His Mistress with Two Secrets(43)

“This is me,” he said through gritted teeth, barely containing himself as a rush of excitement went through him at the press of her soft cheek. He chucked his chin at his reflection. “This man who is obsessed enough to risk bringing you into my home, where you can see the inner workings of my life. Do you honestly think our affair was something I took on lightly? No, damn you, it wasn’t. It’s a weakness. A dangerous indulgence. But I wanted you. I want you all the time. Do you really expect me to apologize for giving in to that? When you want me every bit as much?”

She tried to glare him down in the mirror, challenging his claim, but he dismissed her bravado with a scoffing breath of a laugh.

“You’re nipples are hard, chérie. Think I haven’t noticed?” He slid his hand to cup her breast, full enough now to make him splay his fingers to contain the abundant flesh.

She gasped and hunched away from his touch, bumping into him to escape the pressure.

He released her with a jolt of shock. “I hurt you?”

“They’re really tender.” Her eyes were shiny with tears.

He turned her to face him and asked, “Can you make love?” The doctor had said it was safe, but if it would be painful for her—

She threw back her head and he braced for another rejection.

But as he held her gaze, unable to disguise how ferociously he ached to make love with her, the glow of outrage dimmed in her eyes.

His pulse hammered in his throat, in his chest, in his groin. He might have tightened his hands on her arms, unconsciously urging her to match his need. He couldn’t be the only one affected this deeply. It was too much to bear.

Her blue irises began to swim with longing and her weight pressed into his hold. Her shoulders dropped in capitulation.

He swore, control snapping. He cupped her face and kissed her. He tried to be gentle, tried to hang on to a semblance of control, but damn it, it had been so long. He opened his mouth wider to take full possession of hers, finally tasting her again and feasting on what he’d been missing. He curled his fist into the silken tresses that had grazed every inch of his naked skin at one time or another, wrapped his other arm around her so his hand braced between her flexing shoulder blades, and he kissed her without restraint. He took.

Raided.

Owned.

And she gave.

She slid her fingers into his hair and pressed him to kiss her harder, opened her mouth beneath his and met his tongue with hers. She scraped her teeth against his lips and clung across his shoulders with a slender arm and let her knee crook up to his thigh.

She moaned in the way that begged him to take her to bed and find fulfillment with her. Within her.

His skin stung, feeling too tight for the heat of desire exploding in him. It was a monster that wanted to consume both of them. He scraped his teeth down her throat to where her neck joined her shoulder. That fantastic, exciting place that always made her gasp and shiver and soften her knees so she wilted in his embrace.

Mine.

“Henri,” she moaned and pushed at him.

Pregnant, he reminded himself dimly, saying, “Bed,” as he took a half step back.

“Damn you,” she whispered in pained despair. “I need more than sex!”





CHAPTER EIGHT

CINNIA WAS SHOWERED, dressed and putting the final touches on her makeup when Henri knocked and came into her bedroom. He had knocked once, an hour ago, telling her without inflection that he’d let her sleep as long as he could, but that they had a busy day and she should get up.

“Ramon is en route. PR will be tricky. I’ll want you in several of my meetings. There will be photos.”

He’d been on the phone with someone when she’d slipped into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and scrambled eggs. She’d stolen a yearning look at his back, admiring the way his white shirt clung across his shoulders and his belted pants outlined his firm butt.

Now she was forced to look him in the eye for the first time since he’d walked away from her last night, stepping onto the terrace and staying there, despite the pecking rain.

She hadn’t slept well, having sat on the edge of her bed half the night, fighting the temptation to go to him and damn herself and her stubborn principles all to hell.

Was she just being pigheaded, as her mother sometimes accused? She didn’t think so. Henri was an easy man to yield to. To drown in. If she started having sex with him, she would let him take over her entire life—become dependent. She couldn’t allow herself to become that weak.

But she suspected he would always be stronger than her, always, which was unnerving, especially when he strode with that easy, panther-like confidence toward her.

“Yours.” He placed an open envelope on the vanity before her.