by BETH KERY
“I’ll tell her,” Francesca said, starting to back out of the room.
“What? She’s still on the line?”
Francesca nodded.
“There’s an extension in the hall just outside the exercise facility. Tell her I’ll call her back soon.”
“All right,” Francesca said. She glanced quickly at Lucien and gave him a fleeting smile before she turned.
Irritation spiked through him. Well, in all fairness, Lucien didn’t bark at her like you did.
“Francesca.”
She spun around.
“Would you come back once you’ve passed the message to Lin, please? We haven’t had the opportunity to speak much all week. I’d like to hear about your progress.”
She hesitated for a split second. Her gaze dropped over his chest, making him go still in sudden awareness.
“Sure. I’ll be right back,” she said before she strode out of the room. The door to the fencing room clicked shut behind her.
Lucien was grinning when he glanced over at him. “When I visited the American south, they had a saying . . . ‘A long, tall drink of cool water.’ ”
Ian did a double take. “Hands off,” he said succinctly.
Lucien looked taken aback. Ian blinked, a mixture of primitive aggression and shame at the harshness warring in his blood. Something occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes.
“Wait a second . . . the woman you were talking about just now that works for Noble—”
“Not Francesca,” Lucien said, his eyes gleaming as he gave Ian a sideways glance and opened the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “Seems to me you ought to take your own advice about intercompany romantic interests.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So you’re not interested in that gorgeous creature?” Lucien asked.
Ian whipped the towel off his neck.
“I meant that I don’t have an employment contract,” he said, his brisk tone making it clear the conversation was over.
“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Lucien said wryly. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Lucien.”
He turned.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Ian said.
Lucien shrugged. “I know what it means to be on a tight leash. Tends to make a man a bit . . . tetchy.”
Ian didn’t respond, just watched as his friend walked away. He thought of what Lucien had said about Francesca being a long, tall drink of cold water. Lucien had been right.
And Ian was clearly thirsting in the desert.
He glanced toward the entry door warily and saw Francesca walk back into the room.
* * *
She was sorry to see Lucien give her a friendly wave and walk out of the room when she entered. The atmosphere of the large, well-equipped exercise room grew heavier when the door closed behind him and she was left alone with Ian. She paused at the edge of the mat.
“Come closer. It’s all right. You can walk across the piste in your running shoes,” he said.
She approached him cautiously. It made her uncomfortable to look at him. His handsome face was impassive, as usual. He looked ungodly sexy wearing a pair of formfitting breeches and a simple white T-shirt. She supposed it was necessary for the shirt to be so tight because he wore other fitted garments over it. It left little to the imagination, revealing every ridge and slanting line of his lean, muscular torso.
Obviously, working out was a high priority to him. His body was a beautiful, honed machine.
“Piste?” she repeated as she crossed the mat and neared him.
“The fencing mat.”
“Oh.” She eyed the sword on the table curiously, trying to ignore the subtle scent emanating from his body—clean, spicy soap mingling with male sweat.
“How are you?” he asked, his polite, cool tone not quite matching the gleam in his blue eyes. He confused her to no end. Like that time last Thursday night, for instance, when she’d turned to find him studying her while she sketched. His manner had been almost formal, but she’d grown breathless with expectation when she saw the way his gaze lowered and lingered on her breasts, making her nipples tighten. She couldn’t help but recall how they’d parted on the first night he’d asked her to the penthouse, how he’d touched her as he put on her coat . . . his reference to her painting.
Had he been pleased or angry that she’d painted him? And was it her imagination, or had he been warning her that her title for the painting hadn’t been as whimsical as she’d once thought, that the subject of her painting truly did walk through life alone?
Nonsense, she chastised herself as she forced herself to meet his piercing stare. Ian Noble didn’t think twice about her beyond her use as an artist.
“Busy but good, thanks,” she answered him. She gave him a quick recap of her progress. “The canvas is prepped. I’ve sketched. I think I’ll be able to actually start painting next week.”
“And do you have everything you require?” he asked as he stepped past her and opened a refrigerator. He moved with masculine grace. She’d love to see him fence—leashed aggression in graceful action.
“Yes. Lin did a very thorough job in getting my supplies. I needed one or two things, but she immediately procured them for me last Monday. She’s a miracle of efficiency.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Don’t hesitate to speak up if you need the smallest thing.” He cracked the cap on the water bottle with a brisk twist of his wrist. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of the shirt, looking hard as stone. A few veins popped on his strong-looking forearms. “And is your schedule manageable? School, your waitressing duties, painting . . . your social life?”
Her pulse began to throb at her throat. She lowered her head so he wouldn’t notice and pretended to be studying one of the swords on a storage rack.
“I don’t have much of a social life.”
“No boyfriend?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head as she ran her fingers over an etched pommel.
“But surely you have friends that you like to spend spare time with?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him. “I’m very close with all three of my roommates.”
“And what do the four of you like to do in your free time?”
She shrugged and touched a different sword grip. “Free time is a bit of a rarity these days, but when I have some, the usual—play video games, go out to the bars, hang out, play poker.”
“That’s usual for a group of girls?”
“My roommates are all men.” She glanced up in time to see the shadow of displeasure that crossed his stoic features. Her heartbeat leapt. His short, glossy, near-black hair was damp at his neck from perspiration. She suddenly imagined herself slicking her tongue along his hairline, tasting his sweat. She blinked and glanced away.
“You live with three men?”
She nodded.
“What do your parents think of that?”
She gave him a sharp glance over her shoulder. “They hate it. Much good it does them. It’s their loss. Caden, Justin, and Davie are awesome people.”
He opened his mouth but paused. “It’s unconventional,” he said after a few seconds, his clipped tone telling her that he’d edited what he’d been about to say.
“Unorthodox, perhaps. But that shouldn’t seem unusual to you, should it? Didn’t you tell me the other night you were a lot of that?” she asked, returning her attention to the swords. This time she wrapped her hand around the grip and squeezed, liking the sensation of hard, cold steel in her fist. She ran her hand up and down along the column.
“Stop that.”
She started at his tone, dropping her hand as if the steel had suddenly burned her. She looked up at him in amazement. His nostrils were slightly flared. His eyes blazed. He jerked his chin and took a rapid swing of water.
“Do you fence?” he asked her briskly as he set the bottle of water on a table.
“No. Well . . . not really.”
&n
bsp; “What do you mean?” he asked, stepping toward her, his brow furrowed.
“I do a fencing program with Justin and Caden, but . . . I’ve never touched a sword before,” she said sheepishly.
His puzzlement faded abruptly. He smiled. It was like seeing the sunrise over a dark, brooding landscape. “Are you talking about playing on a Game Station?”
“Yes,” she admitted a little defensively.
He nodded toward the rack. “Take that end one there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take the last sword. Noble Enterprises designed the original program for that fencing game you play. We sold it to Shinatze a few years back. What level do you play at?”
“Advanced.”
“You should understand the basics then.” He held her stare. “Pick up the sword, Francesca.”
There was a hint of a dare to his tone. His smile still lingered around his full lips. He was laughing at her again. She lifted the sword and glared at him. His grin widened. He grabbed another sword and handed her a mask. He tilted his head toward the mat. When they faced each other, Francesca’s breathing becoming rapid and choppy, he tapped his blade against hers.
“En garde,” he said softly.
Her eyes went wide in panic. “Wait . . . we’re going to . . . right now?”
“Why not?” he asked, taking his stance. She glanced nervously at her sword, then his unprotected chest. “It’s a practice sword. You couldn’t hurt me with it if you tried.”
He thrust. She parried instinctively. He advanced, and she retreated clumsily, still blocking his blade. Even through her haze of alarm and bewilderment, she couldn’t help but admire the flex of his honed muscles, the coiled strength in his long body.
“Don’t be afraid,” she heard him say as she defended desperately. He hardly seemed to be exerting himself at all. He might have been taking an evening stroll, with as much effort as he exhibited. “If you know the gaming program, your brain knows adequate movements to engage with me.”
“How do you know?” she squeaked as she leapt out of the way of his blade.
“Because I designed the program. Defend yourself, Francesca,” he said sharply at the same moment he lunged. She yelped and blocked his blade just inches from her shoulder. He continued to attack without withdrawing, pressing her backward on the mat, the metallic clangs and hisses of their swords filling the air around them.
He advanced quicker now—she felt the amplification of his strength along the shaft of her blade—but his expression remained completely calm.
“You’re leaving your octave unguarded,” he murmured. She gasped when he struck her right hip with the side of his blade with casual precision. He’d barely tapped her, but her hip and buttock burned.
“Again,” he said tensely.
She followed him to center of the mat, his cool, effortless besting of her making her blood boil in her veins. They tapped swords and she attacked, lunging toward him.
“Don’t let your anger at being beaten make you foolish,” he said as they engaged.
“I’m not angry,” she lied through clenched teeth.
“You could be a good fencer. You’re very strong. Do you work out?” he asked almost conversationally as they thrust and parried.
“Run long distance,” she said, and then squawked in alarm when he landed a particularly strong blow.
“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 guard,” 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 that 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 mad
e 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?
He suddenly moved his free hand, cupping her entire sex through her jeans. He pressed. Francesca whimpered helplessly.
“No,” he rasped, as if arguing with himself. His dark head dipped again to her breast. “I’ll take what’s mine.”
Read more of Francesca and Ian’s red-hot romance in
Part II of BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE
BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST
Available from InterMix on August 7, 2012
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WICKED BURN
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The goddamned walls in his temporary apartment residence might as well be made of cardboard, Vic Savian thought as he came into full wakefulness at the low, mellow sound of a voice emanating from the hallway. He’d never actually heard the mystery woman who lived across the hall from him speak, but he recognized her immediately, nonetheless.