One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West

over her body she felt wicked and sensual. And horribly self-conscious.

      The design was pure seduction. Thin strips of fabric covered her breasts and tied behind the neck, leaving her back bare nearly to the swell of her buttocks.

      The silk caressed her with each step, each breath, the glide over her nipples teasing them erect, the whisper of cloth over her hips and thighs keeping her senses tuned to a high pitch.

      Just like André’s hands and mouth would do.

      She swallowed hard, near panting with desire. She’d never felt this sexually attractive in her life. Never been so aware of herself as a woman.

      Kira allowed herself one last look in the mirror, scarce believing that temptress was her. But her bare feet ruined the effect. Damn, she’d left the sandals downstairs.

      She glanced at the clock, sure she had time to try on the shoes. She hurried down the stairs and did just that. The fit was perfect, like a fairy tale.

      Another ding rang through the apartment. She froze, her gaze locked on the lift door. Her stomach quivered; her pulse hammered. She knew André had arrived even before the door whispered open and he stepped from the lift.

      She had no idea where he’d acquired the elegantly cut black tuxedo, or where he’d shaved, but he looked like a page torn from a designer magazine. He looked like the fantasy in every erotic dream she’d ever had. The essence of savoir-faire.

      It was one of the few French phrases that had stuck with her. Oddly appropriate as André possessed social grace and aplomb. And a sensuality that seduced her across the room, robbing her of all thoughts save one—making love with him.

      He strode into the salon and stopped, freezing in place like a mannequin, with a hand poised to smooth back his dark hair. His gaze locked on hers, hot and hungry.

      Her stomach flip-flopped, tightening. Her thighs clenched. Her breasts felt full, the sensation of her nipples peaking against the silk almost too much to bear.

      Her heart quivered, overflowing with love. Love?

      Yes, I love him.

      Forever. Fatalistically.

      She smiled with all her heart and strode toward him, hating that she was continuing her deception. But she didn’t want to ruin this night either.

      Tonight she’d be his willing lover. She’d love him as if there was no tomorrow. Because when the truth came out she feared there would be no future for them. She knew putting off telling the truth didn’t change it.

      But when she did this affair would be over. Her life, her hopes, her dreams with André would end.

      And when they did a part of her would die.

      André’s chest was so tight he could barely draw air into his lungs. When he did manage it, he drew in the floral scent she wore as well as her womanly essence.

      He’d known when he bought the gown that the sapphire silk would complement Kira’s wealth of auburn hair, known that the fabric would caress her full breasts, hug her lush hips, and glide down the expanse of strong shapely legs like his hands and mouth longed to do.

      She was a vixen. The colors of the sea and the sand and temptation. A lover molded just for him.

      And for Bellamy?

      His hands fisted, his gut twisting, for he didn’t want his enemy to shadow him tonight. Not now, when this strange warmth was spreading over his chest, filling him with a sense of rightness.

      For the first time in his life he had found a woman he wanted in all ways—as his lover, the mother of his children. As his wife?

      Mon Dieu, he couldn’t marry Peter’s mistress. But the idea of another man touching Kira enraged him. His hungry gaze swept over her, stripping off the dress that set his blood on fire. His fingers tingled to put action to the thought.

      Every man who saw her would feel the same. His gut clenched at the certainty. He’d be damned if he’d share her.

      No one would see her luscious curves in that dress but him! Nobody but him would touch her, kiss her, desire her.

      He would be the last lover she’d ever take, because it mustbeso.

      It was so! He knew that now. Mother and child were his. His!

      André strode toward her, his hunger for food gone, replaced by a carnal appetite that was stronger. He’d have her now. Hear his name on her lips as she climaxed. See her smile rest on his face before sleep claimed her.

      Now and always.

      He pulled her to him, his finesse shattering like fine crystal, his patience vanishing like smoke. “Our plans have changed. We will stay here.”

      “Good,” she said, lifting her face to his. “I would just as soon order room service.”

      “Oui, a late dinner,” he said, gliding his hands down her bare back, watching her beautiful eyes gleam with the same powerful desire that raged through him. “Much later.”

      She was a worthy partner for him, capable of bringing him low with one innocent look, causing his blood to race out of control with that bed-me gleam in her eyes. Like they had now, her head bent just so, her tongue caressing her lips and making him crazy with want.

      She was his to have. Without doubt. Without reservation.

      André claimed her mouth, vowing he’d soon hold her heart and soul in his hands as well. She melded against him, capitulating to his sensual siege, her mouth surrendering.

      Each stroke of her tongue fanned the flames of his passion, until he feared he’d spend himself here in the salon. He who always maintained control felt it crack as her greedy hands explored his torso and caressed his hips, her thumbs tracing over the ridge at his flanks, feeling like fire and ice and sweet, sweet heaven.

      He swept his palms over her rounded hips, certain the finest satins and silks could not compare to the exquisite smoothness of her skin. The deep valley of her spine invited him to follow it in minute measures down to the soft swell of her bottom.

      The gown was no barrier as he dipped his hands beneath the indecently low back and splayed his fingers over her satiny flesh, barely covered with the minuscule triangle of silk.

      He smiled, pleased she’d worn his gift. For him. Only him.

      She arched against him, her fingers wadding his shirt, the scrape of her nails sending fire licking through him.

      He heard the rending of fabric, then sucked in great gulps of air as her palms swept over his bare chest, her thumbs brushing his nipples. “Aggression becomes you, ma chérie.”

      “I want you naked, André. I want to feel you moving on me. In me.”

      The growl that escaped him was foreign, feral. He swept her into his arms and mounted the stairs, their mouths straining at the other, their lips dueling with fierce intent.

      They fell onto the bed, tearing at their clothes, thousands of dollars’ worth of silk rendered to rags. He moved over her, his sex tight and hard, poised at her moist cay.

      “Yes,” she said, grabbing his sides. “Now.”

      “Not yet.”

      He palmed her breasts as his mouth moved down her body, tasting, teasing. She cried out his name, arching her back as if desperate to impale herself on him.

      But that pleasure would come too soon. Too rushed to be appreciated at this moment in time.

      He hooked his thumbs under the lace banding her panties and pulled them off by inches, his heart slamming hard as her scent filled his nostrils, driving him wild.

      “André!” The reedy sound of his name on her lips roared through him like flame. “Please.”

      He would. By God, he would please her. In