The Married Mistress by Kate Walker

exercise.’
    ‘I like it…’
    She more than liked it. He felt wonderful. He even smelt wonderful, the intensely personal scent of his skin intoxicating her senses in the way that no alcoholic drink, however potent, could ever manage. He felt leaner and harder and more powerful than ever before and it was strangely shocking to have such a fiercely masculine creature standing still and submissive under her lightest touch.
    Almost submissive.
    She couldn’t deceive herself that he was actually under her control in any way. He was letting her do what she wanted with him right now because it suited him, and only for that reason. If he changed his mind, grew impatient, decided enough was enough, then she would stand as little chance against him as a buzzing fly that he would flick away with arrogant ease.
    And it seemed that his patience was fraying, wearing thin.
    Her ears, sharpened into acute sensitivity by the burning awareness of everything about him, caught the tiny hiss of a rawly indrawn breath as her wandering fingers drifted lower. She saw the quiver of his tanned flesh, the twitch of long, strong fingers and instinctively tensed in wary apprehension, green eyes locking with burning jet-black.
    ‘Losing your nerve, darling?’ he questioned huskily.
    ‘Never…’ she managed, though there was a disturbingly revealing tremble in the word.
    His unwavering gaze challenged her to continue and, stillwith her eyes fixed on his, she let her fingers move again, tracing soft, curving patterns over his skin, drifting across his chest, down—
    ‘Enough!’
    A hard hand snapped out, clamped over hers, stilling the teasing caresses in an instant.
    ‘Enough,’ he said again. ‘It’s my turn now.’
    The hungry possessiveness in his tone turned her bones to water and she had to stumble backwards, sinking weakly onto the bed before she fell. The view she had from this position, of Damon’s lean, muscled waist, the wide leather belt around his waist, the close-fitting jeans where the swollen force of his erection pushed at the taut fabric, did nothing at all to help her regain any sort of composure.
    ‘Or, rather,’ Damon went on, ‘it’s your turn.’
    ‘My…?’
    With an effort she dragged her gaze from the stretch of blue denim straight in front of her and looked up. And immediately wished she hadn’t.
    Standing above her like this, black eyes blazing down into hers, broad shoulders blocking out the light from the window, Damon seemed even bigger, stronger, more powerful, more male , than ever. And when his hands came down onto her shoulders it was all she could do not to flinch away in apprehension.
    But all he did was to tug gently at the pale green linen of her shirt, flicking the collar with one contemptuous finger.
    ‘Now you’re the one who is wearing too many clothes. This will have to go.’
    For all the softness in his words, it was clearly a command; one he intended to have obeyed. And Sarah didn’t have the strength or the will to oppose him. Instead, she lifted her hands like someone in a dream, her eyes still fixed on his, and dealt unseeingly with the one remaining buttonwhich was all that held the blouse together at the neck. Then slowly, with a natural grace, she let the fine material drop, slithering down the length of her arms to lie in a soft, crumpled pool behind her on the bed.
    Damon stayed as still as a marble statue, watching her through hooded eyes. She could feel the burn of his stare on her exposed skin; see the glitter of desire through the lush black lashes.
    ‘Good…’ he said at last, drawing in one long, deep breath and expelling it on a sigh, ‘for a start… And what about the rest?’
    The movement to reach the back fastening of her bra arched her spine, pushing her chest forward, making gold flames flare in the darkness of his gaze. But when she would have slipped the lacy straps down from her shoulders he moved suddenly, his hands coming out again to stop