Metsy Hingle - Surrender

“For once, Peter, I agree with you. He is an egotistical Frenchman,” Liza quipped.

Peter ignored her. Enraged, he balled his hands into fists. He moved within inches of Jacques and leaned closer, making sure the Frenchman saw the anger and violence in his eyes. “In fact, if you and that little blond she-devil don’t get out of here within the next two minutes and let me talk to Aimee alone, I may do just that.”

Without waiting for a reply, Peter grabbed Aimee by the arm and marched her into the living room, where he pulled open the door to the apartment and waited.

“Come along, Liza.” Jacques took the she-devil by the arm and propelled her toward the door. “Why don’t you show me where Mademoiselle Simone’s apartment is, and I’ll take a look at that door for her?”

“Thank you, Jacques,” Aimee said softly. “Tell Simone I’ll be up to check on it later.”

Aimee closed the door behind them. Peter reached over her and turned the lock. Aimee spun around, but before she could walk away, Peter planted both of his hands firmly against the door, trapping her within the circle of his arms.

Her hands came up defensively; she splayed them against his chest. He could feel Aimee’s entire body, stiff and unyielding, against his. No doubt she was furious with him. He didn’t blame her. He deserved her anger. He had acted like a caveman, and he knew it. But he had been unable to help himself. Bracing himself, Peter waited for her to push him away.

When she didn’t, he slanted a look at her face. He had seldom seen Aimee speechless, but apparently she was now. Either that, or she decided he wasn’t even worth a tonguelashing.

She was right. He probably wasn’t. There was no excuse for his outrageous behavior. For an astute businessman known for his coolness and levelheadedness even at the most tense and competitive auctions, he had acted like the greenest of art dealers, overreacting and overbidding.

Only Aimee wasn’t some coveted piece of art. She was a flesh-and-blood woman. His woman. And he had been blind with jealousy when he saw her with another man.

Peter studied her face. Her cheeks had colored to a bright shade of pink. Her ghost-blue eyes were wide and filled with some unreadable emotion. The cap of dark hair on her head was tousled, as though she had just crawled from bed after a night of lovemaking—his lovemaking, Peter thought possessively.

He could feel his groin stir at the erotic images of Aimee in his bed, and he closed his eyes for a moment, battling with the need to take her here…now. Heaven help him. He had lusted after a woman before, but no woman had ever affected him like this. This constant need, this constant want. She was like an addictive drug…one he couldn’t get enough of.

“Peter.”

He opened his eyes at the sound of his name and stared at her Cupid’s-bow mouth, bare except for a slight sheen, as though she had just licked it with her tongue. Drawing in a breath, Peter clamped down the urge to run his own tongue over those lips.

“Peter.” She whispered his name a second time, and touched his jaw, her eyes questioning.

Her gentle touch was his undoing. He covered her mouth with his own. Reining in the fierce hunger inside him, slowly Peter traced the shape of her lips, savored the feel of their softness. When she parted them and eased her arms around his neck, Peter moaned and deepened the kiss.

With her back still pressed against the door, he dropped one of the hands that had imprisoned her and cupped her breast. He filled his palm with her fullness, then circled the nipple with his thumb.

Aimee moaned and thrust her body closer. Peter shifted, the ache inside him growing painful. Cupping her buttocks with both hands, Peter lifted her, pressing his hardness into the soft warmth of her thighs.

Aimee gasped, and he took possession of her mouth again. He knew he should stop. He was dangerously close to taking her, here and now, standing up pressed against the door of her apartment. The French doors that Aimee had left unfettered by curtains also left them in full view of anyone who happened to walk out onto the balcony of the building across the street.

Sweat broke out across his brow. But this time it had nothing to do with the summer heat and everything to do with Aimee.

He should at least carry her into the bedroom, Peter told himself. Pressing himself against her, he trembled with the intensity of his desire for her. Intent on taking her to the bedroom, he released her buttocks and allowed her to slide down him, to feel his pulsing need.

But Aimee chose that moment to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. She pressed her mouth to his chest.

Any thoughts of waiting until they got to the bedroom were abandoned. He knew he would never make it that far. His throat felt dry, parched, as though he had been wandering in the desert.

Aimee was a glass of cool, welcome water, and he drank from her, soothing his unquenchable thirst. He dropped to his knees in front of her and gently he kissed the inch of pale skin exposed by the cropped T-shirt.

She curled her fingers into his shoulders, digging into the skin covered by his shirt. The bite of her nails in his flesh only fed the hunger raging inside him.

Unbuttoning the snap of her shorts, Peter stroked her skin with his tongue. He dipped lower and thrust inside the sensitive indentation of her navel.

“Peter—” she gasped his name.

Holding her hips, he continued to feast on her with his tongue. He felt the tremor go through her, and groaned. His own body trembled as Aimee, her fingers locked in his hair, urged him to his feet.

She looked at him out of pale eyes that were hot and soft and filled with passion. She pulled his shirt free, spread her fingers against his skin, then moved lower and stroked his hard length.

Peter groaned as her touch brought both pleasure and pain. Capturing her mouth again, he kissed her. Fiercely. Savagely. His heart pounded in his chest, the beat echoing the fire blazing wildly inside him.

As Aimee reached for his belt, he heard a sharp rapping against the door, followed by a pounding.

“Aimee?” The doorknob rattled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Aimee! Why is the door locked?” The knob twisted impatiently, and then the pounding started again. “Come on, Aimee. Open up! You’ve got to get downstairs right away. There’s a guy in the shop that Jacques says is an art dealer, and he’s asking about one of your paintings!”

“Aimee, did you hear me?” Liza gave the doorknob another twist. “There’s an art dealer downstairs asking about your work. You need to get down there before that Neanderthal Jacques scares him off.” Liza pounded on the door once more. “Aimee!”

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Peter whispered, his mouth mere inches from her ear.

Aimee shook her head. With her senses still clouded, her body throbbing, Aimee didn’t think she could speak if her life depended on it. Though Peter’s body remained pressed against hers and she could still feel his arousal, Aimee could already feel his withdrawal.

“I know you’re in there, Aimee Lawrence, and I am not going to allow you to throw away this opportunity.”

Peter took a deep breath. The action expanded his chest, pushing the hard expanse of muscles against her breasts. Aimee bit back a moan as she felt herself respond to him.

“You’ve got five minutes. If you’re not downstairs by then, I’m coming back with my key. And so help me, beast or no beast, I’ll drag you out of there. I mean it, Aimee,” Liza threatened. She gave the doorknob another shake. “I refuse to let you blow what could be your big break for some scheming opportunist who can’t see past the bulge in his pants.”