Page 44 of Icebound

“Shall I invite her in to join us, or just to watch?”

If she’d been close enough, she would have slapped him. She looked at him with disgust. “Fuck you,” she said with deliberate emphasis.

“And now we’re back to where we started. Take off your clothes, bébé, or I will take them off for you, and I won’t be gentle.”

She wasn’t sure where she got the courage to glare at him. When she’d first met Bastien, he’d terrified her, and it was all she could do to stand up to him. Over the years, she’d learned to stand on her own, to fight back when needed, to give in when she wanted to. Her marriage with Bastien wasn’t love’s sweet young dream—they fought, they loved, they argued.

It wasn’t that Bastien hadn’t changed. He could be a sweet, tender lover or a sexual deviant in the best possible way. He was everything to her. And this time, she would fight for him.

They were at a standstill. She glared at him, he merely watched her with lazy interest. The afternoon sun was streaming in the windows, and he stood there in a shaft of light, looking absolutely beautiful. Looking like Bastien. She reached up and pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it on the floor.

His interest was no longer lazy, but he didn’t move. He simply watched her as she slid out of her jeans, kicking them away. She liked pretty underwear—everything she’d brought with her was of the lacy variety, and today’s black bra and panties were no different. She didn’t fill out the bra as well as she used to—she must have lost at least ten pounds during her sojourn, so she took it off, sending it sailing after her shirt. She slid the panties off, and she was standing in the room, naked, defiant.

“Well?” she said coolly.

“Are you trying to call my bluff, bébé? You expect me to stand here while a beautiful woman undresses and do nothing about it?” He started toward her, stalking, panther-like, and she stood very still, determined not to show him how panicked she was. It had been a stupid move, but she’d grown tired of the game he was playing. She held her ground, when half of her wanted to run away. There was a lock on the ensuite bathroom door—she could hide there, keep him out…

He reached her, looking down at her, his head tilted to one side as he observed her. “You’re very brave, ma chère,” he said. “You think I’m going to hurt you?”

“You already have.”

He took that thoughtfully, his gorgeous dark eyes sweeping her face. “Then let me kiss it and make it all better,” he murmured, and did just that, pressing his mouth to hers, touching her nowhere but her face as he cradled it.

She could pretend, couldn’t she? She could tell herself they were back in their house in North Carolina, alone in their bedroom, and they could make love like they used to, sweetly, tenderly. But this Bastien was not a sweet and tender man.

But he knew how to kiss a woman into complete submission. He used his tongue, his teeth, his lips, conquering her mouth until she let out a tiny moan. And then he drew back.

“You’re trembling, chérie,” he whispered. “What are you so afraid of? Me, or you?”

“Both of us,” she confessed.

He scooped her up in his arms, effortlessly, and carried her to the bed, just like a romantic hero, she thought dazedly. But he was the villain.

He stepped back, watching her as he pulled his shirt over his head, then reached for the fastening of his black pants. “You needn’t look so scared. You must have done this a thousand times with your husband. Just close your eyes and pretend I’m him.”

“I can leave my eyes open,” she said with spurious calm. He was hard and she didn’t flinch. How many times had Bastien come to her with an erection and her response had met his? Anticipation wrapped with fear danced in her veins.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean you take orders? I could tell you to put your mouth on me and you’d probably obey, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve told you—you’ve been too great a distraction the last week. I need to fuck you out of my system. If you put me in your mouth, I’d come too quickly. Though you’d probably prefer that I didn’t take my time.”

“Yes,” she lied. “Just get it over with so I can get on with things.”

“What things? Right now, I’m the most important thing in your life. Move over.”

She did with a disgruntled huff. He could do whatever he liked and she wasn’t going to respond to him. This was a negotiation, not an act of love, and she would treat it that way. Not that he’d care.

He lay down beside her, all smooth grace, but he made no move to touch her, and she shifted uneasily. After a long moment, she said, “Aren’t you going to do something?”

“I’m thinking about it,” he said slowly. “I didn’t have the chance to learn you the last time we did this. I want to take my time.”

Chloe wanted to scream. “Oh, don’t worry about me. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.” Her voice was flippant.

“That’s the difference with American men. A Frenchman knows the act is always sweeter if the woman finds pleasure.”