Bedded by Blackmail

She came. He saw it happen. Saw the flush of her orgasm redden her breasts, sweep up along her throat, suffuse the lines of her cheeks. Her throat arched and a high, soundless cry came from it, parting her lips.

Triumph surged through him.

More than triumph.

But with a sense of cold, disbelieving shock he realised that he, too, was about to climax.

He could not stop himself. It surged through him—powerful, ruthless with its own need, its own urgency for satiation now, right now.

He climaxed in a single thrust, rearing over her, filling her, flooding her. The release was exquisite, and for a few timeless seconds nothing else existed. Then, as swiftly as it had happened, it ebbed away.

Exhaustion gripped him, and satiation—and something else that he could not recognise.

He didn’t care.

His heart hammered, slumping in his chest, and he drew a long, harsh breath of relief. Relief—release—such as he had never known before.

For a few seconds longer he held himself over her. Then with a swift, withdrawing movement he disengaged. He did not look down at her.

For some reason—something he would not admit to himself—he did not want to look at her. Did not want to see the expression in her eyes.

Instead he rolled out of the bed and headed for the bathroom.

‘The day is your own. I’m in meetings until the evening. What will you do? More shopping?’ Diego’s voice was clipped, almost curt.

‘Why not?’ Her voice was equable.

Indifferent.

She had her armour on. It kept the world away. Kept her inside a blank, numbing cocoon.

They were eating breakfast at a table set by the window. Portia was picking at a slice of papaya. Diego was polishing off Eggs Benedict. He seemed to eat with a huge appetite.

But then he was a large man. Tall, broadly built. He would need feeding.

No, don’t think about his body—what it does to yours…

That was for night-time. The night-time, when she had no armour to wear. When her naked body bared its aching vulnerability to his.

And he took total, ultimate advantage of it.

She pushed her plate aside.

A frown crossed his brow.

‘Why aren’t you eating?’

‘I’m not hungry.’ She reached for the coffee pot and poured out some more coffee.

Something flashed briefly in his eyes. It looked like anger, and she wondered why.

Diego watched her. She wasn’t hungry. His mouth tightened. She would never have felt hungry in her life. She wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.

He did.

He knew hunger, all right. Knew it like a dog gnawing at his guts.

He slammed the memory away. He would never feel hungry again—not unless he chose to.