Master of Passion

by Jacqueline Baird

  'You can't force me to make lo...' But his head bent once more, his mouth moving with deliberate sensuality down the long line of her throat, and lower, to the soft curve of her full breasts. He nibbled and licked like some great jungle cat, the touch of his tongue on the sensitive flesh of her breast inducing a helpless languor in her heated body.

  She moaned, 'No,' as his strong hand cupped her breast, his fingers teasing the tight nipple with devastating effect, while his lips covered the other one, drawing the hard nub into the hot dark warmth of his mouth.

  Her breath stopped in her throat, as an ache of longing, so basic, so primitive swept through her. She closed her eyes as she helplessly acknowledged that she ached for the fulfillment only Luc could provide. She hated her own wanton response, and with her last tiny thread of control she cried, 'No, I don't want this.'

  'Now who is the liar, Parisa? I don't need to force you. You're aching for it, my passionate little cat,' Luc muttered hoarsely, lifting his head to stare into her flushed face.

  She opened her eyes, and met the glittering black cynical gaze of her tormentor. 'I should never have trusted you. I hate you,' she breathed hoarsely.

  'You know what they say about love and hate, cara' His arm tightened around her back and effortlessly he swept her off her feet and crossed to the huge bed, his mouth slowly descending towards hers. 'Either emotion will do for me as long as this luscious body of yours responds so fiercely.' He murmured the words as his lips slid across her brow, and down her cheek. Parisa felt the mattress beneath her as his sensuous lips once more found hers.

  'I don't...' she cried, but the cry was lost beneath the pressure of his mouth, as he kissed her with a hot, ruthless passion. His huge body pinned her to the bed; she could feel the heavy pounding of his heart against her breast. The brush of his hand through the tangled mass of her hair was oddly soothing as his lips gentled on hers. She tried to ease her hands between them to push him away, but when her fingers felt the rock-hard muscle of his chest all her resistance vanished. Instead, her hands moved of their own volition, her fingers tracing the hard male nipples, curling in the soft masculine body hair in secret delight.

  'That's better, Parisa. Touch me. You want to, you know you do.' He breathed the husky encouragement against the tender skin of her throat, while his hand stroked expertly down over her breast, the indentation of her waist. Moving to one side, he slid the nightgown down her legs and flung it to the floor, at the same time removing his briefs.

  She could have escaped; for a second she was free, but her mind had stopped functioning. Her blue eyes widened on his magnificent nude torso. She was drowning in a sea of sensations and memories that paled into insignificance when presented with the reality of the man. Her fingers, with a life of their own, reached out and stroked lower over his stomach, exploring the miracle of his essential maleness.

  Luc groaned, and, grasping her straying hand, placed it on his shoulder before moving over her and cupping her face in the palms of his hands. For a moment, his black eyes burnt into hers.

  'You want this, Parisa; tell me,' he demanded throatily.

  She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image of him, but his hard-muscled body moved seductively against her. Her hand on his shoulder slid down his chest, her other arm going around him, tracing the muscle and sinew of his broad back with achingly familiar delight.

  'Yes,' she moaned, her surrender against his mouth as their lips met again.

  Luc, like a man possessed, kissed her mouth, her eyes, the gentle curve of her chin. His teeth bit lightly over the madly beating pulse in her throat.

  Desire, passion, need: they drank the explosive cocktail as they drank of each other. Luc's mouth and hands caressed and stroked, suckled and probed every intimate part of her, until Parisa was a mindless, molten entity, wanting nothing but to lose herself in the miracle of his possession. She traced her hands down his sides and around his firm buttocks, the potent force of his masculine arousal a hard, exciting pressure against her thigh.

  'God, but I want you,' Luc groaned, and with one knee he parted her shapely legs, his long fingers finding and stroking the damp, sensitive flesh at fee very centre of her femininity with slow, sensual pleasure, Only his laboured breathing and the trembling of his huge, hard body against her betrayed his massive effort to retain his self-control.

  Parisa arched off the bed, her heart stopping as shudders of ecstasy rippled through her. Her fingers dug into his taut buttocks, her long legs thrashing wildly. The pleasure was too much, almost pain. 'Luc. She whimpered his name, and, as though it was the sign had been waiting for, he gathered her to him and drove into her, thrusting deep into her innermost core, claiming tier completely.

  He reared up on his hands, their bodies still joined, and stared into her flushed, love-swollen features. 'I want to watch you; I want to see what my body does to you, he rasped, holding her pinned beneath him. Then slowly he 'began to move with strong, pounding strokes, his eyes wild, fee pupils dilated to glittering black orbs of frenzied passion.

  Parisa, her own eyes reflecting the same unbridled passion, reached out to Luc. Her skin burnt, her body was on fire, and she closed her eyes, as Luc increased the pressure, delving yet deeper, filling her so totally feat she didn't think she could bear any more. But she was wrong, as Luc moved, plunging to a faster rhythm which her own body instinctively matched. She wound her long legs around his waist, clinging tighter. The tension inside her stretched to screaming pitch; she was sure she must die from the pleasure. Then she did scream—a long, keening yell, as spasm after spasm convulsed her in shattering pleasure. Her arms wrapped around his massive shoulders, her nails clawing at his smooth flesh, as his hard, sweat-slicked frame shuddered in a violent climactic response.

  They were lying, bodies still joined in the afterglow of rapture. Parisa slowly dropped her arms to the bed as the glory faded and sanity returned. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the glaring electric light. She had not even had the benefit of darkness to hide her wanton behaviour. A tear trickled down her cheek, but it went unnoticed by Luc who, with a self-satisfied groan, rolled off her.

  Furtively she wiped, her cheek, and turned on her side away from him. She grasped the edge of the cover and made an ineffectual attempt to pull it over her throbbing nakedness.

  Luc forestalled her, as his hand reached out over her shoulder to grab the cover and push it back. He swept the tangled mass of her hair to one side and, his mouth warm and firm, brushed a kiss against the side of her neck. His arm circled her waist and pulled her around to face him.

  Parisa was trapped by the quivering sensations which her body welcomed but her head despised. She stared up into his darkly flushed face. He was supporting his weight on one elbow, and with his other hand he gently flicked the hair from her forehead.

  'So, Parisa, are you willing to admit the truth?' he demanded huskily. 'There was never any question of force between you and I. I only have to touch you and the chemical reaction between us is as explosive as ever.

  You are one electric lady in bed. You're everything a man could want,' he added, his sensuous mouth quirking at the corners in a wicked smile.

  Parisa, her body sated, but her emotions torn to shreds, hated him at that moment. 'My body might want you, but in my heart I despise you'

  'I have no interest in the female heart; it is remarkably fickle. Your body will do very nicely, thank you very much...' he drawled cynically.

  He was a heartless swine. Parisa had always known that, but the pain that knifed through her breast at his words left her feeling raw, and used. Helplessly aware of his warm, damp flesh hard against her, she forced herself to hold his gaze. Not by a single flicker of emotion would she reveal how much he had hurt her. Her pride wouldn't allow it.

  'You do surprise me. As I remember, you seemed to think I was less than pleasing the last time,' she prompted. She hadn't forgotten his taunt.

  'I must have been mistaken, or perhaps, like a fine w
ine, you improve with age,' he mocked throatily. 'I'd better have another sip; just to make sure, you understand ...' His dark head bent towards her.

  'Oh, God! No,' she groaned, trying to push him away, but his lips, surprisingly gentle, teased and nibbled at her mouth with devastating effect, until he eased her on to her back, one long leg nudged between her thighs, and she felt the stirring of his renewed arousal. She tried to stop the shiver of awareness that made her body quiver in anticipation, but, as if sensing her brief resistance, he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting between her teeth in a probing game of seduction.

  Not again, her mind screamed, but her trembling body had a will of its own that was much more powerful. Her small hands stopped pushing him away, and instead stroked up to his wide shoulders.

  Luc raised his head when he felt her capitulation. His smouldering eyes fixed on her swollen breasts, and his hand trailed over the luscious mounds and lower, to her stomach, tracing her feminine contours with a tactile delight. His fingers stroked her gently, intimately, down to the soft brush of pale hair. Her hips arched towards him, her body once more ablaze with need.

  'A natural blonde. All cool and ice on the outside' his voice was low and husky with desire '—and all fire and passion within.' He crushed her beneath his own taut and ready body.

  Parisa did not even attempt to deny him. She was defeated, drowning in a violent torrent of emotions she could not control. Their bodies fused together as though they were made for each other, pale skin against golden brown. Wet with sweat, musky with the scent of love, they writhed in a primitive pagan rhythm, hands and mouths, clinging bodies straining for the ultimate climax. Until finally they lay drained and sated, in a tangle of limbs.

  'I'm not sure I can last two weeks,' Luc groaned some time later, and, rolling over her, he pushed back the covers, and then rolled back, taking her pliant body with him. Gently he pulled the covers over them.

  Parisa only vaguely registered his words, her eyes closed, and she made no demur when Luc put a possessive arm around her waist and tucked her into the hard warmth of his huge body. She was asleep...

  She was unaware of the large man, wide awake, feasting his eyes on her sleeping form, and, when she stirred slightly, carefully tucking the satin sheet around under her chin, or of the gentle kiss he placed on her soft cheek, before reaching out and switching off the light, closing his eyes, and burying his face in the soft, sweet fragrance of her silver-blonde hair. His whispered 'My moon goddess' went unheard in the silence of the night.

  Parisa woke up slowly. At first she did not know where she was; she was only conscious of feeling wonderfully warm and safe. Then suddenly reality returned. Luc's long arm encircled her waist. She moved slightly, edging away from him, and he turned, groaning in his sleep, to lie with his back to her.

  She couldn't believe the enormity of what she had done. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling as the morning light darted through the window. She watched the motes of dust dancing in the spring sunshine, and seriously considered flight as she despaired over her folly of the previous night. But she quickly dismissed the notion. She had made a deal, and she had to stick to it. It was her own idiotic fault that she had ended up in bed with Luc.

  The deep, even sound of his breathing was the only noise in the room. He hadn't lied to her. Devious, a lie by omission, maybe. He must have known full well that she had thought he meant a platonic marriage of convenience. God knew that he read her mind easily enough at any other time, she thought angrily. Too well...

  Resentment burned within her. His expertise as a lover was not in doubt: last night had proved that. She had surrendered to his masterful passion with humiliating ease. She cringed inwardly at the thought of her wanton response to his lovemaking. Her mind reeled with one crazy thought after another. Dear heaven! How was she going to survive the next fortnight? But more terrifying was how would she survive the rest of her life without him?

  Parisa had told herself over and over again that she didn't love Luc, that it had been a mental aberration, that was all. But now, lying naked in bed with him, the heat of him reaching out to her, the musky scent of him lingering on the air she breathed, she finally admitted it. She had lied to herself, surely the very worst kind of lie... She had agreed to his business proposition, when perhaps, deep in her subconscious., .had she been hoping to end up in his arms again?

  She had been bitter and disillusioned when he had not contacted her on her return to London, determined to block him out of her mind, but now she was forced to readjust her thinking. She still loved him... Luc was a user and a taker, ruthless in the pursuit of what he wanted, the gratification of his own desire his main aim. How could she love him? But, deep down, a little voice whispered. He was not entirely selfish as a lover. He certainly gratified all Parisa's desire; he had the power to take her to the heights and beyond.

  She turned her head to look at the object of her chaotic thoughts. His short-cropped hair was just beginning to grow. Then she gasped. Instinctively she lifted her hand, and reached out to touch the long, jagged scar that gouged a line from the edge of Luc's hairline down his neck. It was red and obviously quite new. She traced the shape with her finger; it was like a half-moon.

  Steely fingers grasped her wrist as Luc spun around, wide awake. 'What's the matter, Parisa? Does my scar upset you?' he demanded icily.

  'No, no, of course not,' she replied quickly, wondering at his obvious anger. 'I had never noticed it before,' she offered, suddenly acutely aware of his nakedness, his long legs brushing lightly against her, and the threatening look on his unshaven face.

  She felt herself blush scarlet, the events of last night uppermost in her mind. 'What happened?' she queried quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice her blush.

  He arched one eyebrow. 'Do you really want to know?' he asked sardonically.

  'Yes.' If she kept him talking, it might keep his mind off the intimacy of the bed.

  He let go of her wrist, and lay down on his back, not looking at her. 'The day after the fire at the factory, I went around the burnt-out building with the insurance assessor. Unfortunately the fabric of the building was unsafe. A roof joist fell and caught me on the back of the head.'

  'Oh, my God!' Parisa sat up in bed, and stared down into his impassive face. He'd been hurt, and she hadn't known.

  'Yes. I spent a week in a coma, and a few more weeks convalescing.'

  She was completely unconscious of how desirable she looked, naked to the waist, her gorgeous hair a tangled mass around her shoulders. So that was why he hadn't called her. He couldn't; he had been ill. The information put an entirely different complexion on their relationship, she recognised immediately. Her full lips parted in a wide, beautiful smile, her heart lifting. 'You would have called me.' He hadn't used her as she had thought. But Luc was not smiling.

  'Yes, I probably would have called sooner, but under the circumstances it is just as well I didn't—you obviously weren't that concerned. This way we have no illusions about each other.'

  Parisa didn't understand. 'You weren't concerned', he had said. But she hadn't known. Her smooth brow creased in a frown. If she had, she would have dashed to his bedside. She stretched out her hand and brushed the short dark hair on his head. 'Your hair... that's why you had it cut,' she murmured softly, her blue eyes wide and tender.

  'Of course.' He pulled his head back out of her reach, his face shuttered and blank. 'I wouldn't willingly walk around half scalped.' And, swinging his long legs off the bed, he rose to his full height, stretched his arms above his head, then casually picked his towelling robe from a nearby chair, and shrugged into it, before turning to glance at Parisa. 'I'll order coffee, then shower. Take your time—you look tired,' he said hardly and, collecting an assortment of clothes from the wardrobe, he walked out of the room.

  Parisa opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. What could she say? I waited for your call, and when it didn't come decided you were a bastard and hated you.
That would certainly go down well! She had told him she despised him, acted like a mercenary gold-digger, agreeing to his proposal. How could she now declare she loved him?

  She fell back on the bed, the shock of her discovery and what it implied almost too much to assimilate. She had a horrible sinking sensation in her heart, and a slowly growing conviction that she had made yet another mistake. She should have had more faith in him originally, instead of worrying over the fact that she thought he was a liar and a crook. At the very least, when she discovered on the Sunday his true identity she should have tried to contact him, then perhaps their relationship would have grown in a normal way. Instead she had run home to lick her wounds, hating him, and all the time he had been ill.

  How had she never noticed the scar before? But then she realised that when he had first reappeared in her life he had worn a white roll-neck sweater, and, of course, the Cossack shirt at the hospital the next day. It made sense: the clothes disguised his injury.

  Tears misted her lovely eyes. How he must have suffered. Injured himself, and then having to deal with his mother's illness. No wonder he had looked gaunt and thin. Why hadn't she realised? she asked herself over and over again. She brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. God, but she was insensitive! she castigated herself. So wrapped up in her own selfish problems that she had never considered that there could be a valid reason for Luc's lack of communication.

  But what was she going to do about it? And would it change anything? He had said 'This way we have no illusions about each other.' Perhaps she was being foolish all over again? The simple fact of admitting she did not know he was hurt was not going to make him love her.

  The stark reality of her situation struck her a body blow. Any time in the past few days Luc could have mentioned his accident. The night at dinner, when he had hit his head. She had actually asked him if he was ill, and he had denied it. Once again she was falling into the trap of weaving her dreams around Luc.