Black Ice - Anne Stuart [34]
“What are you doing?” Chloe demanded, aghast, averting her gaze from the low, wide television screen. Two men were servicing one woman, not his favorite fantasy, but the sound was enough to drown out most of their conversation.
He stood there, saying nothing as he stripped off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. He was just out of range of the camera, and the sounds emanating from the television would muffle anything they said. “Come here,” he said.
He might as well have suggested she jump off a building. She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I want you to leave.”
“Come here.”
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