Page 29 of To Claim His Heir by Christmas

He carded his fingers through his tousled raven-black hair and she was inclined to think he’d spent the morning at a magazine photo shoot for sex incarnate.

Suave black suit trousers hugged his mighty fine muscular legs, and he’d paired them with a slim-fit crisp white open-collared shirt for a look that oozed sinful gravitas and delectable danger. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Nooo, of course it wasn’t. Because the universe had it in for her, remember? So of course the delicious brute was clean-shaven, and that sexy scarred divot in his chin begged to be licked and kissed as she stroked that smooth jaw.

Groaning inwardly, she crossed her arms and winced when she chafed her heavy, sensitive breasts. Darn it. The man knew it too. Cocking one dark brow as if he knew precisely what he did to her. The wretch.

‘It was wonderful to wake up with you in my arms again, Luciana.’

Her stomach did a slow, languorous roll. ‘Oh, really? Did you do that without permission too?’

Mock affront widened his deep, devastating eyes. ‘Absolutely not. In fact I had every intention of sleeping elsewhere. But you refused to let me go.’

‘I…I did?’

He nodded with deep satisfaction and tutted, as if she’d been very, very naughty. ‘You were most displeased when I tried to move this morning.’

Heat exploded in her cheeks. ‘Obviously I thought I was in bed with someone else.’ Surely that would set off his caveman alarm bells and twitch his temper?

Except all he did was take a lethal step towards her. And another. Until she felt hunted, pursued, desired beyond measure.

‘No, it was definitely my name you were calling in that sexy purr of yours.’

He spoke with a debauched rasp and frisked his prurient gaze down the length of her, snagging it on her chest. His gaze was covetous. Heated.

And that was when she realised she was wearing only her black lacy camisole and panties.

‘Oh, Lord…’

She yanked a loose, rumpled almond sheet from the bed—the bed they had slept in—and hastily wrapped it around her, toga style.

‘There is nothing I haven’t seen before, Luciana,’ he growled, his voice thick with lust as he stepped up close.

‘Th…That’s not the point.’

Up came his arm and he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear—his touch as light and feathery as dandelion fluff—then trailed one licentious fingertip down her throat…over her décolletage…whispering scandalous promises to her flesh.

‘Nothing I haven’t stroked or licked or sucked or kissed before either. And I cannot wait to do all of those things again.’

Her core twisted with want even as panic shot down her spine. Was he trying to seduce her? Oh, no. No way. He wasn’t doing this to her again. She would not surrender a second time. Regardless of that dissolute brooding certainty.

‘I’m not giving you the chance.’

‘Is that right?’ he drawled with a devilish smile, as if the mere suggestion that she could resist him was delightfully droll. Horrid man.

Luciana stumbled back a step and hauled the white shift dress she’d taken to Courchevel to wear by the pool out of her case.

All fumbling arms, she wrestled herself into the dress and wriggled from the sheet, rambling to cover her discomfort. ‘And, actually, there’s plenty you haven’t seen before. Twelve whole pounds of plenty. And despite what my mother says about curves being out of fashion, and how I’m not setting a very good example, I’m owning every one of them. Because one: I can’t get shot of them, no matter how much I starve, and being hungry really is no picnic. And two: every single one of those pounds was worth the—’

‘Worth the…?’

Closing her eyes for a beat, she realised everything was too raw, too close to the surface. She felt like a tiny volcano that could erupt at the wrong word or look and spew forth the burning destructive truth.

‘Those…’ She twizzled her index finger, making a little circle in the air. ‘Round American chocolatey crunchy biscuits with cream in the middle. Can’t remember what they’re called off the top of my head.’

‘Then when I meet these…’ he twirled his finger too ‘…round American chocolatey crunchy biscuits with cream in the middle, I shall thank them personally. They look good on you.’

‘They do?’

Aw, Luce, what did you ask him that for?

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