Katrakis's Last Mistress

“Perhaps you should simply whistle,” she could not help but say, with a bite to her tone despite the lecture she had given herself. “It will be far less confusing.”

“I am not at all confused,” Nikos murmured.

He straightened from the door with a lethal grace that might have dizzied her, had she had time to react. But he gave her no such courtesy. Instead he reached over and snagged her wrist with his big, strong hand, then tugged her to him as if she weighed no more than the lightest feather.

He cupped her jaw, lifting her face to meet his. It was a starkly possessive gesture, and yet, somehow, almost tender—making Tristanne gasp in confusion, and something much hotter.

Then his mouth was on hers. He spun her around until her back was against the door, and he kissed her, tasting her again and again, as if he might devour her whole.

And though she knew she shouldn’t, though she knew she should think about why she was there and not her girlish fantasies of moments just like this one, she kissed him back as if she might let him—as if she might beg him. Not to let her go. But not to stop.

Never to stop.

He could not seem to get enough of her. Her sweet honeyed taste, the fit of her mouth to his, the little murmurs she made in the back of her throat, as if she could not help but respond to him with such abandon, with such passionate recklessness. Nikos felt a fire rage through him, making him hard and ready, and did not try to stop it. Could not have stopped it, even if he’d wanted to.

She wanted to be his mistress. He wanted her, with an intensity he had not expected, but had no wish to deny. He told himself that he would use it, that was all. It would merely fuel his revenge.

He pressed her back against the door, holding her there with his body while his hands roamed over her curves. One hand fisted in the dark blonde waves of her hair, tilting her head back to give him better access to her mouth, while the other stroked its way along the elegant line of her throat, then down to the sweet perfection of her jutting breasts.

Pulling away from her mouth with reluctance, Nikos turned his full attention to her breasts, tracing the flesh that swelled proudly above the bustline of her dress. He held them in his hands, weighing them against the silken material, testing their shape, running his thumbs across the hard peaks until she groaned.

It was not enough.

His blood pumped in his veins, urging him on. He reached down and found the hem of her dress, then worked it up toward her waist, exposing her silken thighs, and the heat of her femininity between them. He pulled one long, exquisitely formed leg over his hip, settling himself against her, so his hardness was flush against her center, separated only by his trousers and a single scrap of silk. She moaned. Her hips bucked against him. Her head was thrown back against the door, her eyes closed, as if she felt the heat, the fire, as he did.

He slanted his mouth over hers, tasting her again and again, while his hips moved, rolling against hers, rocking them both toward insanity.

He buried his face in her neck, licking the hollow of her throat, while his hands found her. He cupped her heat with his palm, feeling her molten heat, her softness. She cried out. Was it his name? He found he did not care.

She was a Barbery. She was his enemy. He wanted her for revenge, and he did not yet know what she wanted from him. He only knew, in this moment, that he had to have her.

Nikos pulled her delicate, panties to one side, stroking her with his long fingers. She sobbed out words he could not identify. Then, teasing her, he circled her entrance, before succumbing to the desire he could not seem to control. She was wet, and so soft, so hot, that he had to bite back his urge to throw her to the floor and sink so deep within her that he might forget his own name. Instead he moved his hand, rocking gently against her sex—and then, not so gently.

She made a helpless sound, but then her hips began to move against his hand, riding him, as her hands clutched at his shoulders.

“Look at me,” he ordered her.

Her eyes fluttered open. They were wide, and brown, and so wild with desire it made him curse. He felt her stiffen against him. She bit back a cry. Her cheeks flushed hot and red. A purely male satisfaction thrummed through him, along with a deep, primal surge of possession. He ignored it, and focused on the wet heat in his hands, the ecstasy he knew was just within her reach.

“Come for me,” he whispered gruffly, pressing kisses against her mouth, her cheek, her neck. “Now.”

This is a mistake, Tristanne thought in a desperate, chaotic, panicked rush—but it was too late.

Her body, tuned to his wicked fingers and not her errant thoughts, shattered into pieces at his command.

She was lost.

It took her long, shuddering moments to come back to herself. When she did, he was watching her with those dark, predatory eyes, and she did not know what she was going to do. What she could do, with his hand still between her legs and his mouth faintly damp from hers. She felt herself shiver in reaction. Or perhaps it was an aftershock of the explosion that had ripped through her with such strength, such fire.

One dark brow rose.

Good God, she thought with sudden, horrified comprehension, he was not satisfied. Of course he was not satisfied. How had she let this happen? How could she have done nothing at all to prevent it—how could she, instead, have encouraged it? She did not understand how she had lost control of the situation so quickly, so completely. She was afraid she might never understand herself again.

And why did some part of her long to simply throw caution to the wind and let him take her wherever he wished to go?

“What are we…” She was appalled to hear herself stammer out her confusion. But she could not control the tremors inside of her, the rush of conflicting emotions that buffeted her. She could not seem to avoid his knowing, faintly mocking gaze. “I did not intend…”

Her hands were braced against the wall of his chest, and she curled them into fists, as if…what? She planned to beat him off? After welcoming him into her body with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm? What was wrong with her? She wanted to burst into tears, and she could not understand it. Everything felt too large, too unwieldy, too heavy. Her own body felt like a stranger’s, humming with sensations she could not identify. She could not seem to catch her breath, and he stood so still, so close, only the barest hint of that sardonic half smile on his mouth.

He let her leg slide to the floor. Tristanne realized that her dress was still around her waist, and, flushed in an agony of shame, jerked it back into place with trembling fingers. How could she have done this? When she should be thinking only of her mother?

“Perhaps I misunderstood you,” he said, his voice like velvet, though his eyes were as hard as steel. He did not back away from her. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, making her choke on a breath. “I was under the impression that you wished to be my mistress. Did you not say so? What did you imagine the position entails?”

“I know what it entails,” she retorted, without thinking.

“Apparently not.” His mouth crooked in one corner. “Or perhaps your experience of such things differs from mine. I prefer my partners to be—”

“I am merely astounded at the speed at which you wished to consummate the relationship,” she interrupted him tartly. “I do not know how things are done where you come from, Mr. Katrakis—”

“Nikos, please,” he said silkily. “I know how you taste. Mr. Katrakis seems a bit absurd now, does it not?”

“—but I prefer a little more…” Her voice trailed away. Exactly what did she expect? This was…a business proposition. She had absolutely no experience to draw from, save what information she had gleaned from novels. Hardly helpful, under the circumstances.

“Wining and dining?” he finished for her. “Artifice and pretense? I think that perhaps you do not understand the requirements here. I make the rules and demands. You do not.” His head cocked slightly to the side as he regarded her with those unfathomable eyes. “Tell me, Tristanne. How many men have you been mistress to, in your glorious career?”

“What?” She was horrified, even as she shivered at the sound of her name in his wicked, talented mouth. “None!”

She should not have said that. She could have kicked herself. She might have, had he not been in the way.

“Ah, I see.” That dangerous satisfaction gleamed in his gaze again. “Then why am I so lucky? What brings the heiress to the Barbery fortune to my bed, offering herself to me? I cannot make sense of such a thing.”

Tristanne felt cold, suddenly; her sense of danger heightened. It was the tone in his voice, perhaps, or the way he watched her. Remember why you are doing this, she cautioned herself. Remember what is at stake!

“These are difficult times,” she said with a careless sort of shrug, though she felt anything but careless. She eased away from him, moving further into the room. She was all too aware that he let her go. She did not mention that her brother was on the brink of losing the family fortune or that Peter was obsessed with Nikos and considered him his main rival and enemy. She knew, somehow, it would not be wise.

“And you are, as you know very well, a highly desirable man,” she managed to say after a moment. It was no more than the truth, though perhaps the least interesting truth.

“I do not think you have the slightest idea what it means to be a man’s mistress,” he said from behind her, his voice soft, but with that dark current beneath.

Tristanne could not bear to look at him. She could not understand the wild tumult of emotion that seized her, that filled her eyes with tears she would rather die on the spot than shed, but she knew with perfect clarity that she could not look at him now. She could not.

“I am a quick study,” she heard herself say, because she had to say something.

She heard a soft sound that could have been a low laugh, though she could not be sure.

“Turn around, Tristanne.”

She did not want to. She did not know what he might see on her face—and she was certain it would only expose her further.

But this was not about her. This was about being a good daughter, for once. This was about protecting Vivienne. If she had not run off to Vancouver when her father revoked her university tuition…If she had not abandoned her mother to the tender mercies of both Gustave and Peter…But then, she had always been stronger than her mother. And now she would prove it.

She turned. He was dark and dangerous, and still as breathtaking as when she’d been seventeen. He watched her with eyes that seemed to know things about her she did not know herself, and that ever-present hint of a smile. As if she amused him. She lifted her chin, and waited.

She could do this. She would.

“This boat sails in the morning for the island of Kefallonia, my home,” he told her, his velvet and whiskey voice a rough caress. His eyes gleamed with challenge. “If you wish to be my mistress, you will be on board.”

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