Prince of Secrets. Lucy Monroe
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too-empty bed.
With that in mind, she’d pulled out the stops when dressing for their dinner tonight. Her dress was a hand-me-down Vera Wang from her mother.
It hadn’t looked right on the more petite woman’s figure, but the green silk was surprisingly flattering to Chanel’s five feet seven inches.
The bodice clung to her somewhat generous breasts, while the draping accentuated her waist and the line of her long legs.
It wasn’t slutty by any stretch, but it was sexy in a subtle way she trusted Demyan to pick up on. She would usually have worn it with sensible pumps that didn’t add more than an inch to her height.
But not tonight. Demyan was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall; he could deal more than adequately with a companion in three-inch heels.
Chanel had practiced wearing them on and off all day in the lab.
Her colleagues asked if she was doing research for a physics experiment. She’d ignored their teasing and curiosity for the chance to be certain of her ability to walk confidently in the heels.
And she’d discovered it was like riding a bike. Her body remembered the lessons her mom had insisted on in Chanel’s younger years.
The doorbell rang and she rushed to answer it.
Demyan stood on the other side, his suit a step up from his usual attire on their dates, too.
He adjusted his glasses endearingly and smiled, his mahogany gaze warm on her. “You look beautiful.”
Her hand went to the crazy red curls she rarely did much to tame. Tonight she’d used the full regimen of products her mother had given her on her last birthday, along with a lecture about not getting any younger and looking like a rag doll in public. “Thank you.”
“Do we have time for a drink before we leave for the dinner?” he asked, even as he herded her back into the small apartment and closed the door behind him.
“Yes, of course.” Heat climbed up her neck. “I don’t keep alcohol on hand, though.”
The look in his eyes could only be described as predatory, but his words were innocuous enough. “Soda will do.”
“Iced green tea?” she asked, feeling foolish.
Her mother often complained about the food and drink Chanel kept on hand, using her inadequacies as a hostess to justify the infrequent motherly visits.
Demyan’s eyes narrowed as if he could read Chanel’s thoughts. “Iced tea is fine.”
“It’s green tea,” she reiterated. Why hadn’t she at least bought soda, or something?
“Green tea is healthy.”
“Lots of antioxidants,” she agreed. “I drink it all the time.”
He didn’t ask if the caffeine kept her up, but then the man drank coffee with his meals and had gotten a large-size fully caffeinated Coca-Cola at the movie.
“I keep both caffeinated and decaf on hand,” she offered anyway.
“I’ll take the caffeine. I have a feeling we’ll be up late tonight.” The look he gave her was hot enough to melt magma.
Suddenly, it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her apartment’s cheerfully decorated living room. “I’ll just get our tea.”
He moved, his hand landing on her bare arm. “Don’t run from me.”
“I’m not.” How could two simple words come out sounding so breathless?
His hand slid up her arm and over and down again, each inch of travel leaving bursts of sensation along every nerve ending in its wake, landing proprietarily against the small of her back. “I like this dress.”
“Thank you.” Somehow she was getting closer to him, her feet moving of their own volition, no formed thought in her brain directing them.
“You’re wearing makeup.”
She nodded. No point in denying it.
“I didn’t think you ever did.”
“I stopped, except for special occasions, after I moved away from home.”
“An odd form of rebellion.”
“Not when you have a mother who insists on image perfection. I wore makeup from sixth grade on, the whole works.”
“And you hated it.”
“I did.”
“Yet you are wearing it now.” The hand not resting on her back came up to cup her nape. “For the visiting MIT professor?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Then Demyan’s head lowered, his mouth claiming hers with surprisingly confident kisses.
And she couldn’t think at all.
Sparks of pleasure kindled where their lips met and exploded through her in a conflagration of delight. It was only a kiss. He was barely touching her, just holding her, really. And yet she felt like they were in the midst of making love.
Not that she’d actually done the deed, but she’d come close and it hadn’t been anything as good or intimate as this single kiss. She’d been naked with a man and felt less sensation, less loss of control.
Small whimpers sounded and she realized they were coming from her. There was no room for embarrassment at the needy sounds. She wanted too desperately.
She’d read about this kind of passion, but thought it was something writers made up, like werewolves and sentient beings on Mars. She had always believed that this level of desire wasn’t real.
Before meeting Demyan.
Before this kiss.
The hands on her became sensual manacles, their hold deliciously unbreakable. She didn’t want to break it. Didn’t want to take a single solitary step away from Demyan.
Their mouths moved together, his tongue barely touching hers in the most sensual kind of tasting. He used his hold on her nape to subtly guide her head into the position he wanted and she found it unbearably exciting to be mastered in this small way.
Demyan was one hundred percent in control of the kiss, and Chanel reveled in it with every single one of her sparking nerve centers.
The hand on her waist slid down to cup her bottom. He squeezed. The muscles along her inner walls spasmed with a need she’d never known to this intensity.
She’d been tempted to make love before, but never to the point of overcoming the promise she’d made to herself never to have sex—only to ever make love. In her mind, that had always meant being married and irrevocably committed to the man she shared her body with.
For the first time, she considered it could well mean giving her body to someone she loved.
Not that she loved Demyan. How could she? They barely knew each other.
The feelings inside her had to be lust, but they were stronger than anything she’d ever considered possible.
He kneaded her backside with a sensual assurance she could not hope to show. She tilted her pelvis toward him, needing something she wasn’t ready to give a name to. Her hip brushed the unmistakable proof of his excitement; they moaned into one another’s mouths, the sounds adding to the press of desire between them.
The knowledge he wanted her, too, poured through her like gasoline on the fire of her desire.
Her hands clutched at his crisp dress shirt as she rocked against him, wanting more, needing something only he could give her. He rocked back against her, the sounds coming from him too feral and sexy for the “normal corporate guy” he was on the outside.
The disparity so matched her own