Page 15 of Tristan’s Temptation

A charming blush blossomed on her cheeks. She dropped her gaze. “You don’t need to apologize for that.” She spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear.

“Don’t I?”

“Not unless you expect me to apologize for dropping my pencil in the boardroom or rubbing up against you in the bar.”

He gaped. “That was deliberate?”

Her features suffered a subtle shift and suddenly her expression was anything but demure. “And,” she murmured, “not unless you expect me to apologize for this…”

She sauntered toward him, mimicking the moves of the Shannon in Virtual Life. As she rounded the desk, she tossed her steno pad heedlessly on the floor. She stood before him, her knees nudging his. When she slipped one slender calf between his legs and edged closer, he almost swallowed his tongue.

His heart beat, pounded, in his cock. He was hard as a rock. But then his pulse stalled, skittered, because she raised her hands to the top button of her blouse and looking him straight in the eye, slowly unfastened one button. And then another.

Tristan shuddered as pure lust sliced through his body. He should stop her. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He wanted this, needed this.

She spread the lapels of her blouse, revealing her perfect, perky breasts cupped in a sheer coral lace bra. God. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined.

“Shannon,” he rasped, and then he lost all capacity for speech.

Because she knelt before him and placed her palm, so incredibly small and delicate, on his thigh. Her gaze captured his and held it as slowly, insistently, her caress made its way to his crotch.

She touched him.

That slight pressure on his throbbing, bourgeoning cock made him cross-eyed. With agonizing precision—that took forever—she unfastened his pants and slipped her hand inside the placket. Into the slit of his briefs. She licked her lips as she found his cock—not a difficult task considering its swollen state—and she squeezed gently. Tristan threw back his head at the sensation, the feel of her palm against his throbbing flesh. He arched into her caress.

Part of his mind spun with disbelief that she was here, now, real and warm before him. The other part was excited beyond belief.

Not one of those parts even considered telling her to stop.

With his help, she slipped his cock from its confinement. It sprang free with a vengeance. She stared at it in wonderment. She stroked him from base to head and back again, murmuring with pleasure. She flicked a look at him, a womanly, sultry look that sent pings of delight shooting through his being.

“I want to taste you,” she said in a sweet, soft voice. God. Those words, in that accent, made him wild. “Would you like that?”

“Oh yeah,” he murmured. As an afterthought he added, “But you’re not tying me to the chair.”

Her brow, that beautiful, elegant, patrician brow, arched as she considered his words, realizing he too had peeked into her fantasies. She murmured, deadpan and dry as the desert, “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

Her head came down and her mouth engulfed the sensitive tip of his cock. The vision of her lips stretched to accommodate his girth nearly made him come. The sight, the sensation, warred within his mind for dominance. He wasn’t sure which he enjoyed the most but it hardly mattered. It was incredible, any way you sliced it.

He tightened his muscles in an attempt to hold back his impending orgasm, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt it was a hopeless cause. God. When had he ever been so aroused? He was like a schoolboy with his first woman.

Her mouth was a slick, velvet heaven. She rose up on her knees and buried her head in his lap to get a better angle—he was so hard his cock was like an obelisk, long, thick and utterly intractable. She shifted again and eased him deeper. He filled her completely. The head of his cock nudged the back of her throat. He shivered as her muscles caressed him. The pleasure blinding.

She withdrew—he groaned in dissent—and then took the head of his cock back into the cavern of her mouth, licking, nibbling and sucking in turns at his engorged, heinously sensitive glans. When he was certain he was going to lose his mind at the sheer torture of the sensation, she upped the ante, tightening her lips and sucking even harder. And so she teased him. On and on until he thought, perhaps, he might expire.

He writhed there on the chair, panting and moaning like a dying man as she tormented him incessantly. He wanted so badly to come in her mouth, to grab her head and fuck her like the snarling beast she made him—but he wanted something else more.

He wanted to touch her. Taste her. He wanted to make her come. To watch her and hear her and smell her as she climaxed around him. To make her as mad and helpless and weak for him as he was for her.

He pulled her to her feet. As he stood with her, his pants dropped to the ground and he impatiently kicked them out of the way. They caught on his shoes so he kicked those off as well. He settled her against the desk and cupped her perfect breasts. As his thumbs skated over her hard, distended nipples, she moaned and undulated her hips.

“Do you like that?” he hissed, moving closer, pressing his bobbing cock against her belly, nudging her into the desk and rubbing hard against her.

“Yes, Tristan.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rolled her hips, a hot, horny hunger limning her expression. It was then Tristan saw it. He saw the point where the two Shannons intersected. She was both—sultry and demure. Seductress and saint.

She was a woman he could love.

The sudden revelation was too difficult to take, too intense, too utterly humbling. It haunted him. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was lost now. A dark beast compelled him. He turned her around and bent her over the desk. His hand roved over the swell of her ass and he squeezed a warm, firm globe. She moaned in response and shot a hungry look over her shoulder. Her eyes flared when his fingers drifted down the line of her skirt and slipped through the slit in the back, skating up her naked thigh to the crux of her being.