The Seductive Impostor

by Janet Chapman

  Well, there was that. “I was looking for you,” she lied, staring directly at his face, pretending she could see him.

  “And why is that?”

  “To tell you I’m not a thief.”

  “And it couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, with you and everyone else thinking I’ve been taking things from Sub Rosa.”

  “They don’t think that, Rachel. They’re as…” He uncrossed his arms and held his hands away from his sides in a gesture of acquiescence. “They’re as charmed by you as I am.”

  Charmed? He was charmed?

  That was good, wasn’t it? That she’d charmed him into believing she wasn’t a thief?

  “That’s not how it looked earlier in the foyer.”

  He took another step forward, which brought him close enough that she could actually feel the heat of his body. And smell him. And—oh, God—she could practically taste him.

  “You didn’t stick around long enough to find out what we thought,” he said, his whisper sending a succession of shivers down her spine.

  Rachel was back to her proximity problem. Her palms itched, and it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him.

  “Do you remember what I told you in our workout room, right after you kissed me?” he asked, reaching behind her and gently lifting her braid, pulling it over her shoulder.

  “I…” Rachel swallowed and tried again. “I don’t remem—what did you say?” she asked hoarsely, trying to see his face through the shadows. She couldn’t see a damn thing, so she looked down—and could only watch, mesmerized, as he deftly opened the clasp, pocketed her barrette, and then slowly twined the freed ends of her hair around his fingers.

  “I told you that the next time we reached this point, I intended to finish it.”

  “And we…we’re at that point now?”

  Slowly, and with such gentle precision that Rachel tingled all the way down to her toes, Kee began unraveling her braid.

  “We’re past that point, Rachel.”

  Her skin tightened in awareness.

  The braid slowly unfurled, and his hand moved higher.

  Breathing became difficult.

  And when his fingers finally reached the nape of her neck, he cupped her head, leaned down and brought his lips to hers—not kissing her, not quite touching her—just close enough to bring every nerve in her body alive in anticipation.

  “Either smack me with your flashlight, Rachel, or kiss me.”

  The flashlight clattered to the floor.

  Rachel threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him so fiercely that even a dead man would get the point.

  He lifted her off her feet, his hands cupping her bottom to hold her against him, as he took several steps forward. Kee pushed Rachel back against the oak panel she’d come through, and her only escape banged shut with resounding finality.

  Not that she cared at the moment, with her mouth so busy feasting on his. She wrapped her legs around his waist while canting her head to deepen the kiss, pulling the taste of pure heaven into her mouth. He braced one hand on the wall, his other hand still holding her securely, and obligingly parted his lips.

  Years of denied passion exploded inside her. Rockets went off in her brain. Her heart raced, her skin heated, and the shell of protection she’d carefully built suddenly shattered with deafening glory.

  Kee thrust his hips forward, pressing her against the tapestry room panel, and reached for the buttons on her blouse. His lips moved from her mouth to her cheek, then lower and to the side, until he was nuzzling a deliciously sensitive spot below her left ear.

  Rachel moaned her pleasure, just to let him know he was driving her crazy in a very good way.

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t seem to move other than tremble. There was something…something she wanted to do.

  The first button on her blouse gave way, then the next, and the next one.

  Ah, yes. That was it. She wanted to undress him and run her hands over every inch of his body. Tension and heat and passion radiated from him, battering her like the ocean waves pounding the granite cliffs outside.

  He was finishing it, he’d told her. Tonight. Now. Here.

  God, she hoped so.

  She reached down to the hem of his shirt and tugged, wiggling it up his ribs, only to moan again when his lips captured her earlobe. His tongue teased and probed and promised even more.

  “Help me,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt. She needed to touch his bare skin, the fever inside her beginning to spiral out of control.

  He leaned back, his hips keeping her firmly planted against the wall, and with one deft movement, his shirt disappeared.

  Rachel made a sound of thanks and leaned into him, laying her face on his chest and wrapping her arms around his now naked torso. His heart thumped against her cheek with the power of a locomotive. His skin was moist, the hair on his chest soft and sensuous, tickling her lips in a most delicious way.

  She licked his nipple, and was rewarded with a moan so male in nature it sent shivers of pure feminine delight racing through every cell of her body.

  He pushed her blouse off her shoulders, pulling the straps of her bra with it. “Help me,” he demanded rawly, trying to peel her clothes off, too.

  Rachel let go of him long enough to unclip her bra and slip her arms free, then immediately went back to touching him, tracing each powerful muscle on his shoulders and arms and neck, reaching up to kiss him again.

  The contact this time was hotter, more frenzied—and maybe just a bit desperate. Her nipples engorged as they brushed his chest hair, making them supersensitive. He pressed heavily against her, the bulge of his arousal burning through her jeans.

  Rachel’s insides convulsed. She couldn’t take much more of this torment. She yearned—hurt—to have him inside her.

  “Finish it,” she whispered beside his ear, letting her tongue linger, feeling a shudder run through him.

  He stepped back, set her on her feet, and attacked the zipper of her jeans. Rachel quickly slipped out of her shoes and went for his belt, the task overly difficult because her hands wouldn’t quit shaking.

  Their breathing grew labored, their urgency palpable.

  He shoved her jeans down to her ankles at just the same time as she pushed down his. He lifted her up, moving her back against the wall as before. Rachel wrapped her legs around him, this time gasping at the shock of having nothing between them.

  Nothing but glorious, quivering heat.

  He positioned her higher, then stopped suddenly, the tight muscles of his arms twitching, his eyes closed, breaths rasping from his lungs.

  Rachel realized he was fighting for control.

  She didn’t want that. She dug her nails into his skin to make him look at her, and stared up past the angular planes of his face in the moonlight into dark-blue eyes blazing with primordial need.

  “It’s not trespassing if you’ve been invited,” she told him, shooting him a crooked smile. “Or do I need to clarify that point as well?”

  A shudder ran through him, shaking them both.

  Rachel tilted her pelvis, relaxing her thighs to lower herself until she could feel the tip of his shaft probing the wet folds of her opening.

  And still he held back.

  “I’ve always had a thing for cavemen,” she whispered.

  His eyes burned at her reference to their first meeting, his nostrils flaring and his hands biting into her thighs. He swore, grabbing a fistful of her hair as he braced one forearm on the wall behind her and captured her mouth in a hard and consuming kiss. He moved that kiss to her cheek, then her throat, then buried his face in the crook of her neck and thrust forward, and upward, not stopping until she was fully impaled.

  Rachel sucked in her breath at the deep invasion. She took advantage of his stillness to adjust to his size, willing her inner muscles to relax, to yield and accept him.

  “I need to move, Rachel,”
he growled, his mouth hot and wet, his teeth rasping her neck—then his lips soothing her skin.

  But still he waited, her noble caveman. Rachel arched against him, buried her own face in his shoulder, and lightly bit her permission.

  He moved with the force of a hurricane, fast and hard and completely out of control. Rachel cried out, not in distress but in triumph. She rode the storm she’d created, joyously meeting each powerful thrust of his hips.

  The wall at her back, the room, the house, the world—it all slipped away in a haze of erotic smells and tastes and sensations. She welcomed each thrust with small moans of encouragement, matching his own grunts of pleasure.

  She climaxed quickly, bucking against him, consumed by convulsions that exploded from her in a scream of fulfillment.

  He pounded deeper and harder and faster, then suddenly stopped. She felt him come then, embedded all the way up inside her, his shaft pulsing against her seizing muscles.

  He dropped his head to her shoulder, his huffing breaths pushing his sweat-soaked chest against hers. Their hearts pounded as tiny shudders continued to ripple through each sensitized nerve of her body. She clenched on a lingering spasm that pulled him even deeper inside her.

  His head snapped up, his gaze narrowed on hers. He thrust forward slightly, retreated, then forward once more, this time with deliberate purpose, closing his eyes on a curse that was more groaned than spoken.

  He straightened abruptly, pulling her away from the wall, and stood in the middle of the room, holding her in their erotic embrace—Kee still deeply seated inside her and Rachel only able to cling like quivering jelly.

  He started for the door, and the movement embedded him deeper, the sensation causing Rachel to clench involuntarily around him.

  He stopped, and growled, and changed direction.

  “If you keep bouncing me around, I’m going to come again,” she warned through gritted teeth, desperately trying not to.

  He stilled, staring directly into her eyes with a heat so intense, she melted right there in front of him and climaxed again.

  He made a sound—half wounded animal, half angry lion—and dropped to his knees, laying her down on the rug without breaking contact, driving deeply into her with a pounding force that sent her climax into hyperdrive.

  He reared up, threw his head back, and entered the storm again.

  And finally they were finished.

  Point made.

  Driven home quite soundly.

  Rachel lay on the dusty carpet—Kee half on her, half off her—and stared at nothing, the silence broken only by heavy breathing and thumping hearts. She could count on one hand the number of men she’d been with. Heck, she could count on her fingers and toes the number of times she’d actually done it.

  She’d never done it like this, though, with such…such…dammit, with such need. If she hadn’t felt him inside her, she would have just died. Or gone crazy.

  Hell, she had gone crazy. She was lying on the floor with a demigod sprawled across her, and she’d just climaxed twice—the second time by just looking at him.

  The genie was out of the bottle.

  Passion had finally won over good sense.

  He levered himself up on one elbow to stare at her, his large, utterly masculine, slightly trembling hand brushing the tangle of hair off her face.

  “I’m locking you in the south tower and keeping the key around my neck. You’re one dangerous lady.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not while her palms still itched to touch him, and definitely not while her whole body still throbbed with erotic sensations.

  She was a danger, all right—to herself.

  “I wouldn’t be there long. There’s a tunnel out of the south tower,” she told him, staring up at the dark ceiling that she knew was exactly twelve feet, nine inches away.

  His sigh moved through her hair and cooled her sweaty face. He lifted himself up on his hands, straddling her head with his arms and kneeling between her spread legs, replacing her view of the ceiling with his broad chest, powerful shoulders, hard-muscled arms—and his damned arresting blue eyes and a mouth made for driving women crazy.

  “If you don’t quit looking at me like that,” he said rawly, his eyes narrowed in warning, “we’re not going to make it to a bed this time, either.”

  Every cell in her body went on full alert. But before she could react, Kee pulled her upright, stood, and swept her into his arms.

  Where did the man get his strength? She couldn’t even lift her own arms enough to wrap them around his neck.

  He headed for the door to the hallway.

  “We’re naked,” she thought to remind him. “You’re not carrying me through Sub Rosa like this.”

  He stopped long enough to open the door, and then they were out in the hallway. Rachel blinked at the sudden brightness from the blazing wall sconces set exactly ten feet apart.

  Kee carried her into the bedroom across the hall from the tapestry room, headed for the bed, pulled back the covers—God only knew how he could do that without dropping her—then dropped her onto the cool sheets and landed on top of her.

  “Are you on the pill?”

  “No.”

  He whispered a curse, then took her by the chin and made her face him. “When’s your period due?”

  “In a couple of weeks.”

  He swore again, a bit cruder and with even more feeling. Rachel pulled her chin away, but he grabbed it back. He leaned in close and said softly, “You’ll tell me the minute you start, because I’ll be on you every day until we know if you’re pregnant.”

  How…chivalrous of him.

  The glow of their lovemaking—or rather their wild frenzy—died a quick death. He was actually angry. At her? Hell, he’d started it. He should have left her damned hair alone.

  Rachel tried to get up.

  But he rolled her onto her back and pinned her to the bed with his weight. “And just where are you going?” he asked softly.

  “Home.” She hesitated, thinking she should probably say something else. Something nice, maybe. “Ah, thank you. I had a…a wonderful time.”

  The look he gave her was confounded, almost comical, before he suddenly snorted, dropped his forehead to hers, and shook them both with his laughter.

  Rachel’s temper flared. She shoved at him and was surprised when he cooperated. But instead of rolling off her, he only leaned to the side far enough to reach the drawer in the bedside table. He opened it, pulled out a string of packets, and quickly returned his weight over her.

  It was a little late to close the barn door, wasn’t it? The cow had gotten out ten minutes ago—twice! Rachel couldn’t decide if she was angry or excited.

  “We’re finishing it, by God,” he growled, setting the packets on the pillow beside her.

  “We…we’re not finished?”

  “Dammit, Rachel. I’ve come twice and I haven’t even touched you yet. Here,” he whispered, tracing one finger down the length of her neck to between her breasts. “And here,” he said, his voice turning raw as he trailed that maddening finger up to one engorged nipple. “And here,” he continued, settling beside her and running his finger down over her ribs, dipping into her belly button, then continuing on.

  Her stomach muscles quivered. Her insides clenched. Moisture gathered again between her thighs, and Rachel could only close her eyes as his journey continued even lower.

  “And…here,” he whispered gutturally, his mouth tracing the path of his finger.

  Rachel gripped two fistfuls of his hair, undecided whether to stop him or help him. But he suddenly found just the right spot, and made just the right sound of appreciation.

  With a heartfelt curse of her own, Rachel arched up and said in a near shout, “Okay, we can finish.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The man was insatiable. The first hint of dawn had crept through the windows by the time they’d used the last of the condoms, and he still wouldn’t quit. His tongue was now
making its way up her arm, after lavishing kisses over every inch of her right hand—which she was simply too weak to lift away.

  She couldn’t move.

  Didn’t want to.

  Rachel decided she would just lie in this bed forever and die a happy woman—happy and completely satisfied. Heck, she had actually reached that point somewhere after the fourth time.

  That’s when she’d quit counting.

  “You’re going to have to do it without me this time,” she muttered into her pillow, attempting to gather the energy to swat him away. “I’m dead.”

  She was answered by a weak grunt from someplace on her left, and a pitiful whine near her now wet right shoulder.

  Rachel’s brain finally kicked in. Mickey.

  She still didn’t open her eyes. “I’m locking your wolf in the dungeon, Oakes, if you don’t teach him some manners.”

  Another grunt from her left, this one sounding pained.

  Rachel was proud of herself. It was damned hard work bringing a demigod to his knees.

  Mickey finally got Rachel to open her eyes by licking her cheek. She didn’t know where she found the strength, but she swatted him away and rolled off the bed, taking the sheet with her, using the momentum to wrap it around herself.

  She stood on rubbery legs, wonderfully numb from the neck down, and stared back at the bed. She blinked…once…twice…but still couldn’t focus. She ran a shaky hand over her face only to have to brush a tangle of hair out of the way. Ah, now she could see, and the view was magnificent.

  Her demigod was sprawled on his back, either shamelessly comfortable or dead. Rachel started her eye’s journey at his toes, deciding to drink in the vision of him in an orderly fashion so she could tuck the memory away for a rainy day.

  The bottoms of his feet were callused, his knees—ahem—looked a bit rug-burned, and his thighs were long and sinuous and wonderfully muscled. She continued higher, and his—ahem—well, he was definitely sated. She quickly moved on to his stomach, which had more ripples than a whole bag of potato chips. His chest was covered with soft curls, and his thick neck had a couple of red spots she hoped he had enough manners to pass off as razor burns.