Sandra Marton - Mistresses - Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds

Regan basked in an unexpected thrill of accomplishment. She had captivated his jaded interest—made him laugh. Maybe this was going to be easier than she had thought. After all, unlike her husband, this man wanted her to be sexy and seductive!

‘If you were expecting a virtuous woman, you’re going to be severely disappointed.’ She flirted up at him through her lowered lashes.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted it until her eyelashes flew wide. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he mused, looking deep into her slumberous eyes. He brushed the pad of his thumb across her mouth, causing it to quiver and part, and then pressed firmly against her plump lower lip. She gave a little gasp as the tip of her tongue tasted the saltiness of his skin.

He misunderstood her tiny flinch. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not smearing your lipstick…it appears to have worn off.’

His tolerant humour made it obvious that he was used to women whose looks were their stock-in-trade.

Regan’s eyebrows crumpled at the dent to her glamorous self-image. She had never thought to recheck her lipstick. ‘It must have gone to garnish the canapés,’ she laughed huskily, to disguise her chagrin. ‘I’ll put some more on while you’re talking to Pierre about dinner—’

‘No. Don’t bother…’ The pressure of his thumb stopped her words in her mouth. ‘I like the nude look. I like the contrast between the sultry seduction of your elaborate eye make-up and the soft, pink innocence of your mouth.’ And, as if that wasn’t erotic enough to take her breath away, he added casually, ‘Besides, I don’t like the taste of lipstick.’

He took away his thumb and she swayed slightly, thinking that he was going to suit his actions to his words, but instead of following up his claim with a kiss he said indulgently, ‘So how about fixing me a drink while I go and see Pierre about dinner? Whisky—on the rocks. The eightyear-old Scotch, if you please…’

Regan’s hands were still trembling as she uncapped the Scotch and poured his drink, clashing the neck of the bottle against the squat crystal glass.

She ordered herself to calm down. They had the whole evening ahead of them…of course he didn’t want to rush things. He was a highly civilised man. He wanted to unwind from his busy day first, to be amused and entertained in undemanding company. As Cleo had loudly insisted—this wasn’t prostitution. And Adam had just proved her right with his willingness to do what his escort wanted rather than exercise his own preference. The message was that Regan was here to enjoy herself, not simply to provide raw sex on command…

When she turned from the bar her heart jumped to find that Adam was already back, lounging on the couch, his long legs splayed, his head tipped back against the pale cushions, exposing his scarred throat as he gazed up at the ceiling. He must have moved as silently as a cat. He had shed his jacket and tie, the subtle sheen of his dark blue shirt catching the light where his arms stretched along the back of the couch. His collar was unbuttoned, and as she moved closer she could see a drift of dark hair revealed by the narrow V of his open shirt.

The ice cubes tinkled against the glass in her hand and he rolled his head to one side and lazily watched her approach. In spite of the relaxation of his big body, Regan wasn’t fooled into thinking that his brain was clouded by his fatigue. His eyes, though heavy-lidded, weren’t in the least bit drowsy as she offered him his drink.

He shifted his torso, dropping his right hand to rest near his hip, but made no attempt to reach for the glass. After a moment of dithering uncertainty she stepped between his splayed knees to bend over and place his drink directly into his hand.

His fingers flexed around the glass, momentarily trapping hers against the slippery surface, and when she lifted her head enquiringly she saw that his eyes weren’t on her face. They were level with the plunging front of her dress, where her small, unconfined breasts, rounded almost to voluptuousness by gravity, crowded up against the edge of the deeply scooped neckline.

Trapped in her provocative pose, Regan was shocked to feel her nipples tighten and begin to rub against the material with every indrawn breath, as if beckoning his attention.

‘You’re not wearing a bra.’ He voiced his intimate discovery, lifting his other hand to languidly trace a finger around her curving neckline, careful not to touch the creamy swells of flesh, only the seam of fabric against which they strained. He took a sip of his drink as he did so, allowing her captured fingers to slip away from the glass.

Deprived of the excuse to flaunt her modest charms in his face, Regan had to force herself to move. All he’d had to do, she thought, was tuck his finger into that edge and he would have been stroking her aching breasts…

‘I—I’m so small I don’t usually have to,’ she said, her head throbbing with blood as she straightened reluctantly within the corral of his strong thighs.

‘The best things come in small packages,’ he murmured, letting his fingers trail down her bare arm, and then drift lightly over her hip and flank to the sensitive back of her knee, which he had earlier caressed with such electrifying effect.

‘Stockings or pantyhose?’ he wondered, plucking gently at the silky sheer black nylon.

Regan’s tongue felt thick in her mouth. ‘Stockings.’

Since she’d been widowed she had discovered a simple economy: it was cheaper to mix and match pairs of stockings than to buy pantyhose that might have to be discarded because of a ladder in one leg. But tonight it hadn’t been economy dictating her choice of underwear.

‘And, let me guess…black lace suspenders?’

She blushed at his gentle mockery. It seemed like such a ridiculous cliché, and yet the garter belt had made her feel wickedly sexy when she had been clipping it onto her silky stockings. She had bought the lacy black underwear on her second wedding anniversary, in a vain attempt to inject some excitement into her marriage bed. Of course, she hadn’t known at the time that Michael’s excitement was reserved for his busty blonde mistress!

Holding her rosy-cheeked gaze, Adam smoothed his spread hand slowly back up over the hem of her skirt and across the front of her thigh until he encountered the betrayingoutline of her suspender, pressing lightly to imprint it on his palm.

‘Anything else?’

All her attention was concentrated on his hand on her leg.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He took another swallow of whisky, watching her over the silvery rim. ‘I asked if you were wearing anything else?’

She licked her lips. ‘You mean a-apart from my dress?’ she said huskily.

‘I mean under your dress,’ he clarified, removing his hand, but leaving behind its heated brand on her thigh.

Her eyes widened and she nodded jerkily. What kind of woman didn’t wear panties when she went out, for goodness’ sake? What if she got knocked over in the street, or was ambushed by a freak gust of wind? The potential for embarrassment was enormous. Even Lisa, who was an ardent minimalist, wore tanga briefs to cover the bare essentials!

‘Black lace?’

She nodded again, riveted by the breathtaking boldness of that pantherish stare. He sipped his whisky and she had a strong premonition that what he was planning to say next was in the nature of a challenge.

‘Would you take them off for me, if I asked you to?’

The air was sucked from her lungs and a molten wave of heat scorched through her veins.

‘Y-You mean…here? Now? ’

He tilted his head. ‘Have I shocked you?’

Senseless.

Regan was furious. She’d thought she had been doing so well! And now he had flung down this outrageous gauntlet.