Sinful Seduction

by Christopher, Ann

  Pausing only to shoot glares at Nikolas and Mickey, who were both doing a lousy job of trying not to grin, he focused all of his growing fury on Skylar. She was the problem here.

  “I thought I told you I didn’t want animals in this house.”

  “Oh, I know,” she agreed. “So we’re only keeping them for a few days. Until we can get them to a shelter. Unless you fall in love with them, of course.”

  That unlikely image set off a wave of sniggering from the peanut gallery.

  Sandro ignored it, all of his attention irrevocably centered on Skylar.

  Dropping his voice, he spoke only to her. He had to defend his position because he’d been a soldier and that was what soldiers were trained to do.

  To fight. Hold the line. Win.

  “You’ll be gone in a few days.”

  That gleam of amusement in her eyes intensified, and he had the galling idea that she felt sorry for him.

  “Gone, maybe,” she told him. “But never forgotten.”

  This undeniable truth sent him stalking from the kitchen and down the hall, into his den, where he slammed the door against her, as though that would do any good.

  At eleven forty-three that night, when the house was quiet and Skylar couldn’t twiddle her thumbs in her room for another minute—waiting for sleep to take her when she knew it would never come—she went looking for Sandro.

  Anger propelled her, blocking out the ache in her leg.

  She was stupid for throwing herself at a man who kept rejecting her, but he was a fool for not seeing what was right in front of him. The two of them had a genuine connection, the kind that people could spend their lives yearning for, and he couldn’t throw it away fast enough.

  And for what? Something concrete? No. It was all because of his misplaced guilt and misguided sense of honor. And did he care how it ripped her guts out, dooming her to a life spent wondering about what could have been if the stars had aligned differently? No. He’d barricaded himself so deep inside his little cave of martyrdom that he couldn’t see the effect he was having on her.

  That was about to change, though.

  She was sick of him. Sick of his roadblocks. Sick with longing.

  And he was going to hear about it.

  The gloom in the first-floor hallway was an eerie reminder of the night she had arrived. Once again, the only illumination came from a sliver of yellow light through the cracked study door, and she had that same feeling of foreboding, because when a woman confronted a lion in his den, she was likely to get bitten, if not mauled.

  She banged through the door, anyway, not caring if she disturbed him. Wanting to disturb him.

  He sat behind the desk, as though he’d been waiting for her, his face half in shadow because the light from the corner lamp only reached so far. An unmoving, hulking presence, he had his elbows planted on the desk, his fingers woven together, and his mouth pressed against the fisted mass of his hands. Surliness seemed to have swallowed his face, leaving only the heavy line of his brows slashed low over the gleam of his eyes.

  A glass filled with two fingers of scotch sat, untouched, on the desk in front of him.

  Their gazes caught and held.

  In a calculated move, she’d come down dressed only in her nightgown, that virginal cotton number that revealed more than it covered. She could feel the slow glide of his gaze as it skimmed over the neck’s low scoop…the thrust of her engorged nipples…the wide curve of her hips…the columns of her bare legs…the dark triangle at their apex.

  In the dangerous silence, she heard the catch of his breath, and that gave her enough courage to approach him. Leaning against the end of the desk, she hooked a knee around the corner and eased herself into a sitting position on top of the desk, making sure that her hem slipped up to her thighs.

  His turbulent gaze skimmed over this newly revealed flesh and then flickered up to her face, still and waiting.

  “I want you to know what you missed,” she said.

  One dark brow arched.

  “While you were in here hiding, or sulking, or whatever it is that you do when life goes on around you, we were having a great time eating dinner together in the kitchen.”

  “Is that so?”

  The distinct note of boredom in his low voice didn’t fool her for a minute. They were close to a breakthrough, she and Sandro; the feeling was so strong she could almost stick out her tongue and taste it.

  “We had rare steaks and fresh bread. Your son made chocolate-chip cookies because he likes to cook. You probably didn’t know that about him.”

  A rumble, something like a warning growl, vibrated in his throat.

  “We talked for a long time. Mickey told us about his adventures in basic training. Nikolas told us about getting kicked out of his camp last summer. It was for fighting, but did you know why he was fighting?”

  Sandro said nothing.

  “It’s because he was sticking up for this other kid who got bullied, which I think is pretty cool. Not the fighting part—the courage that it took for your son to stand up to his peers. That’s really something. But then we played a few rounds of poker, and Nikolas cheated. Twice. So I’d say you’ve got some work to do on that front. He loves animals, too. Did you know that? Asked me lots of questions about being a vet and my practice. I like him. A lot. He’s a great kid. And Mickey’s a great friend to you.”

  “I live for your opinion.”

  “I figured you’d want to know.”

  “And that’s why you paraded all the way down here in your thin little nightgown, giving yourself a chill?” He shot a significant glance at her beaded nipples, which had to be clearly visible beneath the filmy cups of cotton. “To tell me what I missed at dinner?”

  She smiled her most predatory smile. “That’s part of it, yeah.”

  “And what’s the rest, pray tell?”

  Planting her palms on the desk, she leaned forward, into his face, hunching her shoulders like Marilyn Monroe and causing her gaping gown to reveal more of her breasts. He noticed. That fathomless black gaze dipped, lingered and then flickered back to her face.

  He looked murderous now.

  “I want you to know that I’m a great woman, and I’m crazy about you. I think about you all the time—”

  “Think about me?” he echoed, his voice nearly inaudible now.

  “I think about everything you’ve said and done, and everything I wish I knew about you and everything I wish we could do together. I think about the night we met and the connection we—yes, we, don’t deny it—felt for each other. And here’s what I really wanted to say.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “If you let me go, you will regret it.”

  He paused, nostrils flaring. “Are you a mind reader now?”

  “Deny it, then.”

  Something forced him to open his mouth but he closed it again, floundering.

  “You’ll regret it,” she repeated. “You’ll think about how you missed the chance to come up to my bedroom and make love to me. You’ll never know how hot I am for you or how wet I get when you look at me—”

  His gleaming gaze wavered and fell. He shifted in his chair, lips tightening.

  “—and you’ll never know what it feels like to be inside me or if I’ll scratch your back when I come. Maybe I love it from behind, hard and rough—”

  He made a choked sound.

  “—but you’ll never know, will you? And I’m going to feel sorry for you. Because when I go back to Boston, I’ll know that I did my very best. I did everything humanly possible to explore a relationship with you and see if this chemistry between us is as special as I think it is. But all you’ll have is regret that you blew it.”

  Utterly still now, he stared off at the far wall with unfocused eyes. If she had to guess, she’d say he wasn’t even breathing, and she knew she’d finally hit a nerve.

  Pressing her advantage, she leaned forward a bit more, just enough to brush her lips against his
ear as she whispered to him. “Sleep well.”

  Undone, Sandro watched her go, taking with her the glow of her bare skin, her brain-fogging fragrance of fruity shampoo and the promise of ecstasy in her eyes.

  Only his fear of being overheard kept him from swiping everything off his desk and roaring out his frustration like a rampaging Godzilla.

  He couldn’t think.

  His pounding head felt like it might explode, which would at least disperse the seething images of him thrusting hard and deep into Skylar’s sweat-slicked body. On the other hand, maybe if he squeezed hard enough he could crush his skull between his palms, blocking out Skylar’s taunting voice that way. Yes. Good idea. He pressed his temples until sparks of white light marred his vision and his lips pulled back in a gargoyle’s grimace, but it didn’t help.

  Everywhere he looked, Skylar was there.

  Agitation got him up on his feet and sent him pacing in front of the fire.

  He thought of the racking emptiness inside him and the fact that it didn’t have to be that way if he chose—and he saw now that it was a choice—to rejoin the living.

  He thought of Skylar’s warmth.

  He thought of his house with and without her, which was the difference between Disneyland and a crypt.

  Most of all, he thought of Tony, his missing other half.

  Striding to the mantel, he tipped up his face to Tony’s graduation picture, but found he could barely look at it because of the blinding guilt and anger. He was alive; Tony was dead. Why had Tony died and left him here alone? Why? He had a whole life ahead of him; Tony didn’t. Tony had claimed Skylar first, and for that, Sandro had hated him. It wasn’t right, but he had. Sandro could be with Skylar right now; Tony, even if he were still alive, never could.

  Was any of that fair?

  Was fairness even the issue?

  Or was the issue, simply, that life was for the living?

  He couldn’t decide.

  And then he thought about his desire to honor Tony’s life by staying away from Skylar, and about his uncontrollable desire for Skylar.

  He put the two desires on a scale, weighing them against each other.

  It wasn’t even close.

  Wouldn’t Tony understand? Wouldn’t he want the people he’d loved to be happy, even if they were happy together? Hadn’t he been that kind of person?

  The decision came over Sandro, filling him with a new calm.

  This time, he had no problems looking into Tony’s earnest young face as it stared back at him from the photo.

  “Please understand, man,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I have to do this. I can’t let her go. So I have to let you go.”

  Tony’s brown eyes were so vivid and familiar, so piercing, that Sandro felt his brother as an actual presence in the room with him. So it was a vague disappointment when Tony didn’t move inside his frame and say something, like a magical photo.

  Sandro waited another beat or two, just to be sure, but the only response he got was the swelling peace inside his chest.

  It was enough.

  Kissing the tips of his first two fingers, he pressed the kiss to Tony’s forehead and rubbed it in.

  “You’re my brother. I’ll never forget you. I love you, man.”

  And then he turned his back on both the photo and the past, and went upstairs, to Skylar.

  Chapter 11

  Skylar’s room was at the far end of the hallway, well away from the others, and he slipped into it quietly, not bothering to knock. He didn’t see her at first, but then she materialized as a lonely figure on the balcony, her palms braced on the rail. One of the French doors was cracked open enough to let in a hint of the cool breeze, but not enough to chill the room. The sheer curtains fluttered a little, as did the hem of her nightgown. Moonlight lined her troubled face as she stared down at the ocean’s dark glitter, and he made himself a silent promise on the spot: if he had to make it his life’s work, he’d never put that look on her face again.

  Crossing the room, he edged through the French door and out on the balcony behind her, opening his mouth to call her name. He didn’t need to. She sensed his presence and glanced at him over her shoulder, revealing tear-streaked cheeks that nearly tore him in half. At the sight of him, her face twisted with a tortured combination of joy and relief.

  “Don’t.” He kept approaching and stopped only when he’d pulled her into his arms and pressed the length of his body against the back of hers. She was pliant and eager, and her hand came up to caress his face as he kissed and nuzzled her cheek. “Don’t cry, okay? Don’t cry.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He held her tighter, letting one of his hands drift down to the soft curve of her belly. He was hungry for the feel of her and he couldn’t control his hands any more than he could control the slow thrust of his hips against her. His erection was already full and insistent, and it fit perfectly in the groove between the two halves of her tight butt.

  “Even I’m not that stupid,” he told her.

  She laughed. He stared at the mouth he’d never kissed and swallowed hard. She lifted her chin and twisted her neck just a little bit farther, enough so that she could look him in the eye as she gave him the most precious gift imaginable.

  “I love you,” she said. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

  That was it. Overcome, he caught her face in his hand and kissed her. Her mouth was slick and minty, her tongue eager. She opened for him, mewling with pleasure, and he marveled at all the infinite ways their lips could fit together.

  Soon the sucking turned to nipping, the nipping to biting, and before he knew it, he was filling his hands with her soft breasts and shaking with urgency.

  Breathing was all but impossible.

  They broke apart, panting.

  Her lips were swollen and wet now, her eyes feverish with need. He knew the feeling. It amazed him that he’d had anything to do with making her burn so hot that her body nearly singed his palms. Sandro couldn’t get enough of her.

  She paused. Focused. “Please tell me you’re not going to regret this tomorrow.”

  “There’s no way in hell.”

  “And we’re going to figure out how to be together, right?”

  He stroked her again, rubbing his thumb back and forth over one hard nipple. “We are together. Period.”

  “No doubts?”

  “No doubts. Come inside.”

  “No. Now. Like this.” She pressed her back against the length of his body again.

  “So you do like it from behind. Duly noted.”

  “Let’s do it here.”

  Here was the balcony on a moonlit but chilly night, with the ocean breeze in their faces, not that she looked concerned. Still, she’d been injured and he wasn’t taking any chances with her health.

  “But—”

  “Now, Sandro.”

  To sweeten the pot, she reached up under the hem of her nightgown and wriggled out of a pair of dark panties, dropping them to the ground beneath her bare feet. With one hand, she braced herself against the railing, bending at the waist. With the other hand, she kept the hem up around her waist and presented him with the heart-stopping brown plum of her bare ass.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him again, her eyes a wild gleam behind her wind-whipped hair. “Now,” she said again. “I can’t wait.”

  “You’ll wait,” he said grimly, his control close to snapping. “I don’t want you catching pneumonia. And I want to see your face.”

  Grabbing her hand, he tugged her inside, nudging the door shut with his foot. She wheeled around, into his arms, and their hungry mouths found their way back to each other. Frantic now, they rubbed and scratched, licked and sucked, trying to find that exact perfect position even though it was already clear that their bodies had been made for this and nothing else.

  She was amazing.

  He was undone.

  Stunned,
he broke the kiss so he could look at her and work on catching his breath, but his heaving lungs weren’t up to the job. A hint of a smile curled her lips as their gazes connected, and it was a real shame that he couldn’t get his voice to work. He had a lot to tell her, and all of it was beautiful.

  Jesus, he thought, shaking his head. He couldn’t look away.

  Inside her sparkling eyes, he saw love and light. A joyful future and—

  “What was I thinking?” he wondered.

  Her brow quirked. “What?”

  “Why did I fight you so hard? Because of my honor? Screw honor.”

  “Don’t say that. That’s who you are.”

  “Honor doesn’t make me feel like you do. Thank God you’re more stubborn than I am.”

  “Thank God,” she agreed, grinning.

  Sandro backed into the nearest chair, sat, and went to work on his belt and the button of his jeans, appalled by both his shaking hands and his need. He had some moves, and she deserved for him to use them. They had a huge fluffy bed, and they could lose themselves in it by simply walking across the room. Down the hall in his medicine cabinet, there were condoms that he should employ.

  None of that mattered.

  Neither of them needed anything other than this, anyway.

  So he freed his straining length from the confines of his boxer briefs with one hand, and tested the soft petals of flesh between her thighs with the fingers on his other. She was slick and swollen and ready for him. More than that, she was responsive to his slightest touch as she straddled him, crooning and arching her back, circling her hips and rubbing herself against him without shame.

  And he was lost.

  Gripping the curve of her hip to anchor her, he ran the head of his penis back and forth against her.

  Ah, yes. She was tight. So tight.

  Inch by inch, he moved inside her, surging and easing back, surging a little farther…and a little farther again as she settled her full weight upon him. Shuddering with restraint, he leaned his forehead against hers for a moment’s respite—at this rate, he wasn’t going to make it—and discovered, as he ran his hands across her back, that the soft barrier of her nightgown infuriated him. Starting tonight, nothing and no one would ever come between them again. So he swept the nightgown up and off, revealing the satiny gleam of her bare shoulders and the perfect swells of her dark tipped breasts, bouncing gently.