by Mel Teshco
Her wings shivered but remained tucked in a neat compression of folds along her spine. Even almost delirious with need there was no chance in hell she’d give him reason to suspect she wasn’t quite human. She sat up, straddling him and running outspread hands along the warmth of his chest, the light sprinkle of his hairs rasping under her palms.
Then lifting her hips until Pascal’s cock was almost free, she plunged all the way back down.
He groaned. “Oh, baby. Yeah…”
As she rode him in an ever-increasing rhythm that had her panting and gasping, the bedsprings creaking protest as his hips thrust upward to meet her tempo, she distantly wished she could watch his eyes glaze, see his sexy mouth part in utter ecstasy before he roared her name, spilling his seed deep inside her.
Then she forgot what she’d been thinking as her body abruptly convulsed, each spasm lighting her up from within and exploding in ever-increasing waves of pleasure that ricocheted all the way to her toes.
Seconds—minutes?—later, she collapsed onto his chest with her hair spilling around them, totally drained of energy and yet sexually replete in every way.
No longer was she an empty shell. She’d never felt so satisfied, so feminine, so complete. It was as though Pascal was the missing piece she’d unconsciously sought out. And now there was a part of her that’d pine even more come their separation.
Her parents were soul mates, she was certain of it…but her and Pascal? The very idea was almost too bizarre to contemplate. And yet, it played with her mind, teased her heart with its implications until she knew she couldn’t stay even one moment longer.
Oh, it’d be only too easy to stay wrapped around him, enjoying the physical intimacy that on some deeper level had become almost poignant. But she couldn’t. Every passing second meant a separation that would be all the harder to endure.
She pushed upright, disengaging from his already hardening cock before she had a chance to change her mind. He didn’t voice an objection, but she heard his sharp intake of breath, sensed his conflict as he lay there, waiting for her next move.
With a sigh, she retrieved her corset and hooked it together at the front.
Her panties were elusive so she left them and dragged her dress over her head before flicking on the light switch.
Desire leapt to life in her belly, her core, at Pascal’s dilemma. His cock was already thick and erect, more than capable of bringing her pleasure…and to orgasm once more. But she’d have to be content with just one fuck—more and intimacy might become too familiar, too easily ceded, with mistakes too easily made.
Ignoring a hundred fantasies springing to mind, she untied his ankles first and then freed his arms. He stretched, completely unashamed, and she could barely tear her eyes away from the flex and shift of his lean washboard abs, his cock jutting long, hard and ever ready from its dark nest of curls.
Oh, she wanted nothing more than to slip into his arms and feel them settle around her. Wanted nothing more than to savor his mouth, his hands on her skin as they explored each other the way lovers were meant to.
Her chest felt tight as she leaned down, unable to resist pressing a chaste peck goodbye on his cheek. He immediately turned and captured her mouth with his, deepening the kiss—owning it—before she wrenched away.
“You’re the one not playing fair,” she gasped.
“If I have to fight dirty to keep you, I will.” He snared her hand, his fingers moving to stroke the galloping pulse at her wrist. “Don’t go.”
Chapter Three
She almost surrendered. Instead she gulped back a little mewl of need and said, “I can’t stay.”
His hand slipped up her arm in a caress, not quite releasing her. “Why?”
Her wings unfurled a little beneath the restriction of her corset and this time she was helpless to stop them. She pulled free of his grasp. “I don’t want a relationship.”
Really? a little voice asked inside her head.
He shrugged. “So you want your freedom. I can deal with that.” He smirked but she saw the serious edge lurking behind his stare. “I get it, really. You don’t like to be…tied down.”
Celeste couldn’t help but smile at his implication, then felt a frown overlay the spark of joy as it dawned on her that she shouldn’t be there, exchanging small talk with this primal, dangerous man. Shouldn’t be listening to his slumberous voice with its undercurrents of seriousness. Except, being with him was addictive and intoxicating even as it was scary, like walking on a tightrope with sharp-edged diamonds beckoning far below.
“I guess you’re right,” she conceded lamely. “I don’t like to be tied down.” Literally. She’d had enough of that with having to batten down her wings. Giving another, much weaker smile, she turned, her scattered wits operating just enough to be able to walk away.
“Celeste.”
She stilled, then like a marionette with no self-control, she pivoted to face him. Her heart lurched. He looked so damn fine—edible, with his sexy, rumpled hair, his seductive lips, which she suddenly imagined bringing her to orgasm in the best possible way.
Liquid heat gathered at the juncture of her thighs, reminding her of her lack of underwear.
“At the very least allow me to take you out to dinner.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” And yet, she was tempted. So very, very tempted.
He stood and, in just a couple of strides, was right before her. She should have felt dwarfed without her shoes. Only, he made her feel as if she were the most important person in the world as he reached out and trailed a thumb along one side of her jaw.
Her skin burned beneath his touch and she realized he was taking yet another liberty. She may have joined with Pascal in the most intimate way possible but she’d disabled his ability to touch and caress for good reason. And though she’d taken hold of his arm as he’d escorted her, it’d been she who’d touched him.
She jerked back, forcing her gaze to his chin level and above.
He quirked a dark brow. “It’s just dinner.”
Was he right? Had she overanalyzed things? Would a meal in a casino restaurant with people all around them really hurt? She cleared her suddenly thick throat. “I don’t date.”
“Okay. So it’s not a date. Just two people enjoying each other’s company.”
Then why did she get the sudden impression she’d be the dessert? And why did that fill her with a need so sudden and strong she felt faint?
His expression was closed but his eyes glittered knowingly, as if he were aware of her dilemma, and she wondered frantically if she’d break her own cardinal rule by sleeping with a man more than once. Even as the thought flitted through her mind, she found herself shrugging and saying, “Sure. Why not.”
She spotted her lacy panties, bent and scooped them up. They were sopping wet. She frowned and heard wry amusement in Pascal’s voice as he challenged softly, “You could always go without your underwear.”
She twisted to face him. “You think an ice queen wouldn’t have the nerve?”
His yellow eyes flared into a deep amber-orange color. “I think the real question is—are you an ice queen?”
Her fingers clenched for a moment, then unlocked. The minuscule piece of lace dropped noiselessly to the floor.
Pascal nodded, not bothering to conceal the triumph burning in his stare. He gestured toward her abandoned panties. “I’ll have room service dry clean these for you.”
“Thank you,” she managed, mouth dry as she watched him swing around and stride toward his walk-in closet. There was some kind of lettering etched into the length of his spine. Add his taut buttocks, muscled thighs and broad shoulders, and he was almost too perfect to be true.
Not everyone has to hide a secret.
She blew out a breath. Perhaps there weren’t many who needed to hide something on the outside. But she’d bet her considerable fortune almost everyone had something to hide on the inside. Pascal, she was certain, was one of them.
She was refastening her hair into its thick coil behind her nape when he reappeared a few minutes later, dressed a little more informally in a pair of dark slacks and a crimson dress shirt that dramatically emphasized his dark coloring.
Celeste shunted between excitement and numb panic, which only increased as Pascal’s brooding stare landed on her time and again while they rode the elevator to the ground floor.
Within the building, a handful of twenty-four-hour restaurants catered to the gambling crowd. Pascal chose one that appeared discreet and upscale. The plush dining area was sprinkled with late-night diners but Celeste scarcely noticed as Pascal caught her hand in his and led her between the labyrinth of damask-covered tables, his powerful frame a strong silhouette beneath the glittering chandeliers.
They found a booth in an alcove that afforded them a modicum of privacy. She was glad for their solitude. She ached suddenly for Pascal to touch her between her thighs, to open her wide and expose her pink flesh, her throbbing clit, to his stare.
He waited for her to be seated before he slid into the bench seat opposite. He lounged back, outwardly relaxed and yet clearly only too aware of her arousal. Behind the flame of a single candle, his gaze glinted sexual heat while she squirmed, seeking respite from the needs clamoring within.
A drinks waitress hurried over, and Celeste requested a glass of champagne. She’d broken every other of her self-enforced rules since being with Pascal, what was one more? She rarely drank, particularly in the company of a man who made her toes curl with just a look. Too much alcohol and it was all too feasible she’d relax and let her guard down, do something she’d regret later, like allowing his hand to drift along her spine…
She chewed her bottom lip, mulling over the reasons why she acted so out of character around Pascal. Did his dangerous side attract the simmering, passionate nature she’d had to hide so long from the world? Was there more between them than simple lust and chemistry? Were they kindred spirits drawn to each other?
“Make that a bottle,” Pascal ordered with an amused smile. “I believe I have a dozen or more crates of vintage stock in storage.”
The pretty waitress’s blue eyes widened, recognition dawning. “Oh, of course, sir.” She blushed, fumbling at a tendril of dark hair that had escaped its chignon. “I’ll get that for you right away.”
“Do you always have that effect on women?” Celeste queried as the waitress hurried away. She batted her eyelashes as though she too was afflicted with the I-adore-you-Pascal syndrome.
Damned if she wasn’t.
He grinned with shameless amusement. “Nearly always.” He adjusted his collar. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?”
She swallowed, shifting again as he slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. She absently noted he wasn’t wearing a tie before seconds later she heard one of his shoes thump onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked, aware he’d slipped off his sock.
“Getting comfortable.”
When she felt his bare foot skimming between her thighs, a flash of heat, pure and unadulterated, seared her cunt. She was a passionate woman by nature—gargoyle or human?—and pretending otherwise by leading a double life as an ice queen at times half killed her.
Her head fell back and with the softest sigh she closed her eyes, opening herself to his questing touch.
“That’s it,” he murmured throatily, his voice having her instantly imagine sex and sun and cold whipped cream on her hot, waxed pussy. His foot moved upward. “Let yourself go, enjoy the moment, the pleasure.”
When his toes nudged her outer lips apart before deftly massaging her aching clit, she sucked in a breath, torn between letting him call the shots and hauling back a control that was spiraling quickly out of control.
“One bottle of champagne, sir, madam.”
Pascal stilled his ministrations and Celeste cracked open an eye, way beyond pretending normalcy. Either the waitress was too well trained to show concern as she uncorked the bottle, or didn’t need a vivid imagination to realize just how easily one would succumb to Pascal’s expertise.
Her mind whirred. Or had Pascal done this before, with other women in this very same booth?
After pouring them each a glass, the waitress said with a wry smile, “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
Pascal grinned at Celeste like a wolf tormenting a cornered hare, prompting her to hiss, “How could you?”
“Could I what?”
“Sit there so innocently while—” Her words ended on a strangled gasp as his big toe circled her clit a little harder, a little faster. Her head fell back, her thighs opening wider still. “You really are a bad, bad boy,” she said weakly, clutching at the tabletop as if her life depended on it.
“For you, I could be good,” he rasped.
Good…as in faithful? Permanent? A lover?
Her heart fluttered, desperate, needy. Despite the rebuttal forming on her lips, despite the list of reasons on tap in her head, nothing formed…nothing coherent, anyway. There was little she could do but give in to the moment and enjoy the ride.
“Oh…” She gritted her teeth, the bench seat digging into her scalp as her head fell back and she came apart, electric heat sizzling through her most intimate nerve endings. Again and again.
She swallowed back another moan as his toe worked her clit again, pushing her toward a second climax. Her lids flicked open, her head too heavy somehow as she watched him through a dream-like haze. At his blatantly possessive smile her vision cleared.
She jerked back. When he withdrew his foot she slammed her legs shut, reality returning with a rush. No matter how sexually compatible, how physically connected, they would never be a couple. There would never be an “us”.
She chewed her bottom lip as she gathered her battle-wearied defenses. She’d broken all her rules with Pascal, and he probably knew it. Damn it! She should never have agreed to this dinner, never have given in to a moment of weakness.
The murmur of other late-night diners, interspersed by the clatter of cutlery and the hurried tread of waitstaff, intruded on her sex-fogged mind. Her face flooded with heat but she didn’t peer around to determine if anyone had been witness to her depravity—though curiously, the very thought rekindled a spark of lust, a tingling need that had her imagination running riot.
She took a deep, fortifying breath and he cocked his head, his brooding stare searching her face as he asked, “Are you okay?”
She clutched her glass of champagne and gulped some down, easing her parched throat. “Fine,” she croaked, “just another day in the life of Celeste Diamond.”
A waiter appeared by their table. “Sir. Madam. May I take your orders?”
Pascal flicked the menu open, which Celeste felt sure he already knew by rote. “Hmm. Perhaps I’ll let my…date decide.” His stare shifted back to her, and her heart immediately tripped double speed as he asked huskily, “Celeste, anything tempt you?”
She squirmed at his deliberate provocation, imagining him discarding the menu and sampling her. When his stare flashed red heat, she swallowed a groan, picturing her thighs spread apart for Pascal’s visual enjoyment and him leaning in for a taste, licking and sucking her pink, quivering flesh…
“Madame?” prompted the waiter tactfully.
She cleared her throat. “Ah.” She looked at Pascal and said faintly, “Surprise me.”
He nodded, his golden eyes darkening and not leaving hers. “Okay. I think the home-style rib-eye steak, medium rare. He dragged his gaze from hers and said to the bemused man waiting for their order, “To share.”
Clarifying their order, the waiter turned to leave, only to pause as Celeste blurted, “Wait.” She smiled a challenge at Pascal before turning to the waiter. “Make the steak well done.”
The waiter glanced over at Pascal, who shrugged and said easily, “Whatever the lady wants.”
Alone once more, Pascal refilled her glass and then his own. �
��You know, you should never feel the need to establish your freedom, not for my benefit. I like your strong will, your independence.” He put the empty bottle back onto the table with a firm clack. “And I’d never try to take that away from you.”
Even if she had the words to express the profoundness of her relief, she couldn’t have squeezed them past the sudden tightness of her throat. Instead she nodded mutely, abstractedly rubbing a finger over the condensation on her glass.
He took a sip of his champagne then deftly changed the subject. “There’s something I’d like to show you after dinner.”
She was aware it wasn’t anything sexual—not yet—still, she immediately felt uncomfortable, restless, sensing somehow that whatever he wanted to show her would be personal. “I really need to get home.”
His brow furrowed momentarily. “You have something…someone, to go home to?”
“No, I don’t.” She glared, aware of her see-sawing emotions. “Is it so wrong for me to want to go home alone, to an empty house?”
He placed his half-empty flute back on the table. “Not at all. Not if it’s what you really want.”
Her chest hurt, the pain spreading out like the coldest caress. All she’d ever really wanted was a husband, children, a family for her to love and to love her in return. She’d more than wanted it, she’d pined for it until it’d become a familiar deep ache that had settled over her heart like an icy fist.
It was human nature to want what one couldn’t have. Perhaps that’s why she craved the adoration her parents freely shared.
A shadow fell over the table from behind her, distracting her from her thoughts. She twisted in her seat, looking up with a start.
A short, barrel-chested man peered down at them through mean, narrowed eyes.
“What is it, Lewie?” drawled Pascal, his voice lazily amused.
“Your father wants to see you.” His gravelly tone implied “now”.
Celeste turned from the repulsive man and refocused on Pascal. The contrast was vivid—a sleek and powerful panther in its prime, facing off a spitting, flea-bitten tomcat.