Bedded by Blackmail

Diego’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away. She turned around to look at him and the room swirled around her.

She could see him looking at her, frowning.

‘How much have you had to drink?’

She looked back at him. He was so tall, she thought, and those eyes were looking at her, making her feel faint and weak. His mouth had a sensual twist to it, for all it was set in a straight, tight line. The dinner jacket sat on his broad shoulders, superbly cut, the white of his shirt front strained across his broad chest.

She wanted to splay her hands across it. Feel the hard muscle beneath. Press up against him.

Weakness washed through her.

She gazed at him, drinking him in.

This was desire, she knew it. An emotion she had never before experienced.

Until Diego Saez.

She didn’t know why fate had played so cruel a joke on her. Didn’t know why of all the men in all the world it had to be this man—this man and only this man—who could do this to her. Reduce her to such weakness. Such desire.

But it was. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing at all.

Except yield to her desire, shed the frail armour she had tried to clothe herself in during the day, and give herself to the flame that he, and only he, could light within her.

So that she could burn for him.

It didn’t matter that she would pay a price more terrible than she could yet imagine for what she would have of him. And this was all she would have of him—this time, this brief time, when all he wanted of her was her body, though she wanted far, far more of him…

Slowly she walked towards him, swaying. Her whole being was focused on him. Nothing else existed any more.

He stood stock still. There was tension in every line of his body. His face was like stone. Except for one low pulse at his cheekbone.

The champagne creamed in her veins. How much had she had? She gave a slow, sensual smile.

‘Just enough,’ she whispered, and wound her arms around his neck and drew his mouth down to hers.

For one brief, rejecting second he resisted. Fighting for control.

But as the softness of her lips met his he was lost.

His mouth opened, opening hers with it.

He heard her sigh, felt her sink against him. Automaically he caught her body, holding her at her waist. Her breasts pressed upwards against him. His hands tightened on her waist.

Her mouth was honey. Honey and champagne. Nectar to his lips, his tongue. He kissed her deeply, consumingly, possessing her mouth, one hand sliding up her spine to mould her against him. The other slid down over her rounded bottom, pulling her into him.

His arousal was total, instant.

Waiting no longer, he twisted her round in his arms and lifted her up, then carried her through into his bedroom.

She was velvet and silk. The fine fall of her loosened hair was a pale swathe across the pillow. Her small, high breasts were tipped with coral, her white skin like pearl, flushed with the opalescence of desire. Around her throat the diamond necklace burned with blue fire in the lamplight.

On the floor, in a pool of sapphire, her dress lay discarded. Nearby his clothes were flung—carelessly, urgently.

He stroked her hair and tasted her mouth again, caressed the softness of her breasts, her slender flanks, the slim columns of her thighs. She arched beneath his hand like an arrow. He moved his body over hers, parting her thighs, honeying the dew from her, hearing the little moans she gave in her throat.

He wanted to fill her, sink deep within her, possess and spear the body spread wide for him, open and defenceless. He stroked her hair one last time, holding her wrists above her head, and entered her slowly, watching her face. Her eyes were open this time, denying him nothing, yielding him everything.

His control was absolute. This time he would set the pace, he would take her and enjoy her, watch her flood for him, helpless beneath him, pulsing for him, supremely vulnerable.