The Princes' Brides. Sandra Marton

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      “Of course. I mean, I know him—”

      “Really? What’s his name?”

      “Ted,” Aimee said quickly.

      “No. It is not.”

      It had been a gamble, but a good one. Nicolo watched as the woman worried her bottom lip. He’d guessed right. She had no idea who she’d been dancing with. She’d picked the man up.

      For many of its patrons, that was the purpose of a place like this.

      Her business, of course.

      That was what he’d told himself, when he first saw her with the man.

      But he’d watched as she smiled. Flirted. Shook her hips, her breasts. Practiced the fine art of seduction.

      For another man.

      Not for him.

      Not for him, he’d thought, and suddenly he’d known that confronting her, kissing her, would not be enough.

      He wanted her.

      It didn’t make sense but it didn’t have to. His body, his blood, knew what he needed.

      And what he needed was this beautiful, condescending stranger dancing with him…

      Dancing in his bed.

      Slowly he reached out, laced one finger under the thin strap of her red dress and tugged. She stumbled toward him, arms raised, hands balled into fists.

      He caught her wrists in one hand.

      “Don’t struggle,” he said in a low voice. “It will only make things worse.”

      “Please.” Her voice trembled. “Please, don’t do this.”

      “I told you this afternoon, you lack manners, cara.”

      “Let me go! Damn you—”

      “The next time ‘something happens,’ as you called it, between you and a man, you will know how to respond.”

      “If you’re after an apology…”

      “And if I were, would you finally offer one?”

      She was terrified; he could see it in her face, feel it in the trembling of her body. Her gaze locked on his, and he felt a rush of disappointment.

      She was desperate, desperate enough so she was, in fact, going to apologize. And then, as a civilized man, he’d have to let her go…

      Wrong.

      Her chin lifted; terrified or not, her eyes blazed with defiance.

      “Only a barbarian would think that taking a woman by force is the way to get even for damage to his ego.”

      “Is that what you think? That I’m going to rape you?” The muscle flickered in his jaw again; he cupped her face with his free hand and held it steady. “You know better.” His voice was low and husky. “I saw the way you looked at me a few minutes ago.”

      Color stained her cheeks. “I don’t know what you—”

      “Yes,” he said, “you damned well do.”

      His head lowered to hers, and he kissed her.

      His mouth was hard. Hungry. Hot against hers. Aimee jerked against the restraint of his hand, tried to twist her face away but he wouldn’t permit it.

      Instead he brought her closer, crushing her tightly against him so that she could feel the strength of him, the power…

      The thrust of his straining erection.

      A whimper rose in her throat.

      “Stop,” she said, against his mouth, but he went on kissing her, his fingers sliding into her hair, twisting the curls around his hand, backing her against the wall so that now she was pressed against him from breast to groin.

      “Kiss me back,” he said in a thick whisper.

      No, she told herself frantically. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t…

      Aimee gave a strangled cry, rose to him and opened her mouth against his.

      He groaned. Let go of her wrists and threw his arm around her hips, lifting her against him. His tongue teased her lips, slipped between them and she tasted his hunger, his need, his rampant masculinity.

      “Say it,” he growled against her mouth. “Tell me what you want. What you’ve wanted ever since this afternoon.”

      Blind to logic, to reason, blind to anything but the feel of him, the scent of him, Aimee gave up lying.

      “You,” she whispered. “Only you. All day. All evening. I couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t get you out of my head—”

      He cupped her face in his hands. Kissed her, deeply. Thrust his leg between hers and she moaned at the feel of it against the tender flesh between her thighs.

      She moved against him. Moved again, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough…

      She moaned.

      The sound damned near sent Nicolo over the edge.

      The taste of her was exquisite. She was strawberries and cream, spring rain and summer sun. She was everything a man could imagine a woman might be, if only in a dream.

      He lifted her from the floor. Her arms rose; she wound them around his neck.

      “Yes,” he said, and he grasped her slender thighs and brought them around his hips.

      He thought of taking her to his hotel. To her apartment. To a place where he could undress her, touch her, watch her eyes as he entered her.

      But not now.

      Now, he needed this. Needed her. Needed to bury himself in her, needed it more than his next breath.

      Locked in a dance as old as time, mouths fused in mutual hunger, Nicolo carried Aimee to the marble vanity. Sat her on its edge. Fumbled between them. Unzipped. Freed himself. Put his hand between her thighs, groaning as he felt the wet heat of her against his fingers, and tore aside the scrap of silk that kept her from him.

      “Look at me,” he commanded.

      She did, fixing those incredible violet eyes on his face.

      “Yes,” she said, and he thrust forward, sank into her, felt her close around him.

      She cried out instantly; he felt the pulse of her muscles as she came and then he exploded within her, came in a rush of almost unbearable ecstasy.

      She trembled.

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