The Brazilian's Blackmailed Bride

But there wasn’t. ‘You will come to regret it,’ she told him honestly.

‘Are you staying?’

‘You will learn to hate me all over again.’

‘You are not here because I adore you, querida. You are here because I still want you.’

It should hurt to hear him say that, but it didn’t. How could it hurt when she did not deserve more than he was offering?

‘In your bed?’ She demanded confirmation.

‘Yes.’

‘As your obedient little sex slave?’

His green eyes began to gleam. ‘Most certainly that.’

A strange smile touched the corners of her hot pulsing mouth. ‘Gift-wrapped?’

‘Sim.’ He swapped languages so there could be no mistaking the answer.

‘You can have me like that without marrying me.’

‘I had you like that once before. Didn’t like it. So the marriage thing stays. It comes with the package.’

As the baby did? She wanted to weep all over him—but she didn’t.

‘The gift-wrapping?’ she asked.

‘The rock-solid guarantee of a marriage certificate—written in blood if need be. I will not compromise,’ he warned huskily.

Take it or leave it. Take this man when you know that you should not. Take everything he wants to dish out to you in the name of revenge when you know you will end up having to walk away.

Again.

Eventually.

‘So, are you staying?’

She made no answer, her beautiful eyes so painfully, hauntingly bleak that something too close to fear grabbed at the muscles in Anton’s chest. He did not want to be hooked by her again. He wanted Cristina firmly hooked by him.

‘Answer or leave,’ he ground out roughly.

She looped an arm around his neck and drew his mouth back down to hers.

Was it an answer?

He was going to take it as one. Choice was something ripped away from him the moment her tongue made a sliding caress over the top of his. She lifted a long silken leg to loop it around his hips in one of her old, uninhibitedly sensuous and possessive moves, and on a surrendering growl he let himself fall prey to the whole wild experience that was Cristina Marques, the enemy of his once bitten ten times shy heart.

Mouths open, hot and fused. Her fingers back at his waistcoat. She all but ripped it from his body, setting the tight satin muscles in his shoulders rippling as she tugged it down his arms. His tie came next—an impatient yank at the slender knot and silver silk slithered apart—and she was already opening the buttons on his shirt. Eager, needy, her fingers made familiar contact with the whorls of dark hair covering his thundering breastplate, curling, then scoring into his flesh to make him shudder with pleasure as he brought his own impatient fingers to the hem of the cotton T-shirt she wore.

They had to break the kiss so he could strip the T-shirt over her head. Separation brought with it a moment of sanity as he felt the thinness of the fabric. Well washed and well-worn, he saw, and made a mental note to buy her a new wardrobe as he tossed the scrap of cotton aside.

Then he saw them. Proud, unfettered, full and firm. Two golden globes tipped by long dark nipples standing up in bold and brazen demand. On a growl he pounced, sending her slender s

pine arching on a high-pitched quivering cry as he took possession in an open-mouthed, wet-tongued, hungry claim.

His shirt hung open. Her fingers crawled all over hard muscle and taut male flesh. When he sucked, she writhed beneath him, and he ground out a soft curse as electric sensation shot to his thighs. As if she knew, she located the fastener for his trousers and began an urgent attempt to strip him of those.