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.

© 2001 by Emma Holly. It is illegal to reproduce or distribute this work in any manner or medium without written permission of the author.