Passion. P.F. Kozak

      APHRODISIA

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      For Ivan

      Don’t presume the satiation of the feeling is the goal.

       Think of the passion as an end in itself.

       Savor it and enjoy it.

       Think of it as balancing on the edge of a cliff without falling

       over the side.

       Stay on the crest of the arousal without pursuing its climax.

       Be in it.

       Immerse yourself in the fire.

       Then be the phoenix and rise from the ashes.

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Epilogue

      Acknowledgments

      I would like to thank my husband, my friends and my family who believe in me and support my writing. In particular, I want to thank MCL, DR and IK for love above and beyond. And to our extended family, a heartfelt a la famiglia. Ti amo!

      Chapter One

      A poem called “The Highwayman” made me cry. That’s why I started to write. In the poem, the Highwayman and the innkeeper’s daughter, Bess, die trying to save each other. The thought of them being separated upset me so much, I changed the story.

      In my version, the Highwayman would kidnap me and gallop away on his black stallion, taking me to his hideaway. Or maybe he would stay at the inn and lure me to his room. Once, I found him wounded. In order to care for him, I hid him in a secret room at the inn.

      I started to write down my stories so I wouldn’t forget them. I recently unearthed several stories about my Highwayman in a box of old papers. For well over a month now, I have fallen asleep, thinking of him, my Highwayman.

      Just last night, I stayed awake until after three in the morning, the story I had woven feeling more real than my life. Even though some of the details changed from night to night, the core story remained the same.

      I looked up as the door opened. A large man stood there, tall, muscular and powerfully built. His thick beard framed a rigid jaw. He wore a heavy black coat, made of coarse wool. Both it and the cape he had on over it smelled like wet horse hair, being damp from the melted snow. The cape barely hid the hilt of a sword.

      He looked directly at me, with an intense, penetrating stare. He seemed so big and so totally unaware of how fiercely intimidating he looked. His swagger and his comfort with his size sent a shiver down my arms. Even though he frightened me, I still felt drawn to him.

      I raised the bottle I had in my hand and beckoned to an empty table in a secluded corner. He took the bottle I offered to him in one hand and my arm in the other. He pulled me toward a table, drinking as he walked. I knew the bottle would relieve the chill in his bones from the cold.

      I started to undo his cape, but he pushed me away. Untying it himself, it fell to the floor. He removed his sword and then his coat, being careful to position his sword within easy reach.

      He sat with his back to the wall, staring both at me and over me. I watched his eyes, sensing his tension as he surveyed the room for possible threats. It was not uncommon for two men to lay claim to the same woman. He positioned himself to watch for anyone who would challenge his right to me. No one did.

      We drank together for a time. He pushed the bottle at me and I drank from it as he did. He kept staring at me with those eyes. I could not look away. He asked, “Do you belong to a man?”

      I answered him, “No, not until you walked in.”

      He touched me. I did not pull away. His hands were large and very strong. He put his hand behind my neck and pulled me to him with a squeeze of his hand. I did not know if he intended to love me or to kill me—and I did not care. I felt his fingers on my neck. It made me feel lost in his power. He nuzzled my long, red hair. He sniffed at me, smelling both my skin and my hair.

      I could feel how he wanted the pleasure only a woman could give him. Keeping his hand on my neck, he drank again. I felt his fingers sliding up into my hair and felt the ends pull as he closed his fist. I did not flinch. He looked at me as if not understanding why I did not push him away. I asked, “How long since you’ve had a woman?”

      He answered, “Long enough.”

      He pulled his sword out of his waistband and threw it on top of his cape. Then he did the same with his belt. After taking another long drink from the bottle, he threw his coat in the corner along the wall.

      Grabbing my arm, he yanked me down on top of his coat. He put both hands on my ankles and shoved my long skirt up by moving his hands up my legs. Then he knelt to open his breeches. I started to pull down my loose-fitting pantaloons to ready myself for him. He had just exposed himself when he saw me reaching under my skirt. He grabbed my hand and stopped me. He said, “What are you doing?”

      “Baring myself for you,” I replied angrily. I tried to free myself from his grip, but could not loosen his hold. He shoved my hand away and pulled off my pantaloons. Before dropping them, he crumbled the garment in his hands, to make sure I had not hidden a blade in them. Pushing my legs farther apart, he lowered himself on top of me. He entered me with one long stroke and I met him with an upward push.

      I put my arms around his back and ground myself against him, pushing the length of him as deeply into myself as I could. I hissed, “Fuck!” at him, wanting him to move inside of me. He looked startled and then a sound came from him as if someone had knifed him in the back.

      He pounded me with his body, his thick organ stretching me almost beyond endurance. Still I met him head on, stroke for stroke, with the heart of a lion. I slammed against him with each powerful thrust.

      Suddenly his body went rigid. He nearly pulled out of me, then drove himself back into me, pinning me to the floor. Unable to move underneath him, I held him as he spurted inside of me. The growl started in his belly and moved into