Black Ice (Ice 1)

She wouldn’t have started to move if she didn’t want to. He’d laid the groundwork well—she was mesmerized by him and he knew it. It was a good thing he hadn’t finished what he started in the car—he still had a major advantage. She was afraid, and yet her body still felt the power of her arousal. And that was almost stronger than her fear.

She stopped short of him, still in camera range. “I don’t enjoy watching porn,” she said. She was clearly hoping for a cool voice, but it came out strained anyway.

“I didn’t think you would. After all, Americans tend to be squeamish about sexuality.”

“I’m perfectly healthy when it comes to sexuality,” she snapped, momentarily forgetting her fear, as he’d wanted her to. “I’m not some repressed little American virgin, no matter what you might think.”

“Then come here.”

She hadn’t noticed that he’d been moving back, drawing her out of range of the camera. Then again, she might have no idea there were cameras in the room, in every room in this renovated château.

She came right up to him, shoulders squared, like someone going into battle. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“Of course you are, my pet,” he said. “That’s half the fun.” He slid his hand behind her neck, under her heavy fall of hair, and drew her face up to his. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide and panicky, and he almost felt…something. Pity? Reluctance? Mercy? There was no room for any of those emotions.

He kissed her. He remembered the taste of her mouth, the soft, sighing sound she made, the way her lips moved against his. Remembered, and wanted it. He was suddenly very glad that he’d decided to do this, been forced into it. Otherwise he would have had to find some other excuse.

He deepened the kiss, putting his arm around her waist and lifting her. She was clinging to him, and he swung her over to the alcove, pressing her up against the mirrored wall as he reached for her breasts.

She’d pinned the dress closed. He drew back for a moment, breathing heavily. “What the hell did you do with that dress?”

She didn’t try to escape. “It was too loose. I pinned it.”

“It’s supposed to be loose. Undo it.”

She blinked, her only sign of hesitation. And then she reached up and unfastened the tiny safety pin.

“Now open it,” he said.

He thought she was going to balk. But she didn’t. She pulled the silk wrap dress open, and he recognized the silk and lace underwear beneath it. From the most expensive lingerie store in all of Paris, they were the sort of thing no mere translator could afford, the sort of thing bought to entertain wealthy lovers. Another lie.

Then again, hadn’t he already figured out she was wearing the wrong bra size? Her soft skin looked pinched against the black lace, and he wanted to take it off her. But time was running out.

So he simply kissed her again, pulling her up tight against him, her nearly nude body hot against his open shirt, and she kissed him back with enough enthusiasm that he believed it when she said she was no tremulous virgin. Even though she was shaking in his arms.

The moans were coming from the television, loud and heartfelt, punctuated by screams and grunts. It didn’t matter what kind of sound they made—no one would be able to tell the difference between the film and the real thing.

Her skin was hot to the touch, soft as silk against his hands. She had her arms around his neck now, holding on to him as if she might blow away in a strong breeze, and he liked that. “Take off your underwear,” he said.

Her eyes, which had been half-close

d in dreamy delight, shot open. “What?”

“What do you think we’re doing, Chloe? Take off your panties. You can leave the bra on if you insist.”

She had frozen, and the color had drained from her face. “Get away from me,” she said, shoving at him.

But it was too late. It had been too late since he’d set foot in her bedroom. Perhaps it had been too late from the moment he’d first seen her.

The upscale underwear was meant to be easily disposed of. He reached between them and caught the lace in one hand, yanking hard, and the ties tore.

“No,” he said. Merciless, he reminded himself, as he pulled her up against his body. This was a job, something he had to do. He kissed her again, and while her hands tried to push him away her mouth answered his.

And then it was too late. He picked her up, moved her to the antique chest and set her down on it, moving between her legs. He didn’t know if she realized what was going to happen, or if she was capable of rational thought. It didn’t matter.

She was wet, as he thought she’d be. It took him only a moment to unfasten his pants, and then he was inside her, deep inside, and he felt the unmistakable shock of a tiny orgasm ripple through her before she was able to stop herself.

She was going to cry, going to push him away from her, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. He stopped her mouth before she could protest, wrapped her legs around his hips and began to move, not releasing her mouth until he knew he had her with him, that she was trying to get closer to him, wanting to thrust back but unable to because of her seat on the chest of drawers. He could feel the shivers building, knew that whatever her consciousness was telling her, her body had overruled it, and all she wanted was completion. Satisfaction. Him.