Katherine O’Neal (12 page)

“Do you have to look so much like a
Blackwood?”

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes
piercing hers, his hands tangled in her hair. “Tell me what you
want.”

She couldn’t look at him. It brought back
memories of his brother she’d rather not relive. As it was, she
couldn’t believe she was doing this. But she had to have him. It
was as elemental as food for her body and air to breathe. Her eyes
dropped to his mouth—that blatant, sexual mouth that could make her
wild with a grin or wet with a word.

She closed her eyes. If she didn’t look at
him, maybe she could separate this moment from the past. From what
his brother had done. Her voice was a mere whisper when she spoke.
“I want you to stop wasting time,” she told him, “and make love to
me.”

He let go of her hair and took her naked
shoulders in his hands. Bending her backward, he brought his mouth
to hers with a kiss so searing, it scalded her heart. So rapacious,
she was disabled by the white heat of her own desire. The scattered
passions of the evening all flowed together in a flame that
destroyed like wildfire, consuming all other emotions and leaving
her shattered in its wake. Her blood boiling like lava in her
veins, she heard a strangled cry and realized it had come from her
own throat. The hands that had lashed out at him earlier now
gripped his broad shoulders as she lost her balance and fell
against his desk.

He reached behind her and swept his arm
across it. The contents crashed to the floor, but the sound of it
was muffled by the roaring in her head. Lowering her onto the clean
surface, he pinned her to it so she arched beneath him, his
erection thrusting against her, the neckline of her gown slipping
below her shoulders so she was open and exposed beneath his weight.
His lips never left hers. Searching, probing, crushing hers beneath
his own, he lashed her with a blinding kiss.

It was never meant to be more. A hurried
tumble with a bewitching temptress who’d haunted his dreams. But
somewhere along the way, he relinquished his delusions to the soft,
parted folds of her lips, to the clean, female scent of her skin.
He lingered and tasted where he’d thought to hit and run. The hand
that held hers pinned to the desk left it to clutch at her breast
instead. Prohibited by pink satin, he nudged it aside with his
stubbled jaw, exposing the hard nipple before his mouth clamped
with moist succor upon it. He sucked at her greedily, nipping with
his teeth, as if, having dropped the pretenses, he was free to
feast on her at will.

Never could she have imagined the sweet agony
of his mouth. It sought to take all of her, mowing down any
lingering hesitation with a driving will that recognized no
barriers to its goal.

His hand, meanwhile, was busy rucking up the
yardage of her skirt—a tedious, seemingly endless, task. Transfixed
by the swelling of her nipple beneath his tongue, she was
nonetheless aware of the rustle of satin as he sought its end. She
knew what he was seeking, felt strangely suspended between the
delicious sensations of his mouth at her breast and the agonizing
anticipation of him forcing aside her skirts and finding her at
last.

More satin... and more... and more... Then
layer upon layer of lacy petticoats barring his way. She held her
breath as she waited. And then—at last—at last—he touched her.

“So you didn’t come for this?” he murmured
when he found no drawers to impede him.

His hand was so hot, it seemed to sizzle in
the juices of her desire. He inserted a finger, and it came out
wet, sticky. Another plunge—two fingers this time—and he was
drenched with her. She moved so that he went deeper, as far as his
fingers would allow, forgetting everything but the need to be
filled and stretched and dominated by the man she—

“You want me that badly, do you?” he growled
at her ear, taking feral satisfaction in the all-too-evident fact.
He pulled his hand away and, to show her, smeared the sticky juices
across her breast.

“I want you so badly, I’ll die if you don’t
take me.”

He lapped up the juices, groaning deep in his
throat.

In the process, her skirts fell back to the
floor. Reaching for her, he swore viciously, then took hold of her
arms and pulled her to her feet. She swayed before him, awash with
wanting him, her eyes unfocused and her mouth dry. He shoved her up
against the wall so she fell face-forward, her hand clutching at
the wooden blinds that hid the windows from view. As he pinned her
there with the flat of one hand, her breasts thrust hard against
the wall, he unfastened the back of her gown with the other. She
recalled, with some losing portion of her brain that still
struggled for sanity, that the door was unlocked. In his haste, in
his need, he hadn’t bothered with privacy. Anyone could walk in at
any time.

She wondered if he’d even stop. And then, as
her dress slid to the floor and his hand found her once again
between her thighs, she knew it was too late. Anyone who happened
in would get an eyeful. She couldn’t stop herself now if she
tried.

“Step out of that dress,” he commanded, his
voice a soft, warm breath at her ear.

She did so, and he kicked it away. She stood
now, her back to him, clad in nothing but an ice-pink corset and
matching pale stockings and shoes.

“Now spread your legs for me.”

She stepped apart.

“Wider.”

In doing so, she was forced to lean her cheek
against the wall.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his hand exploring
her from behind. He kissed her bare shoulder and the slender angles
of her back. “Christ, you’re more lovely than I’d imagined.”

She smiled for the first time, glorying in
her power to arouse the beast in him. “Why don’t you stop imagining
and do something about it?” She wiggled her hips, encouraging him
to take her. She was breathing rashly now, the fiery blast of it
parching her throat.

“What do you want?” he insisted.

“I want what you promised. Come inside and
make me scream.”

Even as she said it, she only half believed.
No man had ever made her so crazy that she’d lost her dominion and
screamed out loud. But then, she remembered, he was the greatest
lover in all of Europe. By accounts, he’d made
comtesses
scream in Paris and
baronesas
fall to their knees and beg in
Madrid. Maybe... just maybe...

For a moment, his breath, expelled from his
lungs, mingled with hers. Like a prizefighter readying himself for
the battle ahead.

He left her, and she heard the faint whisper
of clothing. She clung to the wall as if by moving, she’d collapse.
Even her fingertips tingled in anticipation, much as they did
before a heist. She couldn’t help remembering the size of him,
couldn’t wait to discover what it felt like to be so thoroughly
filled by a man...

Then his hands were at her thighs. He lifted
her and plunged into her from behind. She was so wet, he shot in
like a ramrod, even as she—remarkably—cried aloud. Her arms flung
wide, she grasped the wall and leaned her forehead against it as he
slammed into her. He pulled her back against him, cupping her
breasts with his hands, then shoved her back to the partition,
seeking purchase. His hands kneaded her nipples as he thrust,
sending spirals of escalating hunger inside and through her until
all she could feel was her need for him.

She’d never imagined anything so delicious.
She clung to him, stretching to accommodate him as if she’d been
born for this moment. So attuned was she to his every thrust that
her body, her nerves, even the blood in her veins, leapt to life
with each rocking jolt. He was so deep inside her—so large and
demanding, making no concessions for his size—that the contact
bordered on torment. Yet when he pulled back, she missed it,
needing the agony and the subsequent delectable relief from it as
she needed the breath that was hurled from her with every mighty
plunge.

“I’ve never had anyone as big as you,” she
told him over her shoulder.

“How does it feel?” he demanded.

“
Oh, God!
”

Her body burned, and a thin sheen of
perspiration gleamed in the flickering light. She could feel her
own sweat on her breasts beneath his palms. She reached back and
brushed him with her fingers as he plundered her, felt the
chiseled, corded length of him plunge in and out.

“But I should warn you,” she gasped, still
fighting him. “
No man
has ever made me lose control.”

He paused for a heartbeat. The statement
challenged him, fueled his ferocious need to best her. He dropped
one hand in front and found the triangle of curling hair soaked
with her own juices, warm, open, throbbing with yearning. His
fingers found a slick rhythm, urging her on. His breath beat a
cadence in her ear. He began to whisper to her—hot, senseless words
that were so utterly intoxicating, they made her mouth go slack.
She gasped aloud and would have screamed her exaltation except that
his other hand flew to her mouth. He crushed her to silence, then
ground out, in a husky, panting voice, “Taste yourself on me.” And
he thrust his fingers into her mouth.

Lost to him completely, she licked them,
sucked them, tasting her own lust.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Give yourself to
me. Give me what you’ve given no other man. Turn yourself over to
me. That’s it, darling. Be mine...
mine
... just this one
time.”

She lost control. Biting his hand, she
surrendered herself to the shudders that shook her and carried her
to a completion that, moments later, only served to further her
need and leave her more ravenous than before.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Show me how
much you want me.”

She did want him. God, how she wanted him!
Like she’d wanted nothing and no one. He was devouring her,
absorbing her, drawing her into himself and leaving nothing behind
but her need. She let go of her mind and exploded beneath him,
blinded by white stars and spasm upon spasm of unbelievable
pleasure that surged through her and made her pray it would never
end.

She’d barely finished spinning when he
withdrew from her, turned her to face him, and kissed her slack,
parched lips. Lifting her so she was forced to wrap her legs around
him, he brought himself to her, rubbing himself in her wetness for
a moment before heaving himself back inside. This time he moved
with the more determined purpose of sating his own mad desires. He
slammed her back against the wall with such ferocity that she had
to cling to him to keep from being hurled like a rag doll. Kissing
her deeply, he pounded away, splitting her in two, making her gasp
aloud. Her mind began to swirl again as he thrust his tongue into
her mouth and muffled his own growl of release with her lips.

They clung to each other for moments, damp
with sweat, panting as their hearts gradually slowed in tempo.
Still supporting her, he reached up with his hand and ran it, like
a blind man, across her face. As he did so, he slid out of her and
buried his face in her breasts. “Oh, Christ,” he gasped, gathering
her to him and kissing her moist skin. His mouth traveled,
reverently, to her rib cage, her navel, the soft round of her
belly. Like a thirsty man seeking water, he licked her sweat, drank
of her flesh. “Good God!”

She’d never felt so sated, so replete, in all
her life. It was a staggering revelation. They’d made a bargain.
Lust for the sake of lust. One rollicking romp, born of curiosity,
one professional to another, discovering the secrets of their
trades. Nothing more, nothing less.

Except that she felt so much a part of him,
she couldn’t drag herself away. She wanted to stay just so,
clinging to his damp head, clutching him to her breast, holding him
for life. No man had ever moved her so completely. No man had made
her feel more whole.

In the aftermath, she was left with a
shattering truth.
It wasn't enough.

If he were any other man, she’d call off the
wedding and abandon the con. But he was Mace Blackwood, her sworn
enemy—a man whose family had sought the destruction of her own for
generations.

Saranda was the last of the Sherwins, the
keeper of the family flame. She had a responsibility, not only to
her father, but to all the Sherwins stretching back through time.
The Blackwoods had been their nemesis for three hundred years! She
couldn’t forget that. More personally, she couldn’t ignore what
Lance
Blackwood had done. Willfully, vengefully, giving no
thought to her as a person in her own right. Yet she couldn’t
escape from the one glaring truth that was more demoralizing—and
more exhilarating—than all the rest.

She was in love with the man who’d betrayed
her. So desperately in love, she didn’t know what to do.

She was faced with a dilemma that forced her
to question the very nature of her existence. What did it
mean—
to her
—to be a Sherwin? All her life she’d been torn
between what she was naturally and what her father had wanted for
her. The Sherwins, by their very nature, were bluffsters of the
highest order. Nobility in the singular realms of the underworld,
notorious throughout England not just for their sense of style, but
for the integrity with which they plied their trade. They didn’t
steal from those who would be hurt. They didn’t con anyone except
those people crooked enough that they were willing to risk anything
in the hopes of a quick return. Yet her father had decreed that she
would break the ranks. She’d be the first Sherwin to crash into,
and become one with, the respectable world. She had a sacred
mission.

But instead, what was she? A shuckster who’d
been denied, and was denying herself, the glory of the con. Denying
her birthright as a Sherwin in exchange for elevating the family to
a higher plane. She could do so by marrying Winston that night. The
foundation had been laid. All she had to do was walk into that
church and say good-bye to her old existence. The trouble was, for
the first time in her life, she’d come up against an obstacle that
her father, in all his thorough training, hadn’t prepared her
for.