The Mistress That Tamed De Santis. Natalie Anderson
she didn’t register his tormented expression. But then he pulled away from her, his face now utterly impassive.
‘You’re stopping?’ She gasped in disbelief. ‘Now?’
His lips twisted but he didn’t reply. Running his hand through his hair, he huffed out a harsh breath and stepped back from her.
Astonished, she stared, realising what he’d done. He’d done this to prove a petty point. And he’d proved it already. But it was also a punishment. He was putting her in her place in a humiliating show of power—he could have her any way he wanted, however he chose.
But now he chose not to.
That he’d use his sensual dominance over her this way was most especially cruel because she’d never felt anything like this. No man had made her want in this way and this one time she’d almost felt pure, sensual pleasure, it had been snatched from her. She swept her hand over her belly, as if she could press away the ache deep inside.
‘I don’t need you,’ she muttered angrily. So hurt. ‘I don’t need any man.’ She didn’t need any one.
He turned back, his gaze smouldering. Her legs were still splayed. She was so exposed, half-stripped and spread on her own damn desk for him to toy with but she refused to cover up and show how shamed she felt.
‘What are you doing?’ His words sounded raw and accusing.
She realised he was staring at her hand pressed low on her belly. Bitterness rose in her throat. Because yes, the only way she’d ever experienced an orgasm was by her own action. But as if she’d do that now?
Heat burned in his narrowed eyes. Outrage burned in her. She wasn’t giving him the pleasure of watching. She curled her fingers into a fist, her vision swimming with acidic tears.
She heard his groan and a muttered word, but she didn’t know what he said because suddenly he was there. Back where she needed him. Bending between her parted thighs, his spread hand raking up her body.
‘It wouldn’t be as good,’ he muttered, leaning close, catching her gaze with his.
She tried to turn her head away but he moved too fast, holding her chin with a firm grip. He almost smiled as he moved closer.
This kiss was cautious and tender.
She didn’t close her eyes and when he drew back a fraction to gauge her response, she kept glaring at him. But then he kissed one eyelid. Then the other. Making her close her eyes. Then he caught her mouth with his again. Not cautious at all. Not holding anything back. Just that passionate teasing, stirring her to react again. To want.
And heaven help her she did. So quickly she was there again, lost in the lust he roused within her. She couldn’t wriggle away from him. Couldn’t break the kiss. Rather she moaned in his mouth—a mixture of hurt and want and pleading.
In answer he slid his hand firmly over her stomach, wrapped his broad palm around her fist and lifted her arm, pressing it back on the desk beside her, clearing his path down her body. He cupped her breast, then teased his way lower again, to where she was still wet and hot and wanting. All the while his lips were sealed to hers, his tongue stroking and teasing and claiming her the way the rest of her wanted to be claimed.
She moaned again, nothing but want this time. She wanted him naked, wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted him to thrust deep inside her and ease this hellish ache. He didn’t. He just teased—decadently, mercilessly until she was sweat-slicked and shivering and mindless.
She bucked against his hand—wanting faster, deeper, more. He groaned in approval, kissing her harder, letting her feel more of his weight. She wanted to take it all. Her hips rocked, undulating in an increasing rhythm, matching the stroke of his fingers and tongue. She wanted to force him to break free of his control. She wanted him to stop holding back. She wanted him to just take her.
But he didn’t relinquish his restraint for one second. He kept kissing her. Kept touching her where she needed him most. Stirring, rousing, until she was almost out of her mind with desire, until she was moaning a song of need into his mouth, her body trembling beneath his, her nails clawing into his skin as she hurtled towards the peak. Finally he broke the passionate kiss, letting her gasp as the rest of her arched, utterly rigid in that unbearable moment before release. Oh, it was here. He’d pulled her through the burn and made her feel it. Her eyes closed, she cried out as the wave of pleasure hit, sweeping her away in that powerful turbulent crest. She clutched him fiercely as the sensations tumbled within her, drowning her in almost unendurable bliss. He pressed hard against her as she convulsed, not letting her pull back from the intensity he’d stirred. His fingers rubbed relentlessly, ensuring she received every last spasm of pleasure from her orgasm.
Finally she fell back on the desk, limp as the warmth spread along her veins, sending her into a lax, dazed state. Raggedly she gasped, trying to recover her mind, but it was impossible to catch her breath. Impossible to wipe the smile from her face. Impossible to believe what had just happened.
Never had a man made her feel so good. It wasn’t just the orgasm, it was the heat and vitality he’d seemed to pour into her. He’d made her feel wholly alive, here and now. Twin tears escaped her closed eyes before she had the chance to brush them away but she was smiling at the same time, because it was so good and such a surprise and she was so happy.
Yet even now, despite that mind-blowing pleasure, the ache within burned anew. Suddenly she felt empty even with that elation still zinging around her. She wanted all of him. And she wanted him now.
Shocked at her surging hunger, she opened her eyes and looked into his.
‘Antonio,’ she whispered, shocked when she read what was so obvious in his unguarded expression. Torment—desolation and desperation. Feelings she understood all too well.
‘Please.’ She reached out to cup him—to make him feel as good as he’d made her feel. But he gripped her wrist and stopped her, his hand painfully tight.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he ordered through clenched teeth.
His words hit like physical blows. It was utter, raw rejection.
She closed her eyes but his spurn had already slammed the lingering sense of pleasure from her. Emptiness ripped her open. Now their imbalance struck her forcefully. She was almost naked. He was fully clothed. She was vulnerable and exposed. He was sealed and silent.
But they were both angry.
He released her wrist, pulling away to put three feet of distance between them. He stopped and stood with his back to her, his hands on his hips, his head bowed. She could see the exertion in his breathing, as if he’d run a race to the death. He was trying to slow it, regulate it and recover his equilibrium. Well, so was she. But she was failing.
She sat up, yanking her top down to cover herself, confused and lonelier than ever. ‘Maybe it’s time—’
‘I behaved like—’ he interrupted her harshly, then broke off. He twisted to face her. Tall and proud and formal. Icy again. ‘I behaved inexcusably,’ he said in those remote, clipped tones. He bowed stiffly. ‘I apologise.’
For a long moment she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t believe he’d become this remote statesman again. Did he feel guilty? Was he upset that he’d sullied the memory of his dead lover because he’d felt up the tart from the nightclub? Was that what this was?
Fury burned but oddly pity was entwined with it. She felt sorry for herself. Sorry for him. Sorry this whole moment had started.
But she only had to look at him to know any attempt at conversation would be futile. He’d scorched any sense of connection or compassion. There was simply nothing left. Yet he remained standing like a statue in the middle of her room, staring at her with that damned unreadable expression.
In the end she could only whisper, ‘You behaved like a human.’
His nostrils flared but he didn’t reply. He swiftly turned and strode to the door.