Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

“You’re imagining things. I do not need your help.”

His mouth was still smiling, but now his face—what she could see of it—appeared harder, more intractable. “Antoinette, give me the letter.”

“No.”

With a sound that was a mixture of impatience and frustration, he pulled her into his arms. Before Antoinette could protest, his mouth swooped down to cover hers, and then she didn’t want to. She felt the tension inside her shiver and melt; her hands reached to cling to his shoulders, and her mouth eagerly returned the caress of his lips. Already the heat inside her was rising, the ache low in her belly intensifying.

He pulled away, breathing hard, his chin pressed against the top of her head. “I warn you,” he said harshly, “I am not safe.”

Antoinette leaned back to look up into his eyes. They were bright and feverish. He wanted her. She was playing with fire.

A thrill shivered through her. Her heart began to beat faster. Excitement made goose bumps on her skin. Her body was readying itself for his touch, but that was too easy. Daringly, she reached up and brushed his lips with her fingertips. His face, what she could see of it, registered surprise. Antoinette gave a laugh, and then catching up her long skirts, she turned and ran.

His footsteps followed.

She rounded the desk, gasping, slipping behind a trunk and pausing to look back from in front of the dusty windowpane. He was coming after her but without hurrying, slowly and confidently, like the predator she’d likened him to the first time she saw him.

This was madness, she told herself. She wanted him to touch her and kiss her. And at the same time she was aware of what it might lead to. She didn’t know what was more dangerous, his threats or his concern.

Antoinette darted around a chair and made toward the door. He almost caught her skirt, his hand just catching the cloth, and she squealed as it slipped through his fingers.

Panic spurred her on as she ran to the end of corridor and found the back stairs. Uncarpeted, the varnish worn, these stairs were for the convenience of the servants. Antoinette took them as quickly as she dared, reaching the bottom and finding herself in another narrow passage. There was a door to her left, and she opened it and entered a shadowy room with drawn drapes. Trying to quieten her breathing, she pressed herself back against the wall and waited.

Once again the questions whirled inside her head. Did she or did she not want to be caught? The truth of the matter was she didn’t know. Two Antoinettes were at war within her—the old one, the sensible one, and the newly discovered reckless one. She was afraid that the reckless one was capable of anything.

Steps outside in t

he hallway. Antoinette held her breath. A floorboard creaked. Silence. Another step, and then another.

Waiting and listening were much worse than being pursued. She longed to pick up her skirts and run. But then he’d catch her and…

Suddenly the door opened and closed again, so swiftly that the brief impression of his silhouette against the light was gone before it really registered. Antoinette pressed flat to the wall, hoping the gloom would hide her well enough to escape his notice. Then again, if he moved toward the window, she’d be able to escape.

“I know you’re here.” His whisper made her skin prickle. “I saw your footsteps in the dust.”

He knew, or did he?

“You know what I’m going to do to you when I catch you.”

She did, and God help her, she knew she was looking forward to it. Antoinette hadn’t felt this wildly excited since she was…She had never felt like this, she thought, startled.

“Are you ready for me?” he said huskily. “I’m ready for you.”

Antoinette began to slide along the wall, very slowly, very carefully, inch by inch. If she could open the door without his seeing, then she could be out of the room and running before he realized.

“I’m going to make you scream…with pleasure.”

She took a last step and reached out her hand.

He pounced. In an instant she was spun around and pressed front first against the closed door, her breath leaving her lungs in an oomph. He was against her back, his hands pinioning her wrists at head height, his soft laughter tickling her ear.

“Antoinette, my little sparrow, I have you now.”

His body was heavy, making her aware of every contour and muscle, and then his mouth trailed down the side of her neck, and she realized the true danger. He was tasting her, making her burn, and she made a sound of denial. Or encouragement. He had hold of her skirts, hauling them up with one hand, until his fingers found her stockings and then the bare flesh above.

Bliss.

He pressed hard against her, the bulky cloth of her skirts flattening between them, and she felt the hard jut of his member. “The letter?” he said breathlessly, but it was obvious he no longer cared and certainly didn’t expect her to acquiesce. She shook her head and groaned again as his fingers slid between her legs and brushed her firmly through the soft cloth of her drawers.