‘Imogen.’ He captured the back of her head in his free hand, delving his fingers into the soft luxury of her hair.
Memory hit—of those dark, silky waves slithering over them both as they’d lain naked in bed. Of him tugging gently on her hair so she arched her neck back, exposing her creamy throat to his mouth. Of the taste of her, sweet and addictive.
Fire ignited in his groin and his fingers tightened.
She could break his hold. All she had to do was step back, or tell him to let go.
The voice of reason urged him to do just that. Not to complicate an already fraught situation.
But he didn’t.
He stood, looking down, watching a delicate flush steal across her cheeks, turning pallor to peaches-and-cream loveliness. And still she stood, watching him through narrowed eyes, her long dark lashes veiling her expression. She was a contradiction, a conundrum. Vulnerable yet unwavering, alluring and intriguing, a mystery to be solved.
Her lips parted, and he leaned closer, needing to taste. It had been too long.
His lips touched hers, and he realised he’d made a serious error of judgement when sensation exploded, tightening his limbs, his belly, his grip on her. His mouth moved with purpose now. Not for a whisper-soft taste, but with a ravening hunger that hadn’t been assuaged since the day Imogen had left Paris.
She tasted so sweet. Lush, feminine and delicious. The scent of her intoxicated him and he bowed her back, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, shocked at how the familiar taste of her blasted at his control. A tremor passed through him, a huge, curling wave of hunger and exultation as she kissed him back, just as ravenous as he.
Her free hand slid up his chest to cup the back of his neck, fingers tight as if defying him to break away. He felt another detonation inside him, her touch, her need, triggering his to even greater heights.
Imogen made a low humming sound in the back of her throat that sent him crazy. From the first he’d lusted after her enthusiasm, her passion. He needed it now. How had he gone so long without it? She was sweet rain after drought, ambrosia after starvation.
Thierry released her hand and wrapped an arm around her, hauling her in to him so she cushioned his burgeoning arousal with her soft belly.
Her belly.
His baby.
Realisation slammed into him. Tension crawled along his limbs to grab his neck and shoulders. A new sort of tension that had nothing to do with sex.
He dragged his mouth free, hauling in air.
Hectic colour scored her cheeks and throat, and her lips were red from his kisses. Her eyelids fluttered as if reluctant to open.
He wanted to grind himself against her, strip her clothes away and lose himself in her welcoming body.
The body that cradled a fragile new life.
The body of a woman who for some reason feared this pregnancy like a physical threat.
What was he thinking?
He wasn’t thinking. He was doing what he’d always done—indulging in whatever pleasure beckoned.
Abruptly, he straightened, his hands dropping, engulfed in horror at his lack of control. You’d think that in his thirties he’d have conquered the impulse to act rashly.
But one touch, one taste of Imogen, and thought fled.
He stared into dazed eyes that glowed green and honey-brown and knew he teetered on the edge of control.
Deliberately, he stepped back, his movements stiff and reluctant, forcing his brain to function. There was more he needed to understand. Much more.
‘Are you going to tell me the truth now?’
* * *
‘The truth?’ The words sounded like a foreign language. Imogen stared at that firm mouth, the sensuous bottom lip, the taut line it formed when he stopped speaking. ‘What do you mean?’
It was all she could do not to sway as she stood, bereft of his touch, still feeling his body imprinted on hers. She bit her lip, silencing the futile plea that he gather her close again.
She wanted Thierry. Wanted the comfort of him holding her, the taste of him—cognac and that bitter-chocolate tang that was unique to Thierry. She wanted to be naked with him, losing herself to ecstasy.
But he looked distant, even standing so near. His eyes were unreadable, his face taut, prouder, harder than she remembered it. Suspicious.
‘What don’t you want me to know? You’re not telling me the truth.’
Imogen jerked back an unsteady step. Her heart thumped harder. ‘I know the pregnancy is a surprise, but it’s real. You heard the doctor.’ Pride came to her aid, stiffening her backbone. ‘Or is it the idea you’re the father that you doubt?’
Had she really believed he’d take her word it was his? She pulled her arms across her chest, holding in the welling hurt.