Claiming His Mistress. Emma Darcy

triggering memories he didn’t want, playing havoc with what should be no more than a slaking of need. His heart shouldn’t be thumping like this. Not for Carmen.

      Yet as though she knew it, he saw her gaze fixed on his chest. She slid her hand under his opened shirt, spreading her fingers over the light nest of hair. Her touch on his skin was electric, his arousal almost painful in its intensity.

      She was feeling her power over him, Carver thought, and acted again in violent rejection, lifting her off her feet, swinging her over to the shadowed area to the side of one of the ornamental trees, planting her against the stone wall of the house, snatching her hand out of his shirt, and kissing her to reassert his dominance over this encounter.

      Again she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back—following his lead. But Carver now wanted done with the game. He plundered her mouth while he took the necessary packet from his trouser pocket, freed himself and deftly applied the condom. The front split of her skirt had to be hitched higher, quickly effected. Much to his relief, his hand found only a G-string covering the apex of her thighs, easily shifted aside.

      He hadn’t meant to wait another moment, but the slick warm softness of her drew him into stroking, feeling, claiming this intimate part of her and driving her arousal to the same fever pitch as his own. Where he was rock-hard, she quivered, and he knew precisely when she couldn’t bear any more excitement. She wrenched her mouth from his, gasping, moaning.

      “Put your legs around me now,” he commanded, hoisting her up against the wall, one arm under her buttocks as he inserted himself into the hot silky heart of her, thrusting hard, needing to feel engulfed by the female flesh welcoming him.

      Her legs linked behind his hips, pressing him in, obviously needing the sensation of being filled by him, every bit as needy as he was for sexual satisfaction. It was more than enough permission for what he was doing. The only thought he had as he continued to revel in the freedom of unbridled lust was…yes…yes…yes…

      It felt so good…better with every plunge…the tense excitement building faster…faster…his whole body caught in the thrall of it…and finally, a fierce pulsing of intense pleasure exploding from him…the sweet, shuddering relief of it…

      He knew she had climaxed before him. Probably with him, as well. He would have liked the sense of fully feeling the physical mingling with her. Impossible with a condom. But protection was more important than any fleeting and false sense of togetherness.

      Her legs were limply sliding down his thighs. Excitement over. Aftermath setting in. He separated himself from her and helped steady her as she stood once more against the wall. The clasp around his head loosened, her hands dropping to his shoulders. He was glad they were both wearing masks. He didn’t want to see the expression on her face. For him, this encounter had run its course, and the sooner they parted, the sooner he could get it out of his head.

      He’d wanted her.

      She’d wanted him.

      They’d satisfied each other and that was that.

      The spectre of Katie Beaumont could now be put to rest again.

      Katie was stunned out of her mind. It was all she could do to stand on her own two feet. The impression of Carver was so strong—the shape of his head, the texture of his hair, the broad muscular shoulders, the sprinkle of black curls across his chest, the whole feel of him—her head was swimming with it. Her entire body was swimming with the sense of having been…possessed by him.

      It had to be sheer fantasy, driven by long unanswered needs, yet…

      Who was this pirate king?

      She could tear off his mask…but if he looked totally different to Carver, how would she feel then?

      Wait, she told herself.

      It was safer if she waited.

      He might say something to reveal more about himself.

      Her heart was still thundering in her ears. Impossible to think of anything to say herself. He was readjusting his clothes, all under cover of the cloak that had sheltered their intimacy. Her skirt had slithered back into place when he’d moved away from her. There was no urgent need to reposition the G-string panties. It made no difference to the line of her dress.

      Besides, she didn’t want to touch herself there…where he had been. Not yet. She wanted to savour the lingering pleasure of all he’d made her feel. Like Carver…

      He straightened up. It was difficult to tell if he was the same height as the man she’d once loved, given the boots he wore and her own high-heeled sandals. Was the cloak making his shoulders look broader than she remembered? They felt right. She stared at his mouth. The light was dim here, but surely the shape of those firmly delineated lips were…

      He compressed them, frustrating her study. He plucked her hands from his shoulders and carried them down, deliberately placing them on her hips as he stepped back.

      “The dance is over, Carmen.”

      The cold, harsh statement was more chilling than the night air, bringing instant goose bumps to her skin.

      Somehow she found her voice. “So what happens now?” It came out in a husky slur.

      “I told you I walk alone.”

      Another chilling statement, striking ice into her heart.

      He lifted a hand and ran light fingertips down her cheek. “This is one man who can take what you give…and leave. But I do thank you…for the pleasure.”

      He took another step away from her, his hand gone from her face but still raised in a kind of farewell salute. He paused a moment, as though taking in the image of her—Carmen left against the wall, abandoned by him after he’d taken his pleasure of her…and after he’d given what she’d virtually asked of him.

      She didn’t move.

      This was the end of it.

      He was going.

      “The pleasure was mine, too,” she said, driven to match him even now. “Thank you for the dance.”

      He inclined his head in what she thought was a nod of respect, then turned and strode away, taking with him the spectre of Carver, the cloak swirling around his swiftly receding figure.

      Fantasy…

      She stood against the wall for a long time, needing the support as she fought the tremors that shook her. It was better this way, she kept telling herself, better to have the memory and not the disappointment that reality would surely bring.

      It might be like an empty memory right now…but it was something.

      He’d made her feel like a woman again.

      CHAPTER THREE

      AS SHE rode the train from North Sydney to Town Hall for her all-important appointment in the city, Katie did her best to keep her nerves under control by thinking positively.

      The facts and figures she had marshalled—costs and estimated profits—for her business proposition were neatly organised in the slim-line black leather attaché case she carried. References from previous employers attested to her good character and sense of responsibility. Trustworthy and reliable were tags that were repeatedly emphasised.

      She was wearing her one good all-purpose black suit, having teamed a cherry red sweater with it since red was supposedly a power colour. Her hair was clean and shiny and as tidy as her curls ever allowed. Her make-up was minimal. She wore new stockings and sensibly heeled black court shoes.

      There was nothing to object to about her appearance or preparation, so hopefully she would clinch a deal that would give her a more interesting and satisfying future than her current situation. Max Fairweather had told her this particular company matched investors to budding businesses. With luck, her bud of an idea could flower into a fleet of specialised taxis for transporting children.

      Because