They aren’t other women’s clothes. They’re yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Margarite had them delivered yesterday. They’re off-the-rack,” he said almost apologetically, “but she had them tailored for you.”

“Margarite,” Francesca said slowly, as if pronouncing a foreign word for the first time. “Why would Margarite have done that?”

“Because I told her to, of course.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in his still dressing room.

“Ian, I told you specifically I didn’t want clothing from you,” she said, anger rising.

“And I told you that there would be occasions I wanted you to attend with me where you couldn’t wear jeans, Francesca. Tonight is one of them. I also asked you to wear your new hairpins this evening,” he said so briskly it drove her off course. “Where are they?”

“Wha . . . in my purse,” she sputtered. “In the studio.”

He nodded once. “I’ll go and get them for you. In the meantime, you can shower and get ready. You’ll find lingerie there,” he said, nodding in the direction of a small antique chest of drawers near where the dresses hung. He started to walk out of the room.

“Ian—”

He turned around, his stare like a flicking whip. “I won’t argue with you about this. Do you want to be with me tonight?” he asked quietly.

“I . . . yes, you know that I do.”

“Then get ready and choose one of the dresses. You can’t attend a dinner like this in jeans.”

He left her standing there, her mouth hanging open, her nerves tingling with anger. She tried to think of a way around it but couldn’t. It was true what he’d said. She couldn’t be escorted by Ian Noble to the main dining room of one of the nicest, most luxurious restaurants in the city dressed like this.

Looking like her.

Her anger simmered at his heavy-handedness, though. For some reason, memories of her father’s impatience and vague disgust with her appearance when she’d occasionally been in social situations with his peers rose up and bit her, aggravating the sting from Ian’s imperious behavior.

For God’s sake, Francesca, if everything that spills out of that mouth of yours is going to be so stupid, why don’t you just keep it shut! And not by stuffing your face any more than you already have tonight.

She’d been twelve years old when her father had taken her aside in the kitchen and uttered those words. She reexperienced the flood of shame and insubordination she’d felt back then—a familiar brew of emotion. Francesca never gorged herself in public—it was just that her father’s critical eye seemed to be on her every time she took a bite of food. It’d always been that way.

If her father thought she was an unsightly blemish on the earth, then she’d make sure that’s precisely what she was.

Ian had willfully ignored her wishes about the clothing and gone right ahead with his own agenda. And all the while, Francesca had thought he’d understood her . . . sympathized with her, even.

She jerked open one of the dresser drawers and ran her fingers over exquisite silk panties, bras, and hosiery.

He’d said he wanted her to own her sexuality . . . feel empowered by it. Was this all part of his manipulations to get her to do so?

She withdrew a pair of sheer black thigh-high silk stockings. Well, if Ian wanted her to flaunt it, he better be prepared for the result.

* * *

He was in the process of tying a tie when she walked out of the bathroom fifty minutes later. Their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror he used, above a cherrywood dresser. His gaze slowly lowered over her, his body going rigid in abrupt male awareness.

She looked like she ought to be declared illegal, wearing a black V-neck bandage dress that hugged her willowy waist, the taut, lush curves of her hips and slender thighs like a lover. He realized, with a potent mixture of regret and possessive arousal, that her lush lips were still puffy from his forceful possession of her mouth earlier. Another experienced man would recognize the evidence for what it was, and he didn’t care for the idea of putting Francesca on display in that manner before a man like Xander LaGrange. Her gleaming strawberry-blonde hair had been affixed to her head with what he suspected were the diamond pins he’d bought her. She wore simple pearl earrings. He couldn’t take his eyes off the flawless ivory expanse of skin in the wide V-neck, revealing the majority of her chest and part of her alabaster shoulders. He couldn’t believe it was an off-the-rack dress. It looked like it’d been tailor-made for her alone.

She was tightly packaged sexual elegance.

“Choose another dress, please,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the shockingly alluring image of her to finish tying his tie.

“We’re going to be late as it is,” Francesca replied. He glanced back at her, wondering if she was avoiding his stare with those long-lashed nymph eyes of hers that always killed him. She checked the contents of the ebony lizard-skinned clutch in her hand. A flicker of suspicion went through him, even as he was once again captured by the vision of her.

She hadn’t chosen that ridiculously sexy dress to make him pay for buying her clothing, had she? The four-inch heels and the sheer stockings she wore made a vivid fantasy pop into his brain of having those long, gorgeous legs wrapped around him while he was riding her furiously into submission . . .

. . . into screaming bliss.

He scowled and stalked into his dressing room. Xander LaGrange was a lecher. He couldn’t stand the man, to be honest, and it’d been the worst kind of torture to cater to his ridiculous, narcissistic demands in order to make the final acquisition on Ian’s terms. He’d specifically asked Francesca to the ceremonial dinner tonight to seal the deal because he was worried he’d say something rude or sharp to the oily LaGrange, ruining his chances to acquire the other man’s company. With Francesca there, he’d be less focused on LaGrange’s smug belief that he’d bettered Ian with the deal.

It’d be easier for him to control his temper while Francesca was there. Her freshness softened him.

But he hadn’t expected to take a sex siren to a dinner where Xander LaGrange was present.

He returned to the bedroom, a lightweight cropped black sweater with a jeweled clasp in his hand. “If you must wear it, please put this on. It’ll cover all that—” he paused, his gaze on her exposed chest in the wide V-neck. Her breasts were decently under wraps, even if a large expanse of skin at her chest and shoulders was bare. The way the dress molded and shaped her breasts, however, equated to visual sex candy. The black fabric made her skin look exceptionally white and smooth by contrast . . . very naked.

“Skin,” he finished under his breath, willfully ignoring the eager lurch of his cock. “I’ll speak to Margarite. I asked her for sexy-discreet, not jaw-dropping and eye-popping.”

“I don’t see your jaw dropping,” she said lightly, turning so he could slip the cover-up over her shoulders. When he didn’t immediately put the sleeves next to her hand, she glanced back, catching him staring at her luscious ass encased in the clinging fabric.

“It’s dropping on the inside,” he mumbled before he slipped the sleeves over her hands and she shrugged on the cover-up. He grasped her shoulders and turned her toward him, examining her. “You didn’t wear this particular dress to make some sort of point, did you?”

“What point would that be?” she asked, her chin going up.

“A point of defiance.”

“You asked me to wear one of the dresses, and I am.”

“Take care, Francesca,” he said in a quiet, ominous tone, brushing his fingertip across the soft skin of her jaw and feeling her shiver. Heat rushed through his cock. She really was going to kill him before this was through.

“Take care of what?” she asked.

“You know what I think of impulsiveness. You know the consequences for it,” he added quietly, before he took her hand and led her out of the suite.

* * *

Sixteen was housed in the Trump International Hotel & Tower, the dining room dominated by the modern, clean lines of cherrywood-paneled walls and an enormous, stunning Swarovski-crystal chandelier. They dined next to thirty-foot tall floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at magnificent views of the city, some of the buildings so close she felt like she could reach out and touch them.

Francesca initially thought that the best way to describe their dinner companion, Xander LaGrange, was polished, but she quickly altered the descriptor to slick. She learned that Ian and he knew each other through the University of Chicago and were old rivals—or at least from Xander’s viewpoint.

“So you were in college together?” she clarified when Xander made a vague reference to how long he and Ian had known each other.

“I was a graduate student when Ian was a freshman at the University of Chicago,” Xander explained. “Once he came along, myself and the rest of the computer-science department were constantly trying to find our ways out of his brilliant shadow. Ian and I shared an academic mentor. Professor Sharakoff asked me to grade his papers and Ian to write a book with him.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Xander,” Ian said quietly

“I thought I was downplaying things,” LaGrange said with a swift smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

LaGrange was in his mid-thirties, with short sandy-blond hair graying at the temples. He was handsome and charming enough, Francesca supposed, for a dinner companion. She immediately sensed the underlying conflict between Ian and him, however. By the time the waiter came to take their drink orders, she’d gauged that while Ian was the epitome of polite charm toward the other man, he despised him. She sensed his dislike from where he sat next to her, with his rigid posture and strained muscles.

Xander LaGrange, on the other hand, was full-out envious of Ian . . . possibly even aggressively so. She studied his white-toothed smiles, which reminded her more of a snarl, and wondered if LaGrange’s jealousy wasn’t at the bottom of his reluctance to Ian’s terms for the acquisition of his company all this time.

“Would you like club soda?” Ian asked her when the waiter arrived.

“No. Champagne, I think,” she said, returning LaGrange’s smile of appreciation at her choice. She was feeling a little daring tonight . . . euphoric. Maybe it was the sexy dress, or the stunning view, or the appreciative gleam in LaGrange’s eyes as he studied her from across the table—or Ian’s quiet threat before they’d left his bedroom—but she was definitely feeling rebellious and . . .

. . . stirred up.

Was this the power that Ian wanted her to own?

“Where did you find this long-stemmed rose, Ian?” LaGrange mused, his eyes hot on Francesca, after Ian had placed an order for a bottle of champagne. Ian explained about her winning the commission to provide the painting for his lobby. “Gifted in addition to being beautiful,” LaGrange complimented when Ian was finished. He gave Ian a glance that struck her as wolfish. “I can understand why you wanted to bring her tonight.”

Her gaze immediately flew to Ian. Was LaGrange insinuating that Ian had brought her as a piece of arm candy to make final negotiations go more smoothly? She’d wondered herself why he’d asked her to the dinner. A shadow flickered across Ian’s countenance and was gone.

“I brought Francesca because I’ve been so busy on this deal with you that I haven’t had the opportunity to see her much.”

“And it’s greatly appreciated,” LaGrange assured, his dark eyes flickering across Francesca’s face and chest. The waiter uncorked their champagne, adding to Francesca’s giddy mood. “There’s no deal that a beautiful woman doesn’t sweeten,” he added, making her flush in embarrassment.

Did Ian stiffen next to her? She thought not when he began to converse with LaGrange amiably enough about some final details of their deal. She gathered from their exchange that a major holdup in negotiations thus far had been that LaGrange wanted partial payment in stock from Ian’s company, while Ian insisted on a cash-only purchase. She could well imagine Ian refusing to give a hold—even a relatively minor one—to any other person over his company. Apparently, he’d finally offered LaGrange a cash amount that couldn’t be walked away from.

“No sane man could refuse that offer, Ian,” LaGrange finally conceded, raising his champagne flute for a toast. “So here’s to your new company.”

Ian’s smile seemed a little strained as Francesca joined them in the toast. “Lin Soong delivered all the necessaries to my penthouse this evening. We can go there for a nightcap following dinner and take care of all the paperwork.”

Talk turned to more mundane matters. LaGrange encouraged Francesca to talk about her artwork and school, which she did so more ebulliently than usual, likely due to the champagne. Ian gave her a gleaming sideways glance when the waiter poured her a third glass, but she determinedly ignored his subtle warning for propriety. Instead, she heartily agreed with LaGrange when he suggested they get another bottle.

Halfway through her delicious entrée of wild black bass, she felt an imperative need to attend the lady’s room. She excused herself and started to push back her chair. Ian stood and pulled it back for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his eyes. He blinked when she started to remove the cover-up. “I’m a little warm,” she explained breathlessly.

He really had no other choice but to help her remove it, but she noticed the stiffness of his jaw. She grabbed her clutch and headed in search of the lady’s room, both embarrassed and thrilled by the number of heads that turned her way as she progressed across the dining room. She prayed Ian’s eyes were on her as well. The attention she was getting was more intoxicating than the champagne.

Was this the type of thing that beautiful women experienced on a daily basis? Incredible, she thought, as she smiled at a man in his forties who was staring at her, and he tripped, ruffling his female companion when he grabbed for her arm to steady himself.

LaGrange looked highly amused when she returned to the table and Ian stood to seat her. “I expect you bring traffic to a halt on a regular basis, Francesca?” he murmured, holding her stare over the rim of his champagne glass.

“Never,” she replied with sincere cheerfulness. “Except for once—I tripped in the middle of Michigan Avenue after running a mini-marathon and getting a bad cramp.”

LaGrange laughed as if she were being delightfully coy. He wasn’t so bad was he, really? Ian was being too harsh. She grinned back at him, glancing sideways at Ian. Her smile faded when she noticed that subdued flash in Ian’s eyes that always reminded her of heat lightning—the signal of an approaching storm.

The rest of the dinner passed by in a sensual whirl of delicious food, Swarovski crystal, LaGrange’s admiring glances and flirtations—Ian’s dark, intense sexuality simmering next to her all the while . . . building . . . coiling tight. She laughed a good deal more than she should have, and did the same drinking champagne and taking pleasure in the admiring glances of Xander LaGrange and many of the other men in the restaurant. She was exquisitely attuned to Ian as the three of them chatted, and somehow knew he was just as aware of her. She relished in the knowledge that she held a man like Ian Noble fast on the hook of the intoxicating power of her sexuality.

When she backed up her chair a tad as they sipped coffee later, she realized the tight dress had ridden up on her thighs, revealing the lacy top of one of her thigh-highs. She saw Ian’s hand pause as he reached for his coffee cup and felt his gaze on her lap.

Stunned by her daring, she slipped a finger beneath the lace of the thigh-high, stroking the soft skin in a slow, sensual, in-and-out fucking motion. Risking an innocent glance at Ian’s face, she saw a barely contained inferno blazing in his blue eyes.

She swallowed thickly and lowered her dress, feeling scorched by his stare.

* * *

Ian was quiet where he sat next to her in the back of the limo on the return to the penthouse. She strained to keep up the conversation, hoping LaGrange didn’t take Ian’s silence for surliness. Hadn’t Ian asked her to attend this business dinner to charm LaGrange, to soften him up a bit for the final negotiations? Well, she’d done it, hadn’t she? LaGrange had appeared to have a wonderful time at dinner, and he seemed all too ready and willing to sign on the dotted line now.

LaGrange proved a little too ready and willing, however, as he shouldered Jacob aside and helped her out of the limo when they reached Ian’s. His hand dropped to cup her hip as she alighted, then lowered to stroke her ass. Francesca started and immediately moved away, repelled by the man’s touch. She recoiled internally when she glanced back and saw the icy gleam in Ian’s eyes as he got out of the limo.

Crap. He’d noticed.

She was quiet on the elevator ride up to Ian’s penthouse. The intoxicating effect of the champagne was waning, and she suddenly felt the full weight of her foolish behavior that evening. Ian was polite but quiet—perhaps furious with her, it was always hard to tell with his stoic expression—while LaGrange continued on with his pointless banter, apparently clueless as to Ian’s thundercloud mood and Francesca’s flattened, suddenly regretful one.

“I’ll just leave you two to finish your business,” Francesca said when they reached the entry to the penthouse. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Xander.”

LaGrange took her hand and held it between both of his. “No, you must come with us for a nightcap. I insist.”

“I insist I can’t,” she said, her manner friendly but equally firm. “I have a big day tomorrow at school. Good night,” she said, edging in the direction of Ian’s bedroom suite. She suddenly was wild to get out of this dress.

“But no, that’s—”

“Wait for me,” Ian said to her in his crisp British accent and authoritarian tone, cutting off LaGrange’s protests with rapier precision.

Another stab of rebellion went through her when she saw the glint in his eyes. How dare he talk so imperiously to her in front of others? Her chin went up, but then she recalled how giddily she’d behaved at the restaurant. How foolishly. She glanced at an insulted-looking LaGrange. Was he offended for Francesca, or was he pricked by the way Ian had just cut him off? She nodded to Ian once and turned down the hallway, leaving them. A rush of trepidation went through her.

She’d wanted to tweak Ian for his heavy-handedness earlier, but perhaps she’d gone too far?

He likely was going to be furious at her silly, flirtatious behavior all night. But hadn’t he deserved it? she thought as she nervously checked her messages on her phone once she reached Ian’s suite. She couldn’t have him constantly trying to mastermind her life.

She stood in Ian’s bathroom a moment later and began to remove the beautiful diamond hairpins, trying to convince herself she’d been right to defy him in her subtle fashion. The way he’d ignored her input about the clothing purchase . . . taking her to dinner where he apparently expected her to charm and beguile his prey with her sexuality. How dare he objectify her in that way?

Well, he’d know better than to use her in that way in the future, she thought with anxious contempt as her hair spilled down her back and she reached to unzip the dress.

She froze when she heard a loud thumping sound in the far distance. What in the world had that been? She hesitated, unsure if she should go and check on Ian. It sounded like someone had just hit the floor very hard.

Her heart leapt into her throat a moment later, when she heard the door to Ian’s suite open and close with a brisk bang, then the unmistakable sound of the lock clicking.

She glanced sideways and saw Ian through the open bathroom door.

“Leave the dress on,” he said, his voice like frozen steel. She realized her hands were still at her back in preparation to unzip the dress. “Come here.”

His jacket was unbuttoned, his muscles tense, his expression rigid. Her gaze dropped to the gleam of his belt buckle and the stark evidence of his virility beneath it. Her heart started to throb against her breastbone.

“Is Xander already gone?” she asked as she left the bathroom, her voice sounding tremulous to her own ears.

“Yes. For good.”

She paused a few feet away from him. “What do you mean for good? You mean because he’s sold you his company, you won’t be seeing him anymore?”

“No. Because I told him to take his company and shove it up his ass.”

She blinked, thinking for a second she’d misunderstood him saying something so crass in his crisp, accented voice. Her eyes widened when she noticed the feral gleam in his eyes.

“Ian . . . you didn’t . . . but you wanted that software for your company so much, you’ve been working so hard on this deal.” Dread sank in her belly like a weight. “Oh no. You didn’t tell Xander LaGrange to shove it because of the way I acted tonight, did you?”

“I told Xander LaGrange to shove it and threw him face-first on the elevator just now because I can’t stand that bloody bastard,” Ian grated out through a clenched jaw as he approached her. She looked up and saw the fury and heat in his eyes. She almost backed up, he looked so fierce, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “And also because he had the balls to ask for one additional item before he signed.”

“What?”

“You.” He ignored her shocked gasp. “He wasn’t entirely selfish. He said I could watch while he sealed the deal in your pussy.”

She gasped.

“His words, Francesca,” he bit out. “Not mine.”

She stared in disbelief and rising anxiety. She couldn’t believe Xander LaGrange was such a loathsome slimeball. Yet . . . if she hadn’t behaved so flirtatiously tonight, trying to defy Ian, Xander wouldn’t have done what he’d done. Ian would have his deal. Tears smarted in her eyes.

Oh, no. She’s completely ruined things for him. He may have deserved a little tormenting for his relentlessly arrogant behavior, but she’d never intended this.

“Ian, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . . surely you don’t think I meant—”

He placed his hand along the side of her head, holding her immobile, his scoring stare making her fall silent. “I know you didn’t mean to ruin the deal. You’re not that vindictive. Besides that, you’re too foolish to even know what you’re doing. Xander’s utter stupidity in suggesting I share you with him was just icing on the cake. The second that asshole touched you, the deal was finished. I only brought him up to the penthouse to tell him so. Before I got the chance, he made his last demand for the buyout and ended up leaving a lot more . . . abruptly than he’d planned as a result.”

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered, horrified.

“That’s because you have no idea how a man like Xander LaGrange thinks. You were having your fun playing with fire. You’ve got the body and a face of a goddess and the mentality of a six-year-old with a pretty new toy.”

Anger filtered through her misery. “I’m not a child, and I was just trying to prove to you that I won’t be treated like one, Ian!”

“You’re right,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrist. He began to walk to the far side of his enormous suite, Francesca trailing after him clumsily in her high heels. “You want to play the games of a woman, you want to flick matches at me to see if I burn? Well, you better be willing to take the consequences, Francesca,” he said, reaching into a drawer and drawing out some keys roughly.

Her chest felt so full of anxiety and regret and rising excitement, she couldn’t draw breath. What was he doing unlocking that door? She followed after him when he pulled on her wrist and entered a room that was about twenty feet by fifteen. This space contained a whole bank of built-in cherrywood drawers and cabinets. He shut the door behind her, and she looked around. The entire far corner was lined with mirrors and a contraption of some sort with springs and harnesses and black nylon straps. She stared wide-eyed at the device, her heart starting to drum in her ears.

“Go stand in front of the couch and take off your dress.”

She tore her eyes off the intimidating device and realized there was a plush sofa on the wall opposite from the shelves and mirror. An elegant chandelier strangely didn’t look out of place on the ceiling. So like Ian to pair crystal with kink. There were also other things in the windowless room, like two hooks with straps spaced along the wall, an unusually curved tall stool sitting in front of a piece of wood affixed to the wall like a ballet bar, and a padded bench.

“Ian, what is this room?”

“It’s the room where you’ll receive your more serious punishments,” he said before he walked over to the drawers and opened one. Her eyes widened when she saw several paddles and instruments with leather straps. Her mouth went dry when he grasped the handle of the familiar-looking black leather paddle and lifted it.

Oh no.

“I really didn’t mean to ruin the deal for you tonight,” she said in a rush.

“And I told you I knew that. I’m not punishing you because Xander LaGrange is a fucking tool. I’m going to punish you for tormenting me all night. Now didn’t I ask you to remove your dress?” he asked, the slightest hint of amusement in his dark-angel eyes when he turned to regard her, paddle in hand. His mirth vanished when she didn’t move.

“The door isn’t locked, Francesca. You can go if you choose. But if you stay, you will do as I say.”

She walked across the room, pausing in front of the couch, having trouble catching her breath. She noticed that her reflection in the mirrors across the way was pale as she reached to unzip her dress. Ian paused across the room in the action of opening another drawer as she peeled the tight garment off her skin.

Bandage dress indeed.

She hesitated when she’d removed the dress. “These too?” she asked shakily, referring to the bra, panties, and thigh-highs she wore, along with the black lizard-skin heels.

“Just take off the bra and panties,” he said, grabbing some items from a drawer and stalking toward her. His body blocked her view, making it difficult to see what he set on the padded table in addition to the paddle as she removed the requested garments. She glimpsed only one thing before he blocked her view as he walked toward her—an item that was like a long cone-shaped tube made of black rubber, a ring affixed to the thicker end.

She focused on his hand, her clit twanging in excitement when she saw the jar of stimulant. He must have noticed where she stared—or perhaps he noticed her stiffening nipples—because a grim smile tilted his hard mouth.

“That’s right. I’m weak when it comes to you. Pitifully so. I can’t bear to think of you experiencing only discomfort,” he said as he unscrewed the jar. He dipped a thick finger into the white emollient and met her stare. “Even for this—when you deserve a good, hard punishment.”

She swallowed thickly. “I really am sorry, Ian,” she said, not because of the intimidating black paddle over on the table, and not because of that strange black plug she’d glimpsed.

He frowned slightly and stepped toward her. She gasped loudly as he plunged his finger between her labia, rubbing the cream into her clit with a brisk precision that made her whimper.

“I spoil you,” he said, withdrawing his hand, leaving her to burn.

“I’ll have trouble believing that in a few minutes when my butt is on fire,” she muttered.

His gaze skipped to her face. Her eyes widened when she saw his potent smile. Heat rushed between her thighs.

She watched him, anticipation rising, as he went back over to the table and removed his jacket, admiring the lean flex of muscle beneath his dress shirt. He rolled back his shirtsleeves. She caught a glimpse of strong forearms and his gold watch. Nervous excitement frothed in her belly at the sight.

He meant business.

When he returned, she immediately tried to see what was in his hand.

“Curious?” he murmured.

She nodded.

“Since I’m going to blindfold you in a moment, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said quietly. He held up the familiar handcuffs. “I’m going to restrain your wrists, blindfold you, and give you an over the knee spanking. Once your ass is nice and hot,” he held up the black rubber plug with the circular end like a pacifier handle, as well as a bottle of clear gel, “I’m going to lube up this butt plug and ready your ass for my cock.”

Her heart froze for a suspended few seconds.

“You’re going to do what?”

“You heard me,” he said as he set the lubricant and butt plug on the couch. He nodded at one of her wrists. “The front,” he said, and she put her hands together before her mons, following his concise instructions without thought, her brain in stall mode. “Surely you knew men like to do that,” he said, noticing her bewilderment.

“Even if women don’t?”

“Some women do. A great deal.”

She thought of Ian’s huge penis and made her decision then and there. It would be a punishment to take it in her ass, pure and simple, no matter the clitoral stimulant that was beginning to make her prickle and burn in pleasure. He went to the table and came back holding a long black strip of silk—the blindfold. She frowned at him for good measure as he raised his hands to tie it around her eyes.

When he’d affixed the cloth and she was blindfolded, he led her to the couch. She thought she heard the soft sound of his large, solid body falling on the cushions. He guided her onto his lap. She came down awkwardly, her bound wrists causing her elbows to jab into his rock-solid thighs.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“It’s all right. Remember the position I taught you?” he murmured from somewhere above her. She nodded and slid her breasts over his outer thigh until the lower curves pressed against hard muscle, her bound hands were stretched out above her head, and her bare ass curved over his other leg. Her sex clenched tight when she clearly felt the outlines of his cock against her ribs and belly. A flare of panicked excitement bubbled up from her chest when she fully absorbed his dimensions and felt his throbbing warmth through the cloth of his pants.

“Ian, you’ll never be able to put that inside my—”

He cracked her ass with his palm, and she jumped in his lap.

“I will, lovely,” she heard him say. “And I’ll love every second of it. Now keep that bottom still.”

She bit her lip to keep from moaning as he began to slap her buttocks, and occasionally her thighs, with quick, stinging spanks. Her clit pinched in arousal. She decided she liked over-the-knee spankings more than the paddle. She liked Ian’s personal touch, and how his hand grew as warm as her smarting ass, and how his cock leapt against her body when he landed those firm slaps on the lower curves of her buttocks. Her entire focus narrowed to the feeling of his stark arousal pressing against her body and the anticipation of his next spank.

She adored how he paused in her punishment and stroked her now-fiery bottom with his big hand, as if to soothe the sting. She moaned when he suddenly squeezed an entire buttock tautly and flexed his hips, grinding her body against his raging erection.

“Why do you have to torment me, lovely?” she heard him rasp.

“I wonder the same thing about you,” she mumbled frantically, her face pressed into the couch, muffling her speech. He was still pressing her against his hard, aroused body, and her clit loved the pressure.

He grunted and released his hips.

“You’re a constant thorn in my side,” he said, sounding grim.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, missing the pressure of his cock, and his hand on her ass. What was he doing? She wondered, twisting her chin around, trying to hear something that would answer her question. A cry leaked out of her throat when he matter-of-factly spread an ass cheek with a large hand and kept it pried back. Her muscles tensed in anxiety when she felt a cool, hard pressure against her anus.

“I don’t really think you are sorry,” she heard Ian say from behind her. The pressure increased, and the tip of the plug slipped into her ass. “I think you like to torment me as much as I love to punish you.”

“Ian,” she moaned uncontrollably when he pushed the plug farther into her, and then began to slide the rubber tube out and back in several inches, back and forth, fucking her ass using the handle at the end, the lubrication making for a smooth glide despite the pressure.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice sounding rough.

Her mouth hung open, her flaming cheek pressed to the velvet of the couch.

“It feels so . . . strange,” she managed in a broken voice. She couldn’t adequately put into words how it felt—anxiety-provoking to lay in his lap at his mercy, shameful to give him control over such a private, forbidden part of her body, arousing to feel nerve endings flicker to life at the stimulation, mounting the burn at her clit in a way she’d never before experienced . . .

. . . beyond thrilling to feel the tension level leap in Ian’s muscles as he fucked her ass with the plug.

He sunk it deep, making her yelp in surprise.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, maintaining pressure with his fingers to keep the plug inserted.

She shook her head into the sofa, too overwhelmed to speak. The clit cream had gone into full effect. She tingled and simmered. As if Ian had sensed this, he reached beneath her and parted her labia, rubbing the erect piece of flesh. She shuddered in his lap.

“You begin to see why a woman might like this,” he drew the plug out of her and slid it back into her ass again, “as much as a man?”

She moaned uncontrollably. Did she ever. Nerves all along her sacrum flared to life as he continued to plunge the plug in and out of her while he rubbed her slick clit. If he kept this up, she’d soon be quivering in orgasm.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t Ian’s plan. He removed his hand, and the plug slid out of her ass, making her groan at the sudden interruption. She felt his fingers moving on the handcuffs. He unfastened the buckles and then slid the blindfold off her head. She blinked, even the subtle illumination from the crystal chandelier seeming bright after the pitch black of the blindfold. He took her hand.

“Stand up. I’ll help you,” he said.

She appreciated his guiding hands as she tried to do what he’d demanded, still disoriented from the light and the abrupt cessation of pleasure. She stood before him, feeling flushed with arousal and flustered and unsteady in the high heels. He looked up at her, his eyes glowing with heat and arousal, his long legs spread slightly, his arousal flagrantly obvious.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asked, his narrowed gaze studying her.

“No,” she whispered, knowing her hot cheeks, flushed skin, and tight nipples betrayed her lie.

He just smiled and stood. She looked up at him, unable to disguise her longing, when he gently smoothed her loose hair away from her face. She gasped softly at the feeling of his hand on the small of her back, caressing her, and the cloth of his pants and shirt brushing against her sensitive skin.

“Mutinous even in the face of sure defeat? You never cease to amaze me, lovely,” he murmured. “Come with me,” he said, taking her hand. She walked beside him, halting suddenly when she saw her reflection in the mirror.

The sheer black thigh-highs made her skin look very pale in contrast, as did the red-gold thatch of hair between her thighs. Her hair tumbled in a wild mess all the way to her waist. Her nipples were stained a dark pink and beaded tight in arousal, the pale globes of her breasts rose and fell as she panted shallowly.

She stared, slain by the image of herself transformed by desire.

“You see it?” Ian asked, leaning down near her, his warm breath in her ear causing a spike of pleasure to go through her. “You see it, don’t you?” he murmured as he spread his hand over her belly in a possessive gesture. “You see how beautiful you are?”

Her flushed lips parted, but no words came out.

“Say it,” he whispered roughly. “Say you see what I see when I look at you.”

“I see it,” she replied, her tone dazed . . . a little wondrous, as if she actually thought, for a few seconds, that he possessed magic mirrors.

“Yes. And that’s not a power you play with, is it?”

It took her a moment to realize Ian’s small smile didn’t come from smugness or cockiness. No—he looked triumphant because of what she’d seen in the mirror . . . because of her admission. Why did he care whether or not she thought she was beautiful?

He led her over to the kinky-looking contraption that hung from the ceiling with the inexplicable harnesses and straps, her heart pounding uncomfortably fast. He pulled down on the main horizontal black bar, stretching a spring on the contraption so that three four-inch-wide padded-leather harnesses fell horizontally about four feet from the floor. Wait a second . . . those leather loops could be used to suspend a body in midair. If that circular pad of leather was to support the head, and that harness was for the chest area, and the lower one for the pelvis, then those other straps could be used to bind a person’s hands and ankles.

They’d be completely restrained . . . helpless, Francesca realized. She looked at Ian as he held the swing. The light from the chandelier gleamed in his blue eyes. Her incredulous expression faded as a heavy pressure fell on her chest.

Oh no.

She already was completely helpless when it came to Ian Noble . . . and it had nothing to do with the restraining swing.

He put out his hand, beckoning her.

Her ass muscles clenched tight; liquid heat rushed at her sex.

She raised her hand and he grasped it, drawing her toward him.

“It’s time you learned that when you play with fire, you’re going to end up at its mercy,” he said.

Ian’s hand were gentle, his hold firm when he lifted her off the floor and slid her body, belly downward, through the loops of the swing. He arranged the padded straps below her hips, beneath her breasts, and under her forehead. She gave a shaky yelp when the harnesses dipped once he gave them her weight.

“Shhhh,” he soothed from above her, stroking her back. “The swing is hooked through a steel beam in the ceiling. It’s extremely secure. Relax.”

She exhaled after a moment, realizing that now that she’d settled, she did, indeed, feel steady. Strange and aroused and a little scared, but secure in the knowledge that Ian would keep her safe. His hand left her back. He touched her calves, and then her ankles. She peered sideways but couldn’t see through the thick fall of her hair. She felt him slip first one foot through a nylon loop, then the other, and tightened them on her ankle. He’d bound her feet at a lower angle from her body, making her legs drop below her hips, as if she was in a bent-over position, but in midair. Once he’d secured her feet, he came around to the front of her and restrained her wrists in a similar fashion, letting her arms fall in a semi-straightened position beneath her chest.

His brisk, knowledgeable manipulation of the swing and her body let her know Ian had a lot of experience with it.

“Let me get you something for your hair.”

For an anxious moment, she couldn’t see him. Then his deft hands were sweeping her long hair away from her face, lifting the gathered mass. She turned her chin slightly and was able to see him in the mirror as he twirled his hand, twisting her hair and finally binding it on her head with a huge clip. She couldn’t take her eyes off his powerful form in the mirror; couldn’t take her eyes off herself, naked and suspended there in midair, vulnerable to anything and everything Ian wanted to do to her.

Perhaps he noticed her anxious studying of them in the mirror, because he brushed his long fingers beneath her chin and met her stare in the mirror.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

She blinked, seeing something in his eyes that gave her courage. Passion. Tenderness. A clear intent to possess, but not in a way she should fear or abhor. She nodded once, feeling breathless.

He walked over to the table, and when he returned, he carried the paddle. Her clit pinched in arousal at the sight of it gripped surely in his large hand. It suddenly struck her how vulnerable her bottom was, suspended there at hip height in midair. She held her breath when he came to a halt and raised the paddle, brushing the exquisitely soft fur over her still-tingling spanked ass.

He gripped the straps above the harness that held her hips, securing her in place. She watched wide-eyed in the mirror as he tossed the paddle in the air a few inches and flipped it expertly. When it landed, the leather side faced her ass.

“I will give you ten strokes,” he said gruffly, placing the paddle against her ass. Her cheeks heated at the sensation . . . at the vision of the black leather pressing into the flesh of her pink buttocks.

He lifted the paddle and swung. She gasped at the impact, her body swinging forward ever so slightly in Ian’s grip. “Ow,” popped out of her throat when he paddled her again, stinging her nerves. He kept the paddle pressed to her ass cheeks.

“I said you’d be safe, and you always will be.” In the mirror, she saw that he stared at her ass as he circled the paddle, massaging her. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be some discomfort. This is a punishment, after all.”

She whimpered when he landed another smack on her lower buttocks. He grunted, low and rough, and used the paddle to massage the smarting skin once again. “I love turning your ass red,” he muttered and landed another smack. This blow was forceful enough to send her jerking forward in Ian’s hold several inches. “You keep the count, Francesca,” he said. “I’m losing my concentration.”

She stared at his rigid features when he said that, her heart charging like a locomotive, the clit cream taunting her between her thighs. Ian lose concentration? He swung his arm back, and her eyes sprang wide in trepidation.

Smack.

“Five,” she squeaked. She couldn’t take her eyes off him in the mirror: the way his shirt stretched across his wide chest when he swung his arm back, the rigid focus on her as he landed the paddle, the absolute strength of his grip on the swing as he kept her ass in place for her punishment.

He landed several more smacks, and then cursed under his breath. He released his death grip on the hip harness. Francesca swayed forward and back six inches in each direction. She hardly noticed, she was too busy watching him in the mirror. He rapidly slipped a loop of leather at the end of the paddle around his wrist and began to unfasten his pants. The garments remained around his hips, but he drew his erection over the waistband of his white boxer briefs. He stroked the long, thick, naked shaft.

“Ian,” she moaned, heat rushing between her thighs at the vision of his stark, virile power. He slipped the paddle off his wrist and gripped it tight again.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice rough with arousal.

“You’re killing me,” she said uncontrollably, not sure what she meant. There was just so much pressure pent up inside her. It felt like she was about to combust and burn. Why did this suspended, helpless position arouse her so much?

“It’s no more than what you do to me,” he said grimly as he firmed his hold on the hip harness and swung the paddle.

“Eight,” she yelped. Her ass was burning now, but still most of her attention was on the sensation of Ian’s cock leaping up in the air as he landed the blow, the velvety soft, firm crown batting her hip.

By the time “ten” popped out of her throat, things were soaked between her thighs, she was panting raggedly, and her ass was on fire. Ian ran the fur over her stinging ass cheeks and released his hold on the harness. She bit off a whimper when he grabbed one of her flaming buttocks and massaged it greedily with his palm.

“You’re ass is going to be so good, lovely. So hot. You’re going to melt my cock,” he said, a wry smile tilting his hard mouth.

“Will it hurt?” she asked shakily.

He paused in his lascivious caress, still gripping her ass, and met her eyes in the mirror.

“A little at first, perhaps. But my intent is to punish you for your impulsiveness, not to torture you.”

“And . . . and putting your cock . . . there is part of my punishment?”

He released her bottom and turned, walking over to the table. She tried to see what he was doing over there in the reflection, but his body, and her own, partially blocked her view. When he returned, he carried a glistening black rubber plug. Her eyes widened. It was larger than the one he’d put into her before. Between that intimidating-looking sex toy and Ian’s flagrant erection standing out lewdly from his body, Francesca didn’t know where to land her anxious gaze.

“I don’t consider ass-fucking to be anything but a pleasure,” he said as he approached her. “Whether you consider it a punishment or a mutual exchange of pleasure is yet to be determined.”

Having said that, he looped his left forearm around the straps of the hip harness, holding her steady. He used the side of his hand to pry back her ass cheeks and touched the tip of the plug to her anus.

“Reach with your hands and rub your clit,” he ordered tensely.

She swung her bound hands toward her pelvis, bending her elbows. Her clit was nestled against the padded strap. She sent a finger beneath the restraint and burrowed it between her labia. She was soaked. The second she rubbed her eager clit, pleasure spiked through her.

Then . . . there was a sharp pain that was quickly gone.

She gasped, realizing Ian had pushed the thick head of the plug into her ass. She rubbed with increased vigor. The building pressure was unbearable. Her body was on fire. Oh . . . she was about to come . . .

Ian grabbed her wrists and pulled down her arms. She squawked a choked protest.

She saw his amused expression in the mirror.

“I think we have our definitive answer as to whether this will be a punishment or a pleasure for you, no?”

She bit her lip, her gaze flickering nervously to her ass in the mirror. He’d fully inserted the rubber plug while she lost herself to pleasure. The flat base of the sex toy pressed tight against her ass cheeks.

She was about to explode as she hovered there helplessly in the air, a tight bundle of burning nerves and quivering flesh. She froze at what she saw in the mirror. Ian was undressing. He removed his shoes and socks. He stripped off his shirt. She gawked at the sight of his lean waist, ridged abdomen, and wide, powerful chest. Her breath burned in her lungs in anticipation.

Yes.

He drew his pants and underwear down his long legs. She finally saw his fully exposed naked body.

She clenched her eyes shut. He was so beautiful, such the epitome of male power, it hurt her to look at him a little, as hyperaroused as she was. A cry fell past her lips when she was suddenly spinning. Her eyes sprang wide, the room zooming past her. She came to a relative halt and lifted her forehead from the harness. Ian stood just inches from her face, his grip shifting to the chest harness, keeping her steady before him. She looked up at him.

“That’s the beauty of the swing,” he said, obviously noticing her stunned expression. “I can put you in any position I want you, in the blink of an eye.” He grasped his cock from below and lifted it to her mouth, making his intention clear. The crown of his cock slid between her lips, stretching them. She looked up at him as she bathed the head, then batted at it with a firm tongue. A snarl pulled at his mouth as he watched her.

How was it possible for her to feel so helpless and masterfully in control at once?

He used his hand to swing her body several inches forward, several inches back. His cock slid in and out of her mouth. He continued this for a moment, fucking her face, totally controlling her, but never taking advantage, only sliding several inches along her tongue, back and forth, until his cock swelled huge between her clamping lips.

“That’s good,” he muttered, stepping back, his cock popping out of her mouth. “Too good, in fact,” he added under his breath. “Hold steady.”

Suddenly she was spinning again in the opposite direction. She stared at him in the mirror, bewildered. He slid the hip harness lower so that it trailed down her thighs.

“Oh!” she squeaked when he suddenly lifted her by the waist, taking her body weight as though he lifted a feather pillow. He gently kept the butt plug inserted with one hand.

“Loop your feet the other way through the lower strap, so that you’re in a sitting position. She did her best to follow his instructions, but it was his expert maneuvering that got her into the position he desired. When she’d settled again and he’d secured her, the lack of tension in the head harness had caused it to fall away. The upper-body harness had lowered to her ribs, and she sat in the lower leather harness, her knees bent, her bound wrists in her lap. Once she was secure against the upper restraint, he slid the butt harness lower, down to the top of her thighs.

She was dizzy with excitement and Ian’s masterful handling of the swing. She felt like she was taking part in some kind of triple-X-rated version of Cirque du Soleil.

He slid the lubricated black rubber plug out of her ass, making her gasp. He dropped it to the floor. She stared, panting, mesmerized as she watched him lubricate his cock until it glistened. He stepped behind her. He grabbed first the straps to the lower harness, then the ones to the upper one, flexing his biceps until they bulged, pulling her body toward him.

She was in a sort of suspended sitting position in front of Ian, her back to him, her upper body slanted forward at an angle . . . her ass fully exposed as it draped in the loop of the harness like an offering.

She couldn’t breathe. She felt the slick, hard head of his cock brush against her tingling ass, then press against the entrance of her anus.

“Ian,” she grated out between clenched teeth.

“It’s time for you to burn, lovely,” he said in a low growl.

He lowered his grip on the straps and grabbed the edge of the padded leather beneath her thighs. She had nowhere to go but onto his cock. He thrust his hips and pulled her toward him at once. She cried out as his cock slid into her ass several inches and sharp pain spiked through her. He paused, his large body a coiled spring.

She gaped at his reflection in the mirror. It looked like he’d just undergone a strenuous workout. Every bulging muscle in his body was delineated and tense. Perspiration gleamed on his ridged abdomen and heaving rib cage. His powerful ass and thigh muscles were flexed tight as he held himself on the edge. He was awesome to behold in that moment—a sexual storm on the threshold of breaking. The part of his cock that wasn’t sunk into her ass looked intimidatingly huge. He throbbed in the narrow channel. She swore she could feel his pulse in the sensitive flesh. It stunned her, this feeling of their flesh being so close, so melded.

“Are you all right?” he asked tautly.

“Yes,” she said, realizing she meant it. The initial sharp pain had faded, leaving only a compelling, forbidden pressure. Her cheeks and lips were stained dark pink. Her clit sizzled.

“Good, because your ass is on fire,” he muttered at the same time he thrust and pulled her body closer. A ragged shout tore from his throat. He began to swing her back and forth on his thrusting cock. “Ah God, it’s good to be inside you raw.”

Francesca whimpered in awe at the new erotic sensation . . . at the vision of Ian losing himself in desire. There was no pain, but an intense, unbearably exciting pressure built in her. The nerves in her ass were so sensitive she could feel every nuance of his cock. Her thigh muscles squeezed tight, putting pressure on her clit. Orgasm loomed. She stared in openmouthed wonder at the mirror as his cock disappeared farther and farther into her body with each new thrust. Finally, his pelvis bumped against her ass cheeks.

He held her to him and growled gutturally. The moment was too full for her. Too incendiary. She began to shudder as orgasm slammed into her, the force of it all the more powerful because it had been held at abeyance for so long.

Distantly, she heard Ian’s harsh curse. He fucked her as she came, serving her ass to his cock in a forceful, greedy possession, his hips thumping rapidly against her tingling, sore bottom as he maneuvered the swing—and her body—taking his pleasure to the fullest. It was too much, really. She couldn’t have taken the pressure for long. She was utterly at his mercy, her ass tightening around his driving cock as she climaxed thunderously.

He drove into her one last time, his groan striking her as helpless somehow, even though he was the master in this situation. He wrapped his forearm around her waist, pulling her to him in a desperate hold. She cried out brokenly when she felt his cock swell impossibly large. A roar erupted from his throat. He bent his head, grimacing, and pressed his mouth against her back. She bit her lip and clenched her eyes as she felt him explode deep inside her.

He groaned and thrust in and out of her shallowly as he continued to ejaculate, his breath falling hot and ragged against the skin of her back. Her eyes stung. Her tears weren’t from pain but from the powerful feeling burning in her chest.

Had she fallen in love with this man?

How else could she explain her total and absolute trust in him, her willingness to surrender completely to him?

What else could this euphoric feeling be as she watched him there in the mirror, abandoning himself completely to bliss? Either she was falling in love or she was going mad.

Either way, he’d been right before. She was completely at his mercy.

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

Part VII of BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE

BECAUSE I NEED TO

Available from InterMix on September 11, 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, defined 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 animal like 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 flame 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.

* * *

To find out more about Beth Kery’s eight-part serial novel, Because You Are Mine, please click here or go to www.penguin.com/becauseyouaremine

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.