The Pregnant Mistress. Sandra Marton

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      Hell. “One moment,” he said softly, and turned to the blonde. “I’m sorry,” he said politely. “But I’m busy.”

      He was being rude. He knew it, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the woman…

      She was gone. But where? The terrace. Yes. He saw a flash of green silk being swallowed up by the darkness. He put his glass on a table and shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring everything but the woman.

      There she was, hurrying down the wide steps that led to the gently sloping lawn.

      “Wait!”

      Her pace quickened, until she was almost running. Demetrios cursed, went after her, caught her as she reached a shadowed gazebo. He clasped her shoulders and swung her towards him. Moonlight lit her face.

      “Why did you run away? Are you afraid of me?” Gently, he cupped her face in his hands, his fingers stroking the curve of her cheekbones. “There’s no reason to be. I won’t hurt you.”

      Sam stared up at him. There was no way to explain. What could she tell him? That she’d only been teasing, at first, because it was fun to know she’d been coming on to the evening’s unknowing quarry? That what had started as fun had changed? That she could imagine going to bed with him, wanted to go to bed with him, but that not even she, for all her talk, fell into bed so fast? It was out of the question anyway. Her entire family had pointed her in his direction. She doubted if he’d want to hear that.

      Sam moistened her lips. “I’m sorry if I misled you. But I’m—I’m tired. And—”

      “And, you don’t know me. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His gaze fell to her lips, then rose. “You could know me,” he said softly. “One kiss. That is all it would take, and then we would both know all we need to know.”

      “I don’t think—”

      “Don’t think. Not tonight.”

      Slowly, he lowered his head to hers. Despite his words, she knew he was giving her time to end the game before it was too late.

      His eyes were pools of indigo, half shielded by thick, black lashes.

      I could drown in his eyes, she thought, and then his mouth brushed hers like a whisper of moonlight, brushed it again and again, and with a little sigh, Sam gave up thinking, closed her eyes, parted her lips and welcomed his kiss.

      He tasted of wine and of moonlight, of a thousand forgotten dreams and of a quest that had never quite been fulfilled. And despite everything, she knew, as he kissed her, that she wanted more.

      Unbidden, the word whispered from her lips. “More.”

      Demetrios groaned. More. Yes. He would give her more. He would give her everything, take everything. He brought her closer, slipped his hands up her throat, felt the urgent pulsing of her blood, cupped her face and lifted it to his.

      Samantha leaned into him, wanting the feel of him against her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He slid his hands down her shoulders and she trembled at the rough brush of his fingers against her bare skin, moaned when he gathered her tightly in his arms.

      Her hands lifted, wrapped around his neck, and he knew she was surrendering herself to him, to the night, to passion. He bit lightly at her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny hurt with his tongue. She tasted of rum and sugar, of heat and desire, and he groaned again and fell back against the wall, taking her with him, sweeping his hand possessively down her body. He cupped her breast, swallowed her cry as the silk-covered nipple rose against his palm, curved his hand around her hip.

      “Matya mou,” he said thickly, turning so that their positions were reversed and it was she who leaned against the gazebo. He moved into the vee of her legs and she arched against him, moved against him, and he knew he was as close to losing himself as he had ever been in all the years since he’d left boyhood behind.

      “Wait,” he whispered, but she was touching him, sliding her hands under his jacket, tearing at his shirt so that the studs popped free and fell to the ground. He caught his breath at the feel of her cool fingers against his skin, and he clasped her wrists in one hand while he stepped back and tried to regain his sanity, but she gave a little whimper of distress that fueled his hunger. He understood her need. It was the same for him, the urgency to touch and taste that was almost pain, but he would not permit himself such a total loss of control. He could wait. He would take her where there was privacy, where there was a bed, a place to be alone.

      He brushed a light kiss on her swollen mouth and wound his fingers through hers.

      “My room,” he said, but she shook her head wildly.

      “No. Not in the house. I can’t—I don’t—”

      She didn’t want to run the risk of seeing people. God knew, neither did he. “The stables,” he said, and before she could reply, he led her from the gazebo towards the outbuildings.

      “Wait,” she said, just as he had moments before, and he thought she had changed her mind, thought what he would do if she had, but she stopped only long enough to kick off her shoes. He scooped them up and they ran through the damp grass side by side. She was laughing softly, and he stopped, swung her into his arms and kissed her.

      A cloud hid the moon, leaving the sky touched only with the fire of the stars, but Demetrios knew his way. There was a small office just off the stables. He and Rafe had sealed a deal in it. It was not elaborate. A desk. A chair. A couch. An old leather couch. Not big, but big enough for a man and a woman to make love.

      He would take her there, undress her, sink into the lushness of her mouth, into the heat of her body. With the first frantic hunger eased, he would hold her in his arms, caress her. The crowd would thin, the party would end, and they would go to the house then, to his room, lose themselves in each other through the long, hot Brazilian night.

      The stable was dark and pleasantly scented with horse and leather. An animal snorted as the door swung shut behind them.

      Demetrios drew Samantha towards the office at the rear of the building.

      “Demetrios?” she whispered.

      “Yes,” he said thickly. She knew his name? He didn’t know hers. He thought of asking, but what did it matter at this moment? Instead, he took her hand, brought it to his erection. “Feel what you do to me, o kalóz mou.” He heard her breath catch as her fingers curled over his hardness.

      “Feel what you do to me,” she said, and she lifted his hand to her breast.

      Her silk-covered nipple, hard as a pearl, pressed against his palm. He groaned, kissed her deeply, savoring the sweetness of her mouth while he drew her down onto the couch and gathered her into his arms. She moaned, pressed fevered kisses to his jaw, wound her arms around his neck and, for a heartbeat, the frenzy within him eased. He felt a sudden need to hold her, just hold her, to learn the sweet secrets of her body before slaking his desire.

      “Tell me your name,” he said softly. “I want to know—”

      Impatiently, she moved against him, moved again, and he was lost. He slid his hand along the warm, exposed flesh between her breasts and her navel, eased his hand under the waistband of her trousers, down and down, groaning at the first brush of silken СКАЧАТЬ