| Béatrix
set her teacup firmly on Philip's desk. "Last time I checked
I was twenty-three, an adult, and perfectly capable of deciding how
to run my life."
"But, Bea," said her handsome, widowed stepfather, "your
mother would want me to keep an eye on you."
"Puh-leeze. Mother didn't give a damn if I screwed up. In fact,
she welcomed it."
"What a terrible thing to say. And completely untrue."
"Oh, really? You know what the shopgirls called her? The queen
of a thousand pinpricks." Actually, they'd left the "pins"
out of it, but she wasn't quite rude enough to say so. "She loved
when people made mistakes because it gave her a chance to make them
feel small."
"You mother was a visionary."
His defense woke a tide of anger she didn't try to stem. She rose
from her chair, parked herself on the corner of his desk, and poked
his too-sober navy shirt. "My mother was an occasional visionary.
The rest of the time she was an opinionated bitch. People didn't listen
to her because she was right; they listened to her because she was
Evangeline Clouet, a beautiful, rich woman who, by sheer force of
will, managed to consolidate grand-mère's glittering little empire.
I know it's hard for you to admit how selfish she could be, how snobbish
and how shallow. Admitting that would make you seem like the boy-toy
everyone said you were. But it's time you faced the truth. Mother
married you for your pretty face and your rock-hard twenty-year-old
cock. She married you to make her rivals jealous. The fact that you
had a brain in your head was completely beside the point."
Two spots of color stained Philip's chalky face.
"I hadn't realized," he said stiffly, "that your opinion
of me was quite so low."
"Don't be an idiot. My opinion of you was ten times higher than
maman's."
Philip gripped the edge of his desk as if he meant to crush the wood.
"By God, I'd hate to hear what you'd say if that weren't the
case!"
She didn't know what came over her then: eight years of hiding her
feelings perhaps, eight years of his ludicrous paternal kindness,
eight years of smelling him, eight years of pasting his face on every
one of her doltish lovers. Whatever the reason, she'd reached her
breaking point. She grabbed his lapels, pulled him forward in his
chair, and plastered her mouth across his own.
He made a startled sound, a silly English splutter. His lips were
as smooth as she'd imagined. She softened her hold and licked their
enticing curves. The sound he made then was no less startled, but
not silly in the least. No, it was low and throaty. Her neck prickled
with awareness. He was aroused. He liked this. He tilted his head.
His mouth parted. With both astonishment and delight, she felt his
tongue, wet and warm, pressing for access.
His arms slid around her, under her jacket. Béatrix couldn't
hold her moan inside. He answered with a moan of his own. His fingers
speared her curls. He was dragging his nails along her scalp and the
kiss had deepened, slow but hard. He tasted of tea and jam, but it
was her he wanted to eat. His tongue swept her molars, tickled her
palate. Then it sucked, sweet, fluttering tugs that told her he'd
know how to kiss her just as effectively somewhere else.
A wave of fever swept her skin. Her head pounded in time to her pussy.
She had to touch him, had to hold him. She gripped his shoulders.
She moved her legs and caught his narrow hips between her thighs.
His body stiffened, then rolled forward. He pushed her back on the
desk, his groin meeting hers and digging in.
His trousers could not hide his arousal. His cock was thick, as thick
as her mother had always bragged. A real saucisson, with balls
like a pair of plums. His erection lurched as he ground it over her
mons. Dieu, it felt good. Béatrix dragged her nails down
his back and clamped his buttocks hard.
"Good Lord," he said, wrenching free for a gulp of air.
He stared at her, eyes shining, searching.
Now he'll stop, she thought. Now he'll tell me I've lost my mind.
But he didn't. He swallowed, cheeks flaming like a young boy's. His
head lowered. Their breath rushed together and he kissed her again,
even harder than before. It was a starving kiss. It shifted angles,
this way, that way, full of noise and juice. His teeth bruised her
lips. His back clenched under her hold. He'd snaked one hand beneath
her shirt to reach bare skin. Now he shifted it to her front, pushing
his palm up her heaving ribs. Her bra gave way. He cupped the fullness
of her breast, pinched her nipple, and shoved his tongue towards her
throat.
Pleasure spangled outward from his touch. He wanted her. He was panting
for her. Béatrix lost the last of her control. She wrenched his
shirt from his trousers. She fumbled with his belt. It clanked and
fought her until it fell free. Then his hand yanked down his
zipper and his hand pushed hers inside. They struggled through
fine Egyptian cotton, through silk, and then she grasped him, his
beautiful, meaty cock. The shock of his heat went through her like
lightning. He cried out, short and sharp, and swelled against her
palm.
Her laugh seemed to belong to another woman. It gurgled from her throat,
rich with triumph. He squeezed her hand, wordlessly encouraging her
caress. She did not resist. She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel
the silken skin move up and down, the crisp curls at the base, the
plump ridge of the head. But he grew impatient with her exploration.
He renewed his grip, directing her to a firmer stroke. Closer he forced
her hand, and tighter, until she thought she must be hurting him.
Down he pushed, until her fist nudged his balls. His glans brushed
hot against her inner arm. He dripped with lust. She pulled upward,
rubbed the wet curve with the heel of her palm. His kiss turned ragged.
He was murmuring against her mouth. She took a moment to decipher
the words.
"Fuck me," he was saying. "Fuck me, Bea. Fuck me."
She clutched his cock so hard he gasped.
He pulled back, lips red and slack. His pupils seemed to have swallowed
his eyes. Then they cleared. He stared at her. Her shirt was up around
her armpits, her bra askew, her breasts bare. His gaze locked on her
sharpened nipples.
"Bloody hell," he swore, unable to look away.
And then they both heard it: the clack of heels approaching swiftly
down the hall. The door was open. Béatrix had never closed it.
"Down," he hissed. With far more possession than she could
claim, he shoved her beneath his desk.
COPYRIGHT 2001 BY EMMA HOLLY.
IT IS ILLEGAL TO REPRODUCE OR DISTRIBUTE THIS WORK IN ANY MANNER OR
MEDIUM WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR. |