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“I understand,” she said, but her voice was the faintest whisper of sound. Her dark lashes covered her eyes, and her face was flushed. He could feel the electric current that moved through her body, making her tense and vibrate against him.
“And you should greet me, always, with a kiss,” he whispered, and then took her mouth with his.
Once again, that treacherous fire swept through Tristanne, reducing her to ruins.
She was nothing but need and yearning, gasping against his mouth yet held deliciously immobile in his strong arms. She nearly forgot herself as his lips claimed hers, tangled and teased and beguiled. She wanted to forget herself.
But that was the one thing she must never, ever do.
Tristanne leaned back, breaking off the kiss and daring to look down at Nikos, to meet his gaze full-on. His eyes were molten gold, dark with a passionate heat that made her sex pulse in response. His mouth, so wicked and masterful, curled into the slightest of smiles.
“Thank you for the lesson,” Tristanne said. Her voice was the breathiest thread of sound—completely insubstantial—and told them both far more about her frenzied state than she would ever have wished to share. How could he do this to her so easily? Some part of her had thought—hoped—that yesterday’s explosive passion had been an accident of some kind—an anomaly. But this was not the time to agonize over it. There was nothing to do but brazen her way through such an unexpected obstacle.
She must not succumb to passion. Hadn’t that been how her mother had thrown herself into her father’s power in the first place? Tristanne would not be so stupid.
“Has it ended?” His gaze dropped from hers to trace her mouth, and his fingers spread against the exposed skin of her lower back. She fought off a shudder of reaction, but couldn’t keep the heat from her face.
“Of course,” she said, pretending that she could not feel the heat between them—or in any case, did not care. She leaned back slightly. Barbery ice, she reminded herself, with some desperation. “We already have an idea of how well we suit in this area. There are so many other areas yet to explore.”
“Again, Tristanne, I believe you miss the point of the entire exercise.” His voice was low, rich, amused. His midnight brows arched up, while his dark gold eyes saw far too much.
It would be so easy, Tristanne thought as she fell into that dark, honeyed gaze—too easy—to simply bend into his will. He was so powerful, so commanding, and it would be the simplest thing in the world to let herself go, and let him take control as he was, clearly, so used to doing. Hadn’t yesterday showed her exactly how easy that would be? It would be like diving into the sea—the decision to dive would be the only difficult part, and everything after that would be gravity.
But who would she be then, when she had fought so hard to make a life for herself—a name for herself that borrowed nothing from her family, had nothing to do with any of them? And more important—what would become of her mother?
She thought of her mother’s tears at Gustave’s grave. She thought of Vivienne’s forced, determined cheer in the following weeks. She thought of the fine bones on the back of her mother’s delicate hand, far too visible now.
Tristanne could not acquiesce to this man, however easy it might be. Especially because it would be so easy to do so, and such a mistake. She had to maintain control of this situation—tenuous though it might be—or she would lose everything she had worked for over the past years, and everything she hoped for her own future and her mother’s life. She had to stand up to this man, somehow—when she had chosen him precisely because he was the kind of man that no one stood up to, because no one would dare.
“Not at all,” she said now, gathering her courage as best she could. She tossed her hair back from her face, and made herself smile down at him, still perched on his lap like she was sitting on a hot, iron stove. She could do this. She could hide everything she felt, and show him only what she wanted him to see. Hadn’t Peter accused her of being frigid and cold a thousand times? She could pull it off. Couldn’t she?
“Oh?” he asked, still so amused. Still so unmanageable, so impossible.
“While I appreciate your list of rules and regulations, and will make every effort to follow them, being a mistress is much more than the ability to follow orders.” She traced the strong line of his jaw, the proud jut of his chin, with a lazy fingertip—though she felt as far from lazy as it was possible to feel. She kept on. “A good mistress must anticipate her partner’s needs. She must adapt to his moods, and follow his lead. It is like a complicated dance, is it not?”
