Page 31 of The Billionaire's Demand

Glorying now in her own beauty.

Beauty that had one purpose only.

She felt a quickening of her pulse, felt a quiver go through her...a shimmering awareness of her own body. With shallow breathing, she turned away, walking out of the en suite bathroom, back into her bedroom. She felt the silken folds of the beautiful gown she was wearing brush her thighs as she crossed to the door, opened it and stepped beyond.

A replay of what she had done last night.

But now, this night...

Oh, it was so different.

As different as dark from light.

As denial from acceptance.

Lie from truth.

Softly, slowly, she opened the door to Leandros’s bedroom and stepped inside.

Leandros turned. He was unknotting his tie, his dinner jacket already discarded, draped around the back of a chair, cuff-links slipped off and placed on the tallboy.

His hands dropped away. He stilled completely.

She was walking towards him. Not as she had before, halting and hesitant. Now she was simply approaching him—in all her breathtaking, matchless beauty. Her gown was slinking around her slender, shapely body, the décolletage low over the sweet swell of her cupped breasts...

He felt something spear within him, and knew it for what it was.

And her hair—

His breath caught. It tumbled in golden glory over her bare shoulders, her bare back, luxuriant and wanton. She had wiped the make-up from her face, but she needed none to enhance her beauty.

His breath caught again, emotions storming within him, unleashed and potent.

She came up to him—unhesitant, unforced, unresistant. She said not a word, and nor did he, as she lifted her hands, wound them around his neck, drew his mouth down to hers...

And he was lost.

His mouth tasted of wine and aromatic coffee, and her fingers at the nape of his neck speared into the sable of his hair. She felt her breasts peak, engorge. Felt desire—oh, sweet, sweet and glorious desire—stream within her. This—this was why she was here...why she had come to Paris...why Leandros had had to come to her, ask her to go with him. Six years...six long, anguished years...bereft and punishing... Anguished years she had deserved, yet which now vanished as if they had never been.

His mouth was crushing hers now, and his hands had caught her waist, pulling her against him. Her pliant body yielded to his, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. She felt his body surge, and where once, long ago, in her innocence, it might have shocked her with its sure sign of masculine arousal, now she gloried in it.

He was hers, and she was his. And for this night, this time, this long-deferred union, she would take, and give, and possess and yield what she had never done before.

That all he could feel for her was raw desire she did not care about—could not care about. If that was all she could give him that had any value to him it would be hers to give—and claim. And she would glory and rejoice in the giving and the claiming, now and for ever.

Desire was creaming through her and she gave herself to it, consumingly and passionately, with so much pent-up longing, with so much time to make up for—lost time, damaged time. But she had this time now, and this night. And it was hers to give to him, and to take for herself. Now. Oh, now...

She was pressing her hips against him, feeling his need for her, glorying in it, and in turn pressing her engorged breasts against the hard wall of his chest. The frottage against her cresting nipples was making desire course through her even more powerfully, more urgently.

Without taking his mouth from hers, their tongues still entwining, ravenous for each other, he scooped her up into his arms, swept her across to the waiting bed, coming down with her as he laid her upon it. Then he was shucking off his clothes, ridding himself of them and then setting himself to free her of hers. She lay back, lifting her arms above her head against the pillows, her body displayed for him as he knelt over her, easing the narrow straps from her shoulders, turning her over, sliding down the zip and lifting the pale silk from her body.

She heard, low in his throat, his guttural response to what he had revealed for his own pleasure, his own desire—and she saw it was his desire to have that pleasure. His eyes were dark, glittering with naked desire. His mouth was demanding on hers, his hands shaping her breasts, drawing from her intensities of pleasure she had never known, never dreamt could exist.

Then his mouth descended to the straining peaks, laving and caressing, teasing and delighting with little whorls of pleasure that drew from her throat low, helpless moans of bliss. His hands were moving down her body, smoothing her flanks, slipping beneath her, lifting her hips towards him, his mouth never leaving her silken flesh.

She gave a gasp of wonder, of shock, swiftly followed by intense, unbelievable pleasure. Her hands closed around his shoulders, holding him where he was as his lips glided to where she most exquisitely sensitive. She felt her legs widen, her thighs slacken, as if her body had a will and an appetite of its own. And she could not resist it, must go with it, must give herself to it—could do nothing but be helpless, to crave the pleasure, the exquisite, unbelievable pleasure he was arousing in her.

Desire quickened, became urgent, like a wildfire taking hold of a tinder-dry forest. Her whole body was aflame, her breath shallow, her neck arching, her spine curving, to offer herself...

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