Katrakis's Last Mistress Read Free Page B

chest.
    He let the moment draw out, aware of the interested eyes on them from all corners of the yacht’s entertainment deck, knowing that no matter what game she thought she was playing, she had no idea who she was dealing with. She had no idea what she’d set in motion by approaching him.
    But he knew. He had already won this long, cold battle. She was simply the final straw that would destroy the Barbery empire once and for all, just as they had nearly destroyed him once upon a time.
    He had finally done it—and yet instead of reveling in hishard-won victory, his attention focused solely on the rich, lush curve of her lips.
    He pulled her to him and fit his mouth to hers.

Chapter Two
    F IRE !
    Tristanne would have screamed the word if she could.
    Instead she kissed him. If that was the word for the slick, hot meeting of their mouths. If that was why every alarm in her body rang out danger , her stomach in knots and her skin ablaze with sensation, as if it was too small or she had grown too big to wear it any longer.
    She had not thought too far beyond the simple request—she had not imagined what it would be like to kiss this man. Or, more precisely, to be kissed by him. He was elemental, untamed. He took. He demanded. He possessed.
    And she could not seem to get enough of him.
    He angled his mouth against hers, exploring her lips, tasting her tongue with his, with an assertive, encompassing mastery that made Tristanne shudder with want. With need.
    It was so carnal, so naked—and yet she remained fully clothed. His hand on the back of her neck radiated heat, and something far too like ownership. He tasted like expensive liquor and salt, intensely masculine and frighteningly addictive. Tristanne clutched at his shirt, but her hands melted against the steel-packed muscles of his chest rather than push him away.
    A million years passed, a thousand ages in that same impossible fire, and then, finally, he raised his head, his darkgold eyes glittering with an edgy need. Tristanne felt the echo of it kick at her, making her legs feel weak beneath her.
    She fought the urge to press her fingers to her mouth—to see how completely he had ravaged her, to feel how totally he had claimed her. Her own lips felt as if they no longer belonged to her. As if he had marked her, somehow, as his. Something inside her, low and deep, sang out at the idea.
    Idiot.
    She should have known better than to play such games with a man like this, a man she knew with a sudden implacable certainty, as his dark eyes bored into hers and she felt herself shiver where he still held her, she could never control. Never. She was not even sure she wanted to.
    She was in terrible, terrible trouble.
    She had to remember why she was doing this! She had to think of her mother first!
    “I trust that was sufficient?” There was an odd light in his eyes—it made her skin draw tight and prickle in warning. He set her back from him, and drew his hand away from her nape, slowly, leaving brushfires in his wake.
    She forced herself not to tremble. Not to shiver in reaction. She knew somehow that he would use her responses against her. She knew it.
    “I think so,” Tristanne managed to say, though her voice sounded packed in cotton wool. Her breasts were taut and full, and she longed to press them against his hard chest. It was as if he had somehow turned her own body against her. She ordered herself to stop, to breathe, to contain the hysteria.
    But this was why she had chosen him. This, exactly.
    “You do not know?” His full mouth curved slightly, making him look both delicious and amused. “Then I cannot have done it correctly.”
    Tristanne realized then that she was still touching him. Her head spun and her breath had gone shallow, but her handsstill lay against the granite planes of his chest. She could feel the heat of him rise through the cloth of his shirt, and the time had long passed to let go, to step away—and yet she still held on as if he was