One Night Of Consequences Collection - Annie West Mills & Boon e-Book Collections

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tip of her tongue flicked over the lips he longed to taste and tease. But it was her eyes, lifted to his, that sent his heart racing into overdrive. Desire, longing, trust.

      “I am average,” she said. “But you—you’re extraordinary.”

      “You needn’t resort to flattery to win my favor.”

      “I’m not,” she said, her voice breathy. “It’s just that I’ve never met a man like you before.”

      “Nor will you,” he said, driven by a fierce possessiveness.

      Raw need coursed through him, his own blood pooling hot and thick in his groin. He ached to have her. Protect her. To make her his and his alone.

      The erotic drumbeat in his ears matched time with her erratic pulse as he removed the last of her clothes, until she was as naked as he. He stood there feasting on the pale curves and hollows of her body, knowing that for now she was his.

      Oui, the time for waiting was over.

      He’d have her here. Now. And damn the consequences.

      Kira shivered with nervous energy and a good dose of shock. She’d never imagined she would enjoy lying naked beneath a man’s scrutiny. And in broad daylight on a beach, no less!

      But the sultry promise in André’s eyes captivated her. She was under his spell, ensnared by the onslaught of his passion, a willing slave to his desire.

      More than that, she trusted that he would make things right. That sometime he’d listen to her. That he’d believe she wasn’t the calculating woman he’d accused her of being.

      She trusted him in this. It was enough. For now.

      Warmth swept over her like a welcoming summer breeze, kissing the skin he’d just bared. He was going to make love with her and she would welcome him.

      She ached for him to kiss her, to touch her. But he just stood by the hammock, his gaze devouring every inch of her. And her body reacted to his scrutiny as if the touch were real, her skin pebbling and flushing, her muscles tensing, her breath growing heavy as her pulse raced out of control.

      The sensations were new and intense, robbing her of will, of restraint. She couldn’t push him away, not when her arms had ached to hold him to her again. Not when she’d dreamed of this moment for three long months.

      Her body had throbbed in the dead of night, just remembering the wonder of his gloriously powerful form fitted to hers, moving in hers in a harmony she’d never felt before. When he’d made love to her before she’d felt their hearts beat in tandem.

      She wanted that again. Had to have it.

      The sensations he wrought in her defied description, but her soul knew this joining was right.

      He was the flesh-and-blood man of her dreams. The father of her baby. She wanted him with a keening ache that overrode caution.

      She smiled, her arms reaching for him, knowing she’d die if he didn’t kiss her, touch her, love her. Knowing she must steal this moment, this memory, now, before he learned the truth.

      His mouth quirked, his eyes gleaming. He rolled into the hammock, the net dipping precariously as he settled beside her.

      In the perfect synchronization of the lovers’ dance, her body shifted to fit against his. She focused on every nuance of the moment, skin touching skin, hard unyielding muscles pressing against soft flesh.

      His hand rested on her hip, unmoving, light, yet his touch sent heat spiraling to her core. Her hand found a natural perch on his broad shoulder.

      It felt right. Perfect.

      It felt like forever.

      But all it could ever be was now.

      For the passion blazing between them would be doused the moment he learned she was Edouard Bellamy’s daughter.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      KIRA shifted to make more room for him, her muscles clenching deep inside her as he slid a hair-roughened thigh between hers. She trailed a hand up his muscular arm and over his shoulder, savoring the bunch of strength beneath his hot, smooth skin.

      “Make love with me,” she said, her hand trekking down his chest to rub a palm over his hardened nipples, feeling his body quicken.

      His eyes flared with lust, his hand shifting to caress her with slow, agonizing strokes. “But of course.”

      Yet he made no move to hurry things along. Desperation sizzled in her. She wanted all he had to give now, to sink into him before she had time to analyze this driving need building and building within her. But he was clearly in no hurry.

      His big hand glided down the back of her thigh and she squirmed, begging for him to touch her intimately. Instead, his hand meandered back up to her waist, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders as need rocked through her again, her body quivering like jelly.

      His fingers splayed over her stomach and a different emotion gripped her, so sharp and new that it shrank her world to what mattered most: him, her and their child.

      The tense expression on his face made her wonder if he felt the same. If he felt anything at all except lust and the need to maintain control.

      Their child. Could he love their baby?

      She closed her eyes, wishing she knew, wishing her emotions weren’t so intense and raw with André, wishing what they’d shared was based on love instead of passion.

      A child didn’t have to be conceived in love to be loved. She would adore her baby—she already did. For once in her life, she’d have someone to love her in return.

      But how would André fit into this tidy family?

      Kira bit her lip, fearing he’d regard their child much like her father had treated her. She’d been a responsibility he hadn’t wanted, yet he’d assumed her care at a young age and placed her in boarding school.

      Strangers had raised her, praised her, nourished her as best they could. When the other students had gone home on holiday, she’d been shuffled off to a posh hotel in London and watched by a nanny. She’d never shared a birthday or Christmas with family. Never had anyone who cared about her.

      That was why her child would know that he or she was loved. Her child would have a home. Security. A mother. A father?

      “What is going on in that pretty head of yours?” he asked.

      Us, she wanted to say, but knew that would spoil the moment. So she tucked that truth away with her other secret, that made this dream a challenge to attain.

      “I was thinking how good this felt,” she said, and it did.

      “It gets better.”

      His hand swept up her ribs, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake. He palmed one breast, his thumb rubbing over the nipple until it throbbed.

      She arched against him, craving his touch, craving him. Their future was as substantial as the tropical haze that hung in the dense valleys, but she ached to get lost in the sultry mist with him once more.

      His head lowered a fraction. She met him halfway, their mouths brushing once, twice, before melding—a teasing glide of lips and tongues that sent a hum of need vibrating through her. She squirmed, desperate to get closer, to rub against the heat of his sex.

      He obliged, grinding against her and making the hammock swing erratically. Her stomach did an odd quiver—and not a pleasant one.

      She pulled back, gulping. “This might not be a good idea.”

      He went still, his intense eyes narrowing to convey his patience would not tolerate any of her machinations now. “You no longer wish to make love?”

      She shook her

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