Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine 1)

“Concentrate,” he ordered.

“I would if you’d be quiet!”

She grimaced when he chuckled. A drop of sweat skittered down her neck as she used all of her energy to parry his thrusts. He feinted, and she fell for it. Again, he tapped her right hip.

“If you don’t protect that octave, you’re going to get a bruised bottom.”

Her cheeks flamed. She resisted an urge to touch the side of the buttock that still stung from his blade. She straightened and forced her breathing to even. His stare was fixed on her shoulder. She realized the opening of her hoodie had fallen down during their swordplay, and she tugged the jacket back into place.

“Again,” she said as calmly as possible. He nodded once in polite acquiescence.

She gathered herself and faced him at the center of the mat. She knew she was being foolish, knew it perfectly well. In addition to being an expert fencer, he was a male in prime physical condition. She’d never best him. Still, her competitive spirit would not be silenced. She tried to recall some of the fencing moves from the game.

“En garde,” he said. They tapped swords.

This time, she let him advance, carefully guarding all her quadrants. He was too strong and quick, however. As he drew closer, he choked off her ability to attack offensively. She parried wildly, straining to hold him. Her excitement mounted as he closed in on her. She fought desperately, but they both knew he would triumph.

“Stop,” she cried out in frustration when he pushed her to the edge of the piste.

“You submit,” he said, his sword striking hers so hard she almost lost her grip. She barely blocked his next strike.

“No.”

“Then think,” he snapped.

She desperately tried to follow his instructions. Things were too tight to lunge, so she extended her arm, forcing him to leap backward.

“Very nice,” he murmured.

His blade flicked so rapidly it was a blur. She never felt the metal on her skin. She stopped parrying and glanced down in shock. He’d sliced clean through the strap of her tank top.

“I thought you said the swords weren’t sharp,” she cried out in a choked voice.

“I said yours wasn’t.” He flipped his wrist, and her sword flew through the air, landing with a useless thud on the mat. He whipped off his mask. She stared at him, aghast. She resisted an urge to run, he looked so fearsome in that moment.

“Never leave yourself undefended, Francesca. Never. The next time you do, I will punish you.”

He tossed his sword aside and lunged toward her, reaching. He jerked off her mask and tossed it on the mat. One hand cradled the back of her skull, the other bracketed her neck and jaw. He swept down and took her mouth with his own.

At first, his surprise attack on her senses made her go rigid in shock. Then his scent penetrated her awareness, his taste. He tilted her head back and slid his tongue between her lips, clearly intent on consumption. He thrust, exploring her. Owning her.

Liquid heat rushed between her thighs, the total response to his kiss unprecedented in her experience. He brought her closer, pressing her against his body. He was so hot. So hard. Lord have mercy. How could she have thought he was indifferent? His arousal raged against her. It was like being suddenly shoved into a male inferno of lust and left to helplessly burn.

She moaned into his mouth. His lips shaped and caressed hers skillfully, leaving her open for his tongue’s possession. She slid her tongue against his, engaging in the kiss just as she had the swordplay. He groaned and stepped closer yet, making her eyes roll behind her shut lids when she felt the full extent of his erection. He was huge and hard. Her sex clenched tight. Her thoughts splintered in a million directions. He urged her backward, and she submitted, hardly knowing what she was doing. He never stopped kissing her as she staggered several feet.

The air whooshed out of her lungs and into his marauding mouth when he backed her against the wall. He pressed, sandwiching her body between two rock-hard surfaces. She rubbed against him instinctively, feeling his defined muscles, stroking his enormous erection.

He hissed and tore his mouth from hers. Before she ever guessed his intention, he shoved down her tank top on the side where the strap was sliced. His long fingers skimmed over the upper curve of her breast as he peeled back the cup of her bra, reaching inside. Her nipple popped out of the fabric, the cup now beneath her breast, plumping the flesh above it, lifting it . . . displaying it. His gaze was hot and greedy as he stared at her bared flesh. She felt his cock lurch against her lower belly and moaned. His nostrils flared and his head dipped.

She made a choking sound when his wet, hot mouth slipped over her nipple. He sucked hard, making her nipple stiffen and ache, causing a tug between her thighs and another rush of warmth. She cried out. Ah, God, what was happening to her? Her vagina squeezed unbearably tight, aching, needing to be filled. Perhaps he heard her cry, because he ceased pulling on her nipple and soothed with a warm, laving tongue. Then he sucked again.

His obvious hunger thrilled her. He was hurting her a little, pleasuring her a lot. What excited her most was his scorching hunger. She longed to feed it . . . make it grow. She arched against him and whimpered helplessly. Never had a man dared to kiss her so roughly or touch her body with such a potent combination of hot greed and consummate skill.

So how was she to know how much she would love it?

He plumped her breast in his hand and molded it to his palm as he continued to suckle her. A harsh moan tore from her throat. He lifted his head, and she gasped at the abrupt cessation of his warmth . . . of her pleasure. He studied her face, his expression rigid, his eyes ablaze. She sensed the rising tension in him, the war. Was he going to pull away? she wondered suddenly. Did he want her or didn’t he?