Contents

Also by Beth Kery

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Special Excerpt

About the Author

Because You Are Mine

PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME

PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST

Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery

WICKED BURN

DARING TIME

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery

SWEET RESTRAINT

PARADISE RULES

RELEASE

EXPLOSIVE

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane

ADDICTED TO YOU

EXPOSED TO YOU

eSpecials by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane

BOUND TO YOU

CAPTURED BY YOU

Because You Are Mine

Part II

Because I Could Not Resist

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 I COULD NOT RESIST

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / August 2012

Because You Are Mine Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

Excerpt from Wicked Edge Copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-60850-0

INTERMIX

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Chapter 3

Francesca had intuited that it would be a bad idea to associate with the likes of Ian Noble. She’d known she was way out of her depth every time he looked at her with that enigmatic gleam in his cobalt-blue eyes. Hadn’t he even warned her in his subtle manner that he was dangerous?

Now here was proof of it: nearly two hundred pounds of prime, aroused male flesh pressing her against the wall. He was consuming her like she was his last meal.

He plumped her breast farther into his hand, serving her flesh to his marauding mouth. He tugged on her nipple again, causing a sweet, sharp suction. Francesca gasped, her head banging against the wall as arousal stabbed at her sex, the strength of her reaction unprecedented. His hand at the juncture of her thighs pressed, alleviating her ache . . . mounting it.

“Ian,” she said shakily.

He lifted his dark head a few inches and stared at her breast. The glistening nipple was reddened, the center nubbin elongated and stiff from his ravening mouth and laving tongue. His body tautened; his cock lurched against her belly. He gave a rough growl of male satisfaction at the sight.

“I’d have to be a fucking robot not to want that,” he said in a low, savage tone. She whimpered in raw lust and bewilderment. The slightly lost expression mingling with his scoring stare caused something to stir deep inside her spirit. Who was this man? She hated the war she sensed in him. She put her hand on the back of his head, furrowing her fingers through his hair. It was every bit as silky and thick as it looked. His gaze flashed up at her. She pushed his head toward her breast.

“It’s all right, Ian.”

His nostrils flared. “It’s not all right. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m feeling,” she whispered. “Who better?”

He shut his eyes briefly. Suddenly, she felt the tension break and he was kissing her mouth again, flexing his hips, pressing his erection into her soft, harboring flesh. Francesca clutched at his head, feeling herself drowning in the essence of him. Through an intoxicating haze of rising lust, she heard distant footsteps.

“Oh. There you are . . . excuse me.” The footsteps began to retreat.

Ian lifted his head, and she was pinned by his stare. He shifted his body, making sure her bare breast was blocked from view before pulling her loosened hoodie over her exposed flesh.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Ian uttered sharply. She glanced around, confused by the question uttered in French, which she didn’t speak.

The footsteps paused. “Je suis desolé. Your cell phone won’t stop ringing in the locker room. Whatever Lin wants to talk to you about seems really important.”

She recognized Lucien’s French-accented voice. It sounded muffled, as if he spoke with his back to them. Ian’s stare bored down on her. She sensed the moment when he withdrew. His body still pressed against her, hard and aroused, but a door in his eyes seemed to slam shut.

“I should have called her earlier. It was rude of me. Remiss,” Ian said, his gaze never leaving Francesca’s face.

The footsteps resumed, and she heard a door slam. He pushed himself off her.

“Ian?” she asked weakly. She felt strange, like her muscles no longer knew their purpose, as if the weight and strength of Ian’s body had been the only thing keeping her upright. Her hand slapped against the wall in an abrupt attempt to right her world. His arm thrust forward. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her. His gaze ran over her face.

“Francesca? Are you all right?” he asked sharply.

She blinked and nodded. He’d sounded almost angry.

“I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean for it to,” he said in a stark tone.

“Oh,” she said stupidly, her mind reeling. “Does that mean it’s not going to happen again?”

His expression flattened. What in the world was he thinking? she wondered, mentally flailing.

“You never told me before. The men that you live with—do you sleep with one of them? All of them?”

Her brain stalled.

“What? Why would you ask me something like that? Of course I don’t sleep with them. They’re my roommates. My friends.”

His narrowed gaze lowered over her face and chest. “You expect me to believe that? Three males live in the same house with you, and the whole thing is completely platonic?”

Anger streamed into her lust-dazed consciousness. Then it began to roar like a tidal wave. Was he purposefully trying to insult her? It was working. What an infuriating bastard. How dare he say something like that to her so coolly after what he’d just done?

(After what she’d allowed him to do?)

She stepped away from the wall, pausing several feet away from him. “You asked, and I told you the truth. I don’t care what you believe. My sex life is none of your business.”

She began to walk away.

“Francesca.”

She paused but refused to turn around. Humiliation had started to brew with her anger. If she looked at his gorgeous, smug face, she might explode.

“I only asked because I was trying to understand how . . . experienced you are.”

She whipped around and stared at him in amazement. “Is that important for you? Experience?” she asked, wishing the stab of hurt she’d felt at his words hadn’t rung in her voice.

“Yes,” he said. No softness. No concession. Just yes. You’re not in my league, Francesca. You’re an awkward, stupid, onetime fat girl.

His expression hardened, and he looked away from her face.

“I’m not what you might think. I’m not a nice man,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“No,” she said with more calmness than she felt. “You’re not. Maybe none of the bootlickers you surround yourself with have ever told you this, but that’s not something to be proud of, Ian.”

This time, he didn’t try to stop her as she rushed out of the room.

* * *

Francesca sat at the kitchen table and moodily watched Davie butter toast.

“What’s got you in such a bad mood? Not that your mood has been stellar since yesterday. Are you still feeling under the weather?” Davie asked, referring to the fact that she’d come home after her classes yesterday instead of going to the Noble penthouse to paint.

“No, I’m fine,” Francesca replied with a reassuring smile that Davie didn’t seem to buy.

Initially, she’d been bewildered and angered by what Ian had said—and done—in the workout facility two days ago, but then she’d grown worried. Had what occurred threatened her valuable commission? Had her lack of “experience” made her less valuable to Ian, and thus disposable? What if he terminated their agreement and she had no way to pay her tuition? She wasn’t a typical Noble employee, after all. She had no contract, just his patronage. And Ian was reputed to be a tyrant, wasn’t he?

She’d been so anxious and confused about how that kiss had altered her position with Ian that she couldn’t make herself return to paint yesterday.

Davie whisked toast onto her plate and shoved a jar of jam across the surface of the table.

“Thanks,” Francesca mumbled, lifting her knife listlessly.

“Eat,” Davie ordered. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Davie was like a combination of older brother, friend, and mother hen to Francesca, Caden, and Justin. He was five years older than all of them, having met them all after he’d returned to Northwestern to get his M.B.A. There, he’d met Justin and Caden, who were in the same program, and fallen in with their circle of friends, of which Francesca was a member. The fact that Davie was also an art historian, returning to school in order to gain the tools necessary to expand his single gallery into a chain, immediately drew him and Francesca together.

After Justin, Caden, and Davie had received their graduate degrees, and Francesca her baccalaureates, Davie had offered to have them room with him in the city. The five-bedroom, four-bath row house he’d inherited from his parents in the Wicker Park neighborhood was too large just for him. Besides, Francesca knew that Davie wanted the companionship. Her friend was vulnerable to the blues, and Francesca knew that having the three of them around helped assuage them. Davie’s parents had rejected him when he’d confessed that he was gay as a teenager. The three of them had tenuously reconciled by the time his mother and father died in a freak boating accident off the coast of Mexico three years ago, a fact that made Davie both grateful and sad.

Davie longed for a relationship, but he’d been about as unlucky in the romance arena as Francesca. They served as confidantes to each other, the balm following their many bitter, lackluster, and disappointing dating experiences.

All four roommates were good friends, but Francesca and Davie were closest in their tastes and temperaments, while Justin and Caden often were paired up by the common obsessions of many straight males in their midtwenties—a lucrative career, a good time, and frequent sex with hot women.

“Was it Noble on the phone?” Davie asked, glancing meaningfully at her cell phone on the table. Damn. He’d noticed the call she’d just received on her cell phone had upset her.

“No.”

Davie gave her a wry spill-it glance after her monosyllabic response, and she sighed.

She hadn’t revealed what had happened in Ian Noble’s exercise room to Caden and Justin, who as brilliant young men working in high-profile investment-banking firms, were constantly badgering her with questions about Ian Noble. There was no way she’d tell him that the elusive idol they worshipped had held her against a wall and kissed and touched her until her legs no longer supported her. She hadn’t told Davie, either, which was a sure sign of how overwhelmed she’d been by the whole experience.

“It was Lin Soong calling, Noble’s girl Friday,” Francesca admitted before she took a bite of toast.

“And?”

She chewed and swallowed. “She called to tell me that Ian Noble has decided to put me under contract for the painting. He’s paying me the total amount up front. She assured me that the terms of the contract were quite generous, and that under no circumstances would Noble be able to back out of awarding me the commission. Even if I don’t finish it, he won’t request a return of the money.”

Davie’s mouth fell open. His toast drooped in his slackened fingers. With his dark brown hair falling onto his forehead and early morning pallor, he looked about eighteen years old at that moment instead of his actual twenty-eight.

“Why are you acting like she called about a funeral then? Isn’t that good news, that Noble wants to assure you that you’ll get paid no matter what?”

Francesca tossed down her toast. Her appetite had evaporated when she’d fully absorbed what Lin was telling her in that professional, warm tone of hers. “He has to have everyone under his thumb,” she said bitterly.

“What are you talking about, Cesca? If that contract is everything his assistant says, Noble’s giving you carte blanche. You don’t even have to show up and you get paid.”

She carried her plate over to the sink.

“Exactly,” she muttered, turning on the tap. “And Ian Noble knows perfectly well that making that offer is the one thing that will assure I show up and finish the project.”

Davie shoved his chair back to regard her. “You’re confusing me. Are you saying you were actually thinking about not finishing the painting?”

As she considered how to reply, Justin Maker staggered into the kitchen wearing a pair of sweatpants, his bare, golden torso gleaming in the sunlight, his green eyes puffy from lack of sleep.

“Coffee, stat,” he muttered in a roughened voice, whipping the cabinet open for a cup. Francesca gave Davie a pleading, apologetic glance, hoping he’d understand she didn’t want to continue the topic right now.

“Did you and Caden shut down McGill’s again last night?” she asked Justin wryly, referring to their favorite neighborhood bar. She handed the cream to her friend.

“No. We were home by one. But guess who’s playing at McGill’s Saturday night?” he asked Francesca, taking the cream she handed him. “The Run Around Band. Let’s all go. Poker night afterward.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got a big project due Monday, and I’m not as proficient at the late-to-bed, early-to-rise routine as you and Caden are,” Francesca said as she started to walk out of the room.

“Come on, Cesca. It’ll be fun. All four of us haven’t gone out in a while,” Davie said, surprising her. Like Francesca, Davie’s proclivity for a wild night out had decreased considerably since they’d left Northwestern. The challenging arch of Davie’s eyebrows informed her that he thought a night out would encourage her to spill the beans about what was bothering her.

“I’ll think about it,” Francesca said before she left the kitchen.

But she didn’t. Her mind was already consumed with what she was going to say when she confronted Ian Noble.

***

Unfortunately, he wasn’t there when she arrived at the penthouse that afternoon. Not that she really expected him to be. He usually wasn’t. Undecided about what she should do in regard to that kiss, her commission—not to mention her entire future—she wandered into the room she was using as the studio.

Within five minutes, she was painting feverishly. Ian Noble hadn’t decided her. Even Francesca herself hadn’t. The painting had. It’d gotten into her blood. She must finish it now.

She was lost in her work for hours, finally rising from her creative trance as the sun began to dip behind the high-rises.

Mrs. Hanson was whisking something in a bowl when Francesca staggered into the kitchen for some water. Ian’s kitchen reminded her of something one might find in an English country manor—huge, with every conceivable cooking implement ever created, but somehow still comfortable. She liked to sit in there and chat with Mrs. Hanson.

“You were so quiet, I didn’t realize you were here!” the friendly, elderly housekeeper exclaimed.

“I was working hard,” Francesca said, reaching for the handle of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator. Mrs. Hanson had insisted since day one that Francesca make herself completely at home. The first time she’d opened the refrigerator, Francesca had exclaimed in surprise to see a whole shelf of bottled club sodas chilling, along with a china plate with sliced limes covered in plastic wrap. “Ian told me club soda with lime was your favorite drink. I hope this brand is all right,” Mrs. Hanson had replied anxiously to her exclamation.

Now every time she opened the refrigerator, Francesca felt that same rush of warmth she experienced that first time when she realized Ian had remembered her beverage preference and then made sure it was available to her while she worked.

Pitiful, she scolded herself as she withdrew a bottle.

“Would you like supper?” Mrs. Hanson asked. “Ian won’t want his for a while yet, but I could bang out something for you.”

“No, I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.” She hesitated, but then blurted, “So Ian is in town? He’ll be home later?”

“Yes, he mentioned it this morning. He usually eats at eight thirty sharp, whether I’m cooking for him or he eats at the office. Ian likes his routine. He has ever since I knew him as a boy.”

Mrs. Hanson glanced up at her. “Why don’t you sit down there and keep me company for a bit. You look pale. You’ve been working too hard. I have some water on the boil. We’ll have a cup of tea.”

“Okay,” Francesca agreed, sinking into one of the stools next to the island. She suddenly felt weak with exhaustion now that her creative-inspired adrenaline rush was fading. Besides, she hadn’t slept well the past two nights.

“What was Ian like as a child?” Francesca couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Oh, an older soul I’ve never seen in such a wee one’s eyes,” Mrs. Hanson replied with a sad smile. “Serious. Eerily smart. A little shy. Once he warmed up to you, as sweet and loyal as they come.”

Francesca tried to picture the somber, dark-haired, shy boy-Ian, her heart squeezing a little at the image her brain wrought.

“You seem a bit out of sorts,” the housekeeper consoled as she bustled about, pouring hot water into two cups and then arranging some items onto a silver platter: two scones, an exquisite silver spoon and knife, two crisp white cloth napkins, Devonshire cream, and jam dolloped into gorgeous china finger bowls. Nothing was ever done small in Ian Noble’s household, not even for a casual chat in the kitchen. “Isn’t your painting going well?”

“It’s going quite well, actually. Thank you,” she murmured when Mrs. Hanson set down a cup and saucer before her. “Things are moving along. You should come and have a look later.”

“I’d like that. Have a scone? They’re especially good today. Nothing like a scone with cream and jam to jump you out of a bad mood.”

Francesca laughed and shook her head. “My mother would die if she heard you say that.”

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Hanson asked, her pale blue eyes going wide as she paused in the process of ladling sweet cream on her scone.

“Because you’re encouraging me to manage my moods with food, that’s why. My parents, along with half a dozen child psychologists, have drilled the evils of emotional eating into my brain since I was seven years old.” She noticed Mrs. Hanson’s bewildered expression. “I used to be quite overweight as a child.”

“I’ll never believe it! You’re as slim as a wand.”

Francesca shrugged. “Once I went away to school, the weight sort of fell off after a year or two. I started long-distance running, so I suppose that helped. Personally, I think being out from beneath my parents’ critical eye was the real clincher, though.”

Mrs. Hanson made a knowing sound. “Once the weight wasn’t a power struggle anymore, the fat didn’t have any use?”

She grinned. “Mrs. Hanson, you could be a psychologist.”

The housekeeper laughed. “What would Lord Stratham or Ian have done with me then?”

Francesca paused in the process of sipping her tea. “Lord Stratham?”

“Ian’s grandfather, James Noble, the Earl of Stratham. I worked for Lord and Lady Stratham for thirty-three years before I came to America to serve Ian eight years ago.”

“Ian’s grandfather,” Francesca murmured thoughtfully. “Who will inherit his title?”

“Oh, a fellow by the name of Gerard Sinoit, Lord Stratham’s nephew.”

“Not Ian?”

Mrs. Hanson sighed and set down her scone. “Ian is heir to Lord Stratham’s fortune but not to his title.”

Francesca’s forehead crinkled in confusion. English customs were so odd. “Was Ian’s mother or father the Nobles’ child?”

A shadow fell over Mrs. Hanson’s features. “Ian’s mother. Helen was the earl and countess’s only child.”

“Is she . . .” Francesca faded off delicately, and Mrs. Hanson nodded sadly.

“Dead, yes. She died very young. Tragic life.”

“And Ian’s father?”

Mrs. Hanson didn’t immediately reply. She looked torn. “I’m not sure I should speak of such things,” the housekeeper said.

Francesca blushed. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just—”

“I don’t think you were being impertinent,” Mrs. Hanson assured, patting her hand where it rested on the counter. “It’s just that I’m afraid Ian has a rather sad family history, despite all his blazing fame and fortune as a grown man. His mother was quite rebellious as a young woman . . . wild. The Nobles couldn’t control her,” Mrs. Hanson said with a significant glance. “She ran away in her late teens and was missing for more than a decade. The Nobles feared she was dead but never had any proof of it. They kept searching. It was a black time in the Stratham household.” Pain flickered across Mrs. Hanson’s countenance at the memory. “The lord and lady were frantic to find her.”

“I can only imagine.”

Mrs. Hanson nodded. “It was a terrible, terrible time. And it didn’t get much better when they finally did locate Helen living in some kind of hovel in northern France, almost eleven years after she’d first disappeared. She was quite mad. Sick. Delusional. No one could understand what had happened to her. To this day, no one seems to know. And there was Ian with her—ten years old going on ninety.”

Mrs. Hanson made a choking sound of distress. Francesca hastened off her stool.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, her mind swirling with a combination of curiosity for more information about Ian and stark concern for the kind housekeeper. She located a box of tissues and brought it to Mrs. Hanson.

“It’s all right. I’m just an old fool,” Mrs. Hanson mumbled, taking a tissue. “Most would say that the Nobles are nothing but my employers, but to me, they’re my only family.” She sniffed and blotted her cheeks.

“Mrs. Hanson. What’s wrong?”

Francesca jumped at the sound of the stern male voice and spun around. Ian stood in the entryway to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hanson looked around guiltily. “Ian, you’re home early.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, his face tight with concern. Francesca realized that Mrs. Hanson’s comment about considering the Nobles her family went both directions.

“I’m fine. Please pay me no mind,” she said, laughing airily and throwing away her tissue. “You know how old women can get maudlin.”

“I’ve never known you to be maudlin,” Ian said. His gaze flicked off Mrs. Hanson and landed on Francesca.

“May I speak to you a moment, in the library?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said, lifting her chin and forcing herself not to cringe in the face of his blazing stare.

A minute later, she turned anxiously at the sound of Ian shutting the heavy walnut door of the library behind him. He stalked toward her with the smooth, graceful stride of a predatory animal. Why was it she was always comparing such a sophisticated, contained male to a wild thing?

“What did you say to Mrs. Hanson?” he demanded. She suspected it was coming, but she still bristled at the subtle inflection of accusation in his tone.

“I didn’t say anything! We were just . . . talking.”

His gaze bore into her. “Talking about my family.”

She resisted heaving a sigh of relief. Apparently, he’d only heard their last comments and hadn’t realized what Mrs. Hanson had revealed about his mother. And him. Somehow, she knew for a fact he’d be far less contained than he was if he knew Mrs. Hanson had been loose-lipped about those particular details.

“Yes,” she admitted, straightening and meeting his stare, though it cost her a great deal of effort. Sometimes those angel eyes became the avenging-angel variety. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I asked her about your grandparents.”

“And that made her cry?” he asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.

“I don’t really know the details of what made her cry,” she snapped. “I wasn’t prying, Ian. We were just talking, having polite conversation. You should try it sometime.”

“If you want to know about my family, I would prefer if you asked me.”

“Oh, and you’ll dish out all the details, no doubt,” she countered, her tone just as sarcastic as his had been earlier.

A muscle jumped in his cheek. Abruptly, he walked toward the large, gleaming desk and picked up a small bronze statue of a horse, toying with it. Francesca wondered in mixed irritation and nervousness if he wanted something to do with his hands besides strangle her. With his back to her, she had the opportunity to study him for the first time. He wore an impeccably cut pair of trousers, a white dress shirt, and a blue tie that matched his eyes. Since he always wore suits to the office, she assumed he’d removed the jacket. The starched shirt perfectly fit his wide shoulders. The pants draped his narrow hips and long legs: elegant, raw masculinity defined. He really was a beautiful male animal, she thought resentfully.

“Lin said she contacted you this morning,” he said, the change in topic taking her off guard.

“She did. I’d like to speak to you about what she said,” Francesca replied, anxiety now trumping her anger.

“You painted today,” he said rather than asked.

She blinked in surprise. “Yes. How . . . how did you know?” She’d had the impression he’d come directly to the kitchen upon entering the penthouse.

“There’s paint on your right forefinger.”

She glanced down at her right hand. She’d never seen him even glance in that direction. Did he have eyes in the back of his head?

“Yes, I painted.”

“I thought perhaps you weren’t going to return, after what happened on Wednesday.”

“Well, I did return. And not because you told Lin to call and buy me off. That wasn’t necessary.”

He turned. “I think it was necessary. I won’t have you worrying about whether or not you can afford to finish your degree.”

“Plus—you knew that I would finish the painting if I knew you were going to pay me the commission no matter what,” she said irritably, edging toward him.

He blinked and had the decency to look slightly abashed.

“I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. I just didn’t want you to lose an opportunity you deserved because I lost control. You weren’t to blame for what happened in the workout facility.”

“We made out,” she muttered, blushing. “I hardly think it constitutes the faux pas of the century.”

“I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than make out with you, Francesca.”

“Ian, do you like me?” she asked impulsively. Her eyelids sprang wide. She couldn’t believe she’d just blurted out the question that had been festering in her brain for days now.

“Like you? I want to fuck you. Badly. Does that answer your question?”

The ensuing silence seemed to crush her lungs it had so much weight. The echo of his low, rough growl seemed to hover in the air between them.

“Why are you worried about losing control? I’m not a twelve-year-old,” she managed after a moment. Her face grew hotter when his gaze dropped over her.

“No. But you might as well be,” he said, his tone suddenly sounding dismissive. Humiliation flooded through her. How could he go from hot to cold so effortlessly? she wondered, infuriated. He strolled around his desk and sat in the supple leather chair. “You may go now—if there’s nothing else?” he asked, his glance polite. Indifferent.

“I’d like you to pay me when the painting is done. Not before,” she said, her voice quaking with barely contained anger.

He nodded thoughtfully, as if considering her request. “You don’t have to spend the money until then, if you prefer. But the full commission has already been transferred to your bank account.”

Her mouth dropped open. “How did you know my account number?”

He didn’t reply, just raised his eyebrows slightly, his expression bland.

She barely stopped the scorching curse from springing out of her throat. Since she couldn’t cuss out her benefactor for his arrogance—or his generosity—there was nothing else she could think to say to him. Fury had short-circuited her brain. She turned and started to walk out of the room.

“Oh, and Francesca?” he called calmly from behind her.

“Yes?” she asked, looking back.

“Don’t expect to work here Saturday night. I’m entertaining. I’d like privacy.”

Something seemed to drop in her gut like a lead ball. He was telling her he was having a woman there this weekend. Somehow, she just knew it.

“Not a problem. I was planning on going out on Saturday night and letting off some steam with the guys. Things have gotten a bit stifling around here.”

Something flashed in his eyes before she turned around, but his expression remained unreadable.

As usual.

* * *

Davie drove Justin’s car surely through the bustling Saturday-night Wicker Park traffic. Justin was a little tipsy after listening to the Run Around Band at McGill’s for two hours. So were Caden and Francesca, for that matter.

Thus their insane errand.

“Come on, Cesca,” Caden Joyner goaded from the backseat. “We’re all going to get one.”

“Even you, Davie?” Francesca asked from where she sat in the passenger seat.

Davie shrugged. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo on my biceps—one of those old-fashioned ones, like an anchor or something,” he said, flashing her a grin as he turned down North Avenue.

“He thinks it’ll get him a pirate,” Justin joked.

“Well, I’m not going to get one until I have time to draw the design myself,” she said resolutely.

“Spoilsport,” Justin accused loudly. “Where’s the fun in planning for a tattoo? You’re supposed to wake up with a truly atrocious, super-sleazy one in the morning and not have a clue how you got it the night before.”

“Are you talking about a tattoo or the women you bring home?” Caden asked.

Francesca broke into laughter. She barely heard her cell phone ringing in her purse, thanks to her friends’ boisterous teasing and bickering. She peered at her cell phone, not recognizing the number.

“Hello?” she answered, forcing herself to cease laughing.

“Francesca?”

The mirth melted off her mouth.

“Ian?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

Justin said something loudly from the backseat, and Caden roared with laughter. “Am I interrupting something?” Ian asked, his stiff, British-accented voice a stark contrast to her friends’ rowdy banter.

“No. I’m just out with my friends. Why are you calling?” she asked, amazement making her tone more blunt than she’d intended.

Caden cracked up, and Davie joined him. “You guys . . . hold it down,” Francesca hissed and was summarily ignored.

“I’ve been thinking about something—” Ian began.

“No! Turn left,” Justin shouted loudly. “Bart’s Dragon Signs is on North Paulina.”

She gasped when Davie slammed on the breaks and she heaved against the seat belt.

“What were you saying?” Francesca asked into the phone, more disoriented by the fact that Ian had called her than the fact that her brain had just been jostled around her skull by Davie’s abrupt change of direction. There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Francesca, are you drunk?”

“No,” she said coolly. Who was he to take that judgmental tone?

“You’re not driving, are you?”

“No, I’m not. Davie is. And he’s not drunk, either.”

“Who is that, Ces?” Justin called from the backseat. “You’re father?”

Laughter burst out of her throat. She couldn’t help it. Justin’s question had been right on target, given Ian’s holier-than-thou tone.

“Don’t tell him you’re about to get a tattoo on that gorgeous ass of yours!” Caden bellowed.

She winced. Her chuckle was a good deal weaker this time. Embarrassment flooded her at the thought of Ian overhearing her friends’ joking. She was proving that she was just as immature and gauche as he thought.

“You’re not getting a tattoo,” Ian said.

Her grin faded. It’d sounded like a decree more than a clarification.

“Yes, I am getting a tattoo as a matter of fact,” she replied fiercely. “And by the way, I wasn’t aware that you had the right to dictate my life. I agreed to do a painting for you, not become your slave.”

Caden, Davie, and Justin suddenly went dead silent.

“You’ve been drinking. You’ll regret doing something so impulsive tomorrow,” Ian said, a hint of anger ringing in his otherwise calm voice.

“How do you know?” she demanded.

“I know.”

She blinked at his taut, quiet response. For a split second, she’d been convinced he was absolutely right. Irritation spiked through her. She’d been trying to forget about him all evening—trying to make the memory of him saying he wanted to fuck her vanish from her brain—and now he had to go and ruin everything by calling her and acting so infuriating.

“Did you call for a reason? Because if you didn’t, I’m going to get a tattoo of a pirate on my ass,” she said, randomly grabbing a detail from her friends’ earlier banter.

“Francesca, don’t—”

She tapped her finger on the screen.

“Cesca, you didn’t just—”

“She did,” Caden interrupted, sounding stunned and a little impressed. “She just told off Ian Noble and hung up on him.”

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this, Cesca?” Davie asked, after she’d chosen a tattoo of a paintbrush.

“I . . . I think so,” she mumbled, her bright burst of defiance in the face of Ian’s arrogance flickering weakly.

“Of course she wants to do it. Here, have another drink for courage,” Justin suggested wisely, handing her his etched silver flask.

“Ces—” Davie said worriedly, but she took the flask. She winced at the feeling of the whiskey sliding down her throat. She hated hard liquor.

“I don’t like my clients to drink alcohol before they go under the needle. Increases the bleeding,” the bearded, shaggy-haired tattoo artist said gruffly as he entered the parlor where she stood with her three friends.

“Oh, well in that case—” Francesca hedged, seeing a possible out.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Justin insisted. “Bart isn’t going to send you away because you’ve had a drink or two, are you Bart? He has serious ethics, but he forgets about them pretty quick when cash is on the line.”

The tattoo artist glared at Justin, but Justin glared back.

“Lower your pants and get up on the table then,” Bart snapped.

Francesca began to unbutton her jeans. Davie, Justin, Caden, and Bart watched as she laid, belly down, on the table.

“Here, let me help with that!” Caden volunteered eagerly as she began to work her jeans and panties down over her right buttock. Davie grabbed his arm, halting him with a forbidding scowl. Caden just shrugged, grinning sheepishly.

“Right here?” Bart asked roughly a few seconds later, stepping forward. His touch on Francesca’s skin sent a shudder of revulsion through her.

“Yeah, you could make one of those gorgeous dimples above her ass a sort of paint pot for the dipping brush.”

Francesca started at the sound of Justin’s subdued tone. She peered sideways. Justin was regarding her partially bared ass with frank male interest.

“Maybe we should have a look at the other cheek just to get a clear picture of things,” Caden suggested.

“Shut up, you two,” she grated out. It made her uncomfortable to have Justin and Caden look at her that way. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all. Her thoughts scattered when Bart approached, a tube in his hand with a needle protruding out of it. She noticed that his fingernails were dirty. She feared needles. The whiskey seemed to boil in her stomach.

“Wait, you guys, I don’t know about this,” she mumbled, her eyes clamped shut as she tried to fight off a wave of dizziness.

“Come on, Cesca. Hey . . . what the fuck—”

Her head sprang up at the sound of Caden’s surprised exclamation, the abrupt gesture sending her hair flying in her face and temporarily blinding her. She felt Bart’s grip on her jerk as if someone had grabbed his arm.

“Let go of her this instant, or I swear I’ll make it so you never live or work in this town again.” Bart’s grip on her jeans slackened. “Francesca, get up.”

She followed Ian’s concise instructions without thinking twice. She clambered off the table and pulled up her jeans, gaping at Ian’s furious, rigid countenance in stark disbelief.

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t reply, just continued to pin Bart with a lancing stare. After she’d fastened her button fly, he put out his hand and grabbed her forearm. She stumbled after him when he began to stalk out of the parlor. He paused in front of the dazed trio of Davie, Caden, and Justin. He seemed to loom over them like a dark, forbidding tower.

“You three are her friends?” Ian asked.

Davie nodded, his face looking pale.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Justin seemed to come to himself. He stepped forward as if to argue, but Davie cut him off.

“No, Justin. He’s right,” Davie said soberly.

Justin’s face turned brick red, and he seemed prepared to argue, but Francesca stopped him this time. “It’s okay, you guys. Really,” she assured Justin tensely before she followed Ian out of the tattoo parlor, her hand firmly gripped in his.

She had trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride once they were walking along the dark, tree-lined street. She really didn’t think she was that drunk, so why had the world taken on the sheen of unreality ever since she’d heard Ian’s authoritative voice ordering Bart to let her go?

“Do you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing?” she asked breathlessly as she trotted next to him.

“You dropped your guard again, Francesca,” he said with tight-lipped fury.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

He came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, pulled her into his arms and swooped down, kissing her roughly. Sweetly. Why couldn’t she tell the difference when it came to Ian’s kisses?

She moaned into his mouth, her body going rigid before it molded against his long length. His taste and scent hit her like a tsunami of lust. Her nipples pinched tight, as if that sensitive flesh had learned to associate his taste with pleasure. He tore his mouth from hers way sooner than she’d expected—or wanted—given how hot and hard he felt.

God, how she wanted him. The blazing, obvious truth hadn’t fully hit her until that moment. She’d never considered that a man like Ian would be interested in her sexually, so she hadn’t allowed herself to fully acknowledge her desire for him.

The distant streetlight made his eyes gleam in his otherwise shadowed face as he looked down at her. She felt anger and lust resonating off his body in equal measure.

“How dare you even consider letting that unlicensed scumbag put a needle to your skin? And what kind of a little fool bares her ass to a roomful of slavering men?” he bit out.

She gasped. “Slavering men . . . those are my friends.” She blinked, absorbing the rest of what he’d said. “Bart doesn’t have a license? Wait . . . how did you even know where I was?”

“Your friend shouted the name of the tattoo parlor loud and clear while we were on the phone,” he said scathingly, stepping away from her and leaving her flesh vibrating in protest at his absence.

“Oh,” she said slowly. She watched as he lunged across the grass to the curb and whipped open the door to a dark, sleek, very expensive-looking sedan.

She looked at him warily. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“If you choose to get in, the penthouse,” he said succinctly.

Her heart started to play a drum solo in her ears. “Why?”

“Like I said, you let your guard down, Francesca. I told you what I was going to do to you the next time you did. Do you recall?”

Her world narrowed to the glint of his eyes in his darkened face and her heartbeat crashing against her eardrums.

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

Warm liquid rushed between her thighs. No . . . he couldn’t be serious. She experienced a wild thought that she should run back and participate in the silly, drunken antics of her friends.

“Get in the car or don’t,” he said, his voice less harsh than before. “I just want you to know what will happen if you do.”

“You’ll punish me?” she clarified shakily. “What . . . like spank me?” She couldn’t believe she’d just uttered those words. She couldn’t believe it when he nodded once.

“That’s right. Your transgression has earned you a paddling, too. I’d give you more if you weren’t a novice at this. And it will hurt. But I’ll only give you what you can take. And I would never, ever harm or mark you, Francesca. You’re far too precious. You have my word on that.”

Francesca glanced at the lights of the distant tattoo parlor and back at Ian’s face.

This was a madness she couldn’t resist.

He said nothing—just closed the door after her when she got into the passenger seat of his car.

Chapter 4

The elevator door slid silently open, and she followed him into the penthouse, experiencing equal parts trepidation and excitement.

“Follow me to my bedroom,” Ian said.

My bedroom. The words seemed to echo around her skull. She’d never been in this wing of the enormous condominium, she realized distractedly. She trailed behind him, feeling like a schoolgirl that had been caught red-handed. The undeniable anticipation she felt seemed to hint at something she couldn’t quite fathom; somehow, she knew that if she crossed the threshold into Ian’s private quarters, her life would change forever. As if Ian understood this, he paused in front of an ornately carved wood doorway.

“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?” he said.

“No,” she admitted, wishing her cheeks didn’t flame. They both spoke in hushed tones. “Is that all right with you?”

“It wasn’t at first. I want you so much, I’ve had to come to terms with your innocence, however,” he said. She lowered her lashes. “Are you certain you want to do this, Francesca?”

“Just tell me one thing first.”

“Anything.”

“When you called earlier tonight . . . while I was in the car? You never said why you were calling.”

“And you’d like to know?”

She nodded.

“I was here alone in the penthouse. I couldn’t work or concentrate.”

“I thought you said you were going to be entertaining.”

“I did say that. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. No one else would do.”

She inhaled raggedly. It did something to her, to hear him be so honest.

“That’s when I went into the studio and saw what you’d painted yesterday. It’s brilliant, Francesca. All of the sudden, I knew I had to see you.”

She dipped her head farther to hide how much pleasure she felt at his words. “All right. I’m sure.”

It was he who hesitated, but then he reached and twisted the knob. The door opened. He waved his hand and she entered the room cautiously. Ian touched a control panel and several lamps glowed with golden ambient light.

It was a beautiful room—sedate, tasteful, luxurious. A couch and several chairs were arranged in a seating area before a fireplace immediately before her. A stunning flower arrangement of red calla lilies and orchids in an enormous Ming vase had been placed on a table behind the couch. Over the fireplace was an impressionist painting of a field of poppies; if she didn’t miss her guess, it was an original Monet. Incredible. Her gaze caught on the huge four-poster carved bed to the right decorated, like the rest of the room, in a rich brown, ivory, and dark red color scheme.

“The lord of the manor’s private quarters,” she murmured, giving him a shaky smile.

He waved at another paneled door. She followed him into a bathroom that was larger than her bedroom. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a folded garment wrapped in clear plastic. He set it on the counter.

“Go ahead and shower and put on this robe. Only the robe. Leave all your other clothes. You’ll find everything you require in these two drawers. You smell like stale smoke and whiskey.”

“I’m sorry you disapprove.”

“I accept your apology.”

Her temper flared again at his quick reply. A small smile tilted his mouth when he saw the return of her defiance. He’d obviously expected it.

“You please me, Francesca. Beyond measure.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise at the compliment. Would she ever learn to read him?

“But you must learn to please me in the bedroom,” he said.

“I do want to,” she said quietly, surprising herself by her candor.

“Good. Then to start, I’d like you to shower and put on this robe. When you’ve finished, come out to the bedroom, and I’ll administer your punishment.”

He started to walk out of the bathroom but paused. “Oh, and wash your hair, please. It ought to be a crime for all that glory to smell like an ashtray,” he muttered under his breath before he exited, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.

She just stood there for a moment on the pristine marble tile floor. He thought her hair was glorious? She pleased him? How could he possibly be having thoughts like that about her? How could he kiss her until she thought she’d spontaneously combust and yet look at her at times like she was about as interesting as the paint on the wall?

She showered thoroughly, enjoying the experience more than she’d thought she would. The glass-enclosed stall steamed up quickly, the tendrils of warm mist seeming to caress and kiss her naked skin. It was nice to lather up with Ian’s hand-milled English soap, cover herself in his clean, spicy scent. Fortunately, she’d shaved before she went out to McGill’s, so she didn’t have to worry about hairy legs.

Would he spank her while she was naked?

Of course he would, she answered herself as she slid open the glass door to the shower and exited. He’d told her point blank he wanted her naked beneath the robe. She extricated the garment now from the plastic wrapping. Was it brand new? Did he keep a supply of robes on stock for the women that he “entertained”? The thought made her a little sick, so she shoved it out of her brain, focusing instead on finding a comb for her wet hair, deodorant, a new toothbrush, and a bottle of mouthwash. Everything was arranged so neatly in the cabinet that she took special care returning the items to their proper places.

She folded her clothes and set them on an upholstered stool. Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention. Her image stared back at her, her eyes looking huge in her pale face, her long hair hanging damp. She looked a little scared.

So what if I am scared? she thought to herself. He’d said he was going to spank her and that it would hurt. She’d agreed to his apparent warped sexual practices because she wanted Ian so much.

It came down to which was greater: her fear or her desire to please Ian.

She walked toward the door and opened it. He sat on the couch, a tablet in his lap. He set the device on the coffee table when she walked into the room.

“I lit a fire for you,” he said, his gaze running over her from head to foot. He was still dressed in the same clothing he’d been wearing when he’d barged into the tattoo parlor—dark gray tailored pants and a blue-and-white button-down shirt. His long legs were crossed negligently. He looked utterly at ease. The light from the fire flickered in his eyes. “It’s cool tonight. I didn’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling awkward and uncertain.

“Take off the robe, Francesca,” he said quietly.

Her heart skipped a beat. She fumbled with the sash and drew the robe off her shoulders.

“Set it down there,” he instructed, pointing to the chair next to her, his gaze never leaving her. She draped the garment over the back of the chair and stood there, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, studying the intricate pattern of the Oriental carpet beneath her like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Look at me,” he said.

She lifted her chin. There was something in his gaze she’d never seen before.

“You’re exquisite. Stunning. Why do you look down, as if you’re ashamed?”

She swallowed thickly. The embarrassing truth came unstuck from her throat. “I . . . I used to be overweight. Until I was nineteen or so. I . . . guess I still have the confidence of my former self,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.

A subtle of-course expression flickered over his bold features. “Ah . . . yes. But you seem so sure of yourself at times.”

“That’s not confidence. It’s defiance.”

“Yes,” he mused. “I understand now. Better than you might think. It’s your way of telling the world to go fuck itself for ever having the gall to look down its nose at you.” He smiled. “Bravo, Francesca. It’s time you learned how beautiful you are, though. You should always control the strengths you have available to you; never let them languish or, worse, allow others to be the ones to control them for you. Come stand before me, please.”

She went to him on shaking legs. Her eyes went wide in confusion when he picked up a jar sitting on the cushion next to him. It was so small, and Ian had filled her senses so completely, she hadn’t noticed it before. He unscrewed the cap and put a small dollop of the thick white substance on his forefinger. Glancing up, he noticed her bewilderment.

“It’s a clitoral stimulant. It increases the sensitivity of the nerves,” he said.

“Oh, I see,” she muttered, even though she didn’t.

His gaze dropped between her thighs. Her clit pinched with arousal, his stare stimulant enough. “I’m very selfish when it comes to you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I always give a submissive pleasure if she pleases me. I’m not usually concerned if she feels it while she’s being punished, however. She might have to endure it to get her reward. I find I’ve . . . changed my tune a bit with you, however.”

“Submissive?” she asked weakly, her brain sticking on that part of his reply.

“Yes. I’m a dominant when it comes to sex, although I don’t require elements of bondage or dominance to get me turned on. It’s a preference for me, not a necessity.” He sat forward on the couch so that his dark head was inches from her belly, his nose near her sex. She watched as he inhaled and then briefly closed his eyes.

“So sweet,” he said, sounding a little undone.

She had no time to prepare for what he did next. He boldly plunged his thick finger between her sex lips and rubbed the cream thoroughly on her clit, his touch sure . . . electric. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out as concentrated pleasure shuddered through her. “Tonight, I’ll punish you, and I won’t lie. I’m going to enjoy it. Very much. But I want you to feel pleasure as well. Your nature will determine most of that, but this cream will help to swing things in the right direction,” he said as he continued to massage the emollient onto her clit. He glanced up and saw her bewilderment. “I won’t have you trained to fear this. I don’t want you to loathe your punishments. In a word, I don’t want you to fear me, Francesca.”

He dropped his hand into his lap. His gaze returned to the juncture of her thighs. His nostrils flared, and his face went rigid before he stood abruptly.

“Over here, please,” he said. She followed him to where he stood in front of the fireplace. Her feet stalled when she saw what he picked up off the mantel—a long black paddle. “Come closer. You may look at it,” he said when he took in her wariness.

He held up the paddle for her inspection. “I have them made by hand. I just received this one last week. Despite my insistence that I would never really use it to the purpose, I had it made with you in mind, Francesca.”

Her eyes widened at that.

“I’ll make you burn with the leather side,” he said quietly. Warm fluid gushed between her thighs at his matter-of-fact tone. He flipped his wrist, sending the paddle several inches in the air, catching it as it fell. She stared in amazement. The other side was covered with rich-looking dark brown fur. “And soothe the sting with the mink side,” he finished.

Her mouth went dry, her mind blank.

“We’ll begin now. Bend over and place your hands on your knees,” he instructed.

She did as he demanded, her breath coming in erratic puffs. He came and stood beside her. She gave him an anxious sideways glance. The firelight gleamed in his eyes as his gaze ran over her body.

“God, you’re beautiful. It frustrates me that you don’t see it, Francesca. Not in the mirror. Not in other men’s eyes. Not in your spirit.” Her eyes fluttered closed when he reached out and stroked along her spine, then her left hip and buttock. A ripple of pleasure went through her. “You really do deserve to be punished for even considering marring this skin. So flawless. White. Soft,” he said, his long fingers trailing along the crack of her ass. Her eyelids squeezed tight. Emotion surged in her throat, confusing her. He’d sounded genuinely awed.

She didn’t unclench her eyelids until he stopped caressing her.

“Spread your thighs some and arch your back. It will give me pleasure to see your lovely breasts while I paddle you,” he said. She adjusted her position, arching her spine. She gasped when he reached forward, cupping one of her breasts. He lightly pinched the nipple, and she quivered in pleasure.

“Now bend your knees ever so slightly. It will help you to absorb the blow. There. That’s perfect. This is the position I expect you to take every time I paddle you.” She missed his plucking fingers and warm palm when he transferred his hand to her shoulder. “You’re skin is very delicate. I’ll give you fifteen strokes.”

The leather side of the paddle struck her ass. Her eyes sprang wide, and she cried out. The quick flash of pain faded quickly to a burn. “All right?” Ian asked.

“Yes,” she replied honestly, biting her lower lip.

He swung again, this time smacking the tender curve of her lower buttocks. He caught her at the shoulder when she spilled forward slightly from the blow.

“You have a gorgeous ass,” he said, his voice sounding low and husky. He smacked her again. “I approve of your running. Your ass is sleek and taut and plump. Ideal bottom for spanking.”

She exhaled sharply as the paddle landed again. How was it that the burning sensation on her paddled ass was transferring to her clit? The nubbin of flesh felt hot and tingly. Ian landed another smack, and she couldn’t repress her cry.

“Hurt?” he asked, pausing.

She just nodded.

“If it’s too much, you can say so. I will soften the blows.”

“No . . . I can take it,” she said shakily.

He abruptly reached across her and cupped her hip, then pressed his crotch against her. She gasped at the feeling of his large cock throbbing against the side of her buttock. “There,” he said. “That’s how much you please me.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat. The burn at her clit amplified. He backed up and landed the paddle again and again with sharp cracking sounds. By the time he was ready to administer the final stroke, her ass felt like it was on fire. Perhaps he noticed the tremble in her thighs, because he murmured, “Hold steady” and his grip on her shoulder tightened. He pressed the paddle into her stinging ass, as if carefully aiming his final blow. He lifted the paddle and swung.

A shout popped out of her mouth uncontrollably at the impact. He caught her as her body lurched forward.

“Shhhh,” he soothed. “This part is done.”

She cried out shakily as he turned the paddle and began to rub the fur over her burning bottom. It felt so good. The tingle in her clit had become a plaguing, burning ache. She longed to touch herself, apply pressure. Was the paddling at Ian’s hand responsible for her stark arousal, or was it the stimulation cream he’d applied? Just thinking of him rubbing the emollient on her clit with his thick, long finger made her moan. She felt feverish. Suddenly, he stopped stroking her ass with the fur and encouraged her to stand with the hand on her shoulder.

She turned toward him at his urging, feeling strange . . . dazed . . . aroused. He was no longer holding the paddle. She just stood there, feeling overwhelmed, as he gently brushed her hair away from her face.

“You did extremely well, Francesca. Better than I’d ever dreamed of,” he murmured, his thumbs brushed against her cheeks. “Are you crying because it hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Why then, lovely?”

Her throat was too constricted to speak. Besides, she didn’t know what she would say, even if she could.

He cradled her jaw with his hands. Being overweight for most of her life, and tall for a woman, she usually felt huge and ungainly. But Ian was much larger than her. Next to him, she felt small, delicate . . . feminine. She suddenly realized his hands shook.

“Ian, you’re hands are trembling,” she whispered.

“I know. I suspect it’s from too much restraint. I’m doing everything in my power not to bend you over this very second and fuck you raw.”

She blinked in shock. He seemed to notice and closed his eyes briefly, as if in regret at what he’d said.

“I would like to spank you over my knee now. It would please me a great deal to have you lay in my lap, at my mercy. But you are very tender. If the paddling was too much, I won’t insist that we continue.”

“No. I want to continue,” she whispered hoarsely. She looked into his eyes. I want to please you, Ian.

His eyelids flickered. He continued to stroke her cheeks with the pads of his thumb, studying her closely.

“All right,” he said finally, sounding resigned. “But come over to the fire first.”

She followed him, but he detoured to the bathroom.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

She waited by the fire, the heat from it combined with her body’s arousal creating a strange sense of lassitude and excitement. He returned a moment later carrying a large comb.

“Let me comb your hair and let it dry a little by the fire.”

She glanced at him in puzzlement. He gave her a small, sheepish smile.

“I have to do something to calm myself down a little.”

She returned his smile shakily and, at his urging, turned her back to him. The paradoxical sensation of relaxation and sharp anticipation grew as Ian parted her hair into portions, gathered handfuls of it and slowly, sensually drew the comb through it. Her head drooped.

“Are you sleepy?” he murmured from behind her. His voice itself seemed to make her nipples prickle in awareness. The tingling burn on her clit was amplifying. Wicked cream.

“No, not really. It just feels good.”

He drew the comb from root all the way to the drying ends that hung just above her waist. “I’ve never seen hair the like of yours. Rose gold,” he mused gruffly. He caressed her tingling bottom, making her shiver, and exhaled as if in defeat. He set the comb on the mantel. “So much for the idea of that calming me down. Better just continue. Follow me.”

He walked to the couch and sat on the middle cushion, his thighs slightly spread. He glanced down to his lap in a silent command. Her self-consciousness returned with a fury. She was naked and he was clothed and she had no idea what she was supposed to do. She swallowed nervously when she saw his erection pressed against the crotch of his pants, the shaft of his cock running along his left thigh. Staring at the sight as if mesmerized, Francesca came down on the sofa on her hands and knees, bridging his thighs, then began to lower. He opened his hand along her ribs and hip, guiding her into the location he wanted.

When she was settled, the lower swells of her breasts were pressed against his outer left thigh, her belly was draped across his thighs, and her bottom curved over his right thigh. He swept his hand along her waist, hip, and ass, and she felt his cock move against her ribs.

“This is the exact position you will take for an over-the-knee spanking. Do you understand?” he asked, his warm hand now caressing her ass. The nerves there still prickled, not uncomfortably, from her paddling.

“Yes,” she said, nodding at the same time. Her hair fell into her face.

“There’s just one other thing,” he said. He carefully smoothed back her hair and gathered it at one shoulder. He lightly pushed with his hand at the back of her skull, and her forehead pressed into the soft fabric of the couch. “I will often blindfold you for a spanking—I want you to be totally focused on my hand, the feeling of your punishment . . . my arousal. But for now, keep your face down and close your eyes.”

She clamped her eyelids shut and squirmed in his lap. She felt him go still.

“What? Did that arouse you?”

“I . . . I guess so,” she said, confused. She supposed he was right. A stab of lust had gone through her at his words. Why would that be? “It must be the cream,” she muttered.

He resumed stroking her ass. “Let us pray it’s more than the cream,” he murmured, and she heard the smile in his voice. “Now stay completely still, or I will spank you harder.”

He lifted his hand and slapped her right buttock, then her left, then her right in quick succession, the cracking noises echoing in her ears even when he paused. She bit her lip to stop herself from moaning. He was obviously experienced at spanking; his strokes were precise, firm, quick but unhurried. He landed another flurry of blows, covering all of her ass and upper thighs. Her bottom began to burn in a different way than it had from her paddling. Ian’s hand created a slow, simmering kind of heat that resonated off her skin. She also learned quickly enough where he liked spanking her most—on the round lower curve of her buttocks. Every time he smacked her there, his cock lurched against her and she felt the tension leap in his thighs. His slapping hand grew every bit as hot as her ass. Heat resonated from his cock, as well, through the fabric of his trousers and into her skin.

He landed a slap on the bottom curve of her ass, then suddenly grabbed the entire buttock and lifted his groin, grinding her against his cock. Her shaky moan mingled with his low, feral growl. Her clit went from a burn to a sizzle at the pressure and the sharp awareness of his arousal. She felt dizzy, fevered, like she was on fire from the inside out. She wanted nothing more than to twist in his lap and get pressure on her clit . . . to hump against his cock like a wild, shameless thing. He lowered his hips and resumed spanking her. When he paused after a rapid round of slaps and again molded a buttock greedily into his palm, her control broke.

“Oh, Ian . . . no. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore,” she moaned, writhing in his lap. He stilled, her ass cheek still squeezed in his palm.

“It’s too painful?” he asked tautly.

“No. I can’t stay still anymore. I burn.”

For an anxious few seconds, he didn’t move. Then he let go of her ass and slid his hand between her thighs. She whimpered in frantic agony when his fingertips skimmed across her outer sex. His cock leapt against her.

“Christ . . . you’re soaking wet,” she heard him utter. He sounded stunned. She was too excited to be embarrassed . . . too far gone. She gasped when he put a hand on her shoulder, urging her upward.

“Come here,” he ordered in a hard tone.

Oh, no. Had she irritated him again? She pushed herself onto her knees with his assistance.

“Straddle my lap,” he ordered.

Her nearly dried hair scattered around her shoulders and back as she did his bidding. He placed his hands on her hips, settling her hot, burning bottom on his thighs. He smoothed her hair behind her shoulders, exposing her breasts. His gaze fixed on them, his upper lip curling slightly in a snarl.

“Look at that,” he said under his breath. “Your nipples are nearly as red as your ass.” His gaze flickered up to her face. “So are your cheeks, Francesca . . . and your lips. You enjoyed being punished, lovely. And that pleases me so much. It’s going to be so good fucking your wet little pussy.”

Her sex clenched painfully. He opened his large hands around her ribs and lowered his head, bringing her breasts to him. She tensed, expecting the delightful, forceful suck he’d treated her nipple to in the workout room, but instead, he pursed his lips slightly, kissing first one turgid nipple, then the other sweetly. “So perfect,” he whispered. His hands moved rapidly. Her excitement spiked when she realized he was unfastening his pants. He slipped just the crest of her breast between his lips, sucking lightly and whipping the flesh with his wet, warm tongue.

Her clit sizzled, tormenting her. Her hips twitched in his lap. She couldn’t control herself. She clutched onto his head and made a wild, fevered sound in her throat. He lifted his head and glanced up at her face.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, his blue eyes alight with lust. He moved his hand, sliding it down her heaving belly. She whimpered when he slid his finger between her creamy labia. He touched her clit. That’s all. One touch.

She exploded like a cache of dynamite.

She hardly knew what she was doing, so much pleasure swamped her existence at that moment. For a moment or two, he continued to stroke her clit as climax thundered through her. Distantly, she was aware of him cursing harshly and pushing her closer to his body, as if he wanted to absorb her shudders of orgasm. She shook against him, helpless in the face of roaring pleasure.

He shifted his hand. She cried out when she felt him push a thick finger into her vagina.

The next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the couch next to Ian, and he was staring down at her as she gasped for air.

“You’ve never been with a man. Have you?”

Her soughing breath froze. It hadn’t really been a question but an accusation.

“No,” she said, resuming her panting. Why was he looking at her like that? “I told you.”

Fury sparked in his eyes. “When exactly did you tell me you were a virgin, Francesca? Because I sincerely doubt I would have let such a crucial piece of information slip my mind,” he snarled.

“There—before we came into the room tonight,” she said, pointing stupidly at the door to his bedroom. “You asked if I’d ever done this before, and I said—”

“I meant had you ever let a man punish you. Dominate you. Not—fuck,” he muttered in a blistering fashion. He stood jerkily and began to pace in front of the fireplace, raking his fingers through his short hair. He looked a little demented.

“Ian, what—”

“I knew this was a mistake,” he muttered bitterly. “Who did I think I was kidding?”

Her lips parted in dawning shock. He thought this had been a mistake? He was rejecting her? Now? Fresh images and sensations bombarded her consciousness, memories of how wild she’d been, how out of control with lust and need.

She relearned a painful childhood lesson at that moment, one that she would have done well to recall tonight. It caused no greater shame than to express need, to make oneself vulnerable, and then to have that pure, honest emotion thrown back at you as if it was garbage.

Tears blinding her eyes, she reached desperately for the cashmere throw blanket at the corner of the couch. She whipped it around her naked body before she stood. Ian came to a halt when he saw what she was doing.

“What are you doing?” he barked.

“I’m leaving,” she replied, stalking toward the bathroom.

“Francesca, stop right this second,” he commanded, his voice quiet . . . intimidating.

She paused and glanced back at him. Hurt and fury rose in her, tightening her throat. “You just lost the right to order me around,” she grated out.

He blanched.

She turned just in time to prevent him from seeing the gathered tears spill out of her eyes. Ian Noble had seen enough of her vulnerability for one night.

He’d seen more than enough for a lifetime.

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

Part III of BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE

BECAUSE YOU HAUNT ME

Available from InterMix on August 14, 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 animallike pleasure. When she cried out and arched her back, he secured her wrists tighter, pushing her back to the bed.

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

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

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

She gasped loudly when he leaned down and encircled her silk-covered nipple in the heat of his mouth. The suction that he applied made the inferno at her sex 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 fi ngers spread the lips of her outer sex wide before he ground his pelvis against the nerve-packed tissues between her labia. She shimmered around him in post-orgasmic bliss. Her whole body began to tremble and shake when he surged up against her, scraping the narrow path of hair that trailed from his taut bellybutton to the thatch around his cock against her sensitive, exposed cleft and erect clit, applying a steady, relentless pressure.

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

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

“You want to come again?”

“Yes,” she entreated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Because You Are Mine

PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME

PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST

Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery

WICKED BURN

DARING TIME

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery

SWEET RESTRAINT

PARADISE RULES

RELEASE

EXPLOSIVE

Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane

ADDICTED TO YOU

EXPOSED TO YOU

eSpecials by Beth Kery writing as Bethany Kane

BOUND TO YOU

CAPTURED BY YOU