Devil's Mistress by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

had given her every opportunity to leave his chamber.
    He smiled grimly at the glazed fury in her eyes as she struggled against him. “Mistress,” he said softly, “the damage is done.”
    “No,” she denied with a shake of her head; and yet the fury left her eyes and pain replaced it. He eased his hold upon her and gently soothed her hair.
    “Shhh …” he murmured to her, able to pause only a minute, but gaining control again. “I will be gentle, Brianna. He moved against her slowly, fluidly. She clasped her arms around him as he held her still beneath him, her teeth grazing into the muscle of his shoulder, her nails lightly raking his back. He felt the tenseness that had seized her slowly begin to ebb, and he whispered to her, promising the pain would go away, that the rapture would come again.
    And his strokes within her were velvet and smooth. He was right; the pain did begin to ebb. But when it had come, it had been a slap in the face. It had reminded her what she had done. Where she was. What she had lost.
    “Brianna …” His voice was a whisper of air. A husky sound that touched inside her again. As the pain faded away, the fire began to lap at her again. And suddenly she realized that his thrusts were deep within her again, steel and fire.
    The smoldering fire became a flame. The flame rose surely to a blaze. And she was holding him, fusing with him. Arching with a hunger all her own. He took her with him, and they were flying.
    Then everything ebbed except for blinding sensation. She was gasping for breath, half sobbing as she clung to him, arching, emitting a strangled cry—an echo of the shattering ecstasy that convulsed her body, flooding it with the most wonderful, volatile, delightful sensation she had ever known. For long moments the feeling held her in wonder, and then it slowly began to fade. All that was left was the comfort of the man who held her through it, smoothing her hair, his steel power cooling but losing no strength.
    She was alone, naked in bed, with a stranger.
    Brianna choked back a cry of pain and fury and twisted from him, stunned and so miserable that she was almost numb. She knew that he was watching, that she was risking his fury—and her own expulsion. She felt so coldly wretched that she couldn’t care.
    Sloan was watching her. He made no move to touch her, but frowned as he observed her slender shoulders, moist with the dampness of their passion, tremble with emotion.
    Why had she come to him, he wondered—irritated and confused. He finally reached out to touch her shaking shoulder. “Don’t!” she demanded in a low, cold voice.
    Stunned, Sloan felt his anger grow along with the deathly silence that seemed to fill the room. Perplexed, and thoroughly annoyed, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair.
    A shout, clear and thunderous, rose from outside the window again. Heedless of his nudity, Sloan stalked over to the shutters.
    “That damned Matthews,” he muttered beneath his breath. “It’s a pity the devil doesn’t rise up in a wall of flame and consume him.”
    Sloan heard the sharp intake of her breath and turned back to the bed. She was staring at him now—and her face had gone as white as the sheets she had drawn about her.
    He frowned curiously, then added, “I believe he’s gone.”
    She relaxed visibly; a small, soft sigh escaped her.
    Sloan’s sharp gaze narrowed reflectively. He crossed his arms over his chest and strode back to the bed as she watched him warily, her blue eyes wide with alarm at the speculation in his stare and cynical, knowing half-grin.
    “You’re the witch,” he breathed.
    “I’m not a witch!” she protested desperately.
    “Oh, you are a witch!” he laughed, “but not the type Matthews is hoping to burn. Are you?”
    If possible, her face went whiter.
    “Brianna,” he persisted, the teasing smile leaving his face. “Are you the woman Matthews is out there searching for?”
    She