Katrakis's Last Mistress by Caitlin Crews Read Free Book Online

ahead of us, I am certain that you will find me an avid pupil of all things mistress-related.”
    “This is not meant to be an apprenticeship, Tristanne. I am no teacher, and I do not require a student.” His dark gaze made her feel heated, restless. She thought again of mythical creatures, fairy tales. Larger than life and twice as terrifying, that was Nikos Katrakis. Just as she had dreamed long ago.
    And now she was entirely within his power.
    “My apologies,” she said, her voice huskier than she intended. “What would you like me to do?”
    “First things first,” he said, his voice and gaze mocking her—daring her. “Why don’t you greet me properly?” He indicated his lap with the faintest hint of a smile. “Come here.”
    She looked terrified—or appalled—for the barest moment, but then schooled her features with the same ruthlessness that he had seen her employ several times already. Nikos nearly laughed out loud.
    Tristanne Barbery, he was certain, had about as much interest in becoming his mistress as she did in swimming across the width of the Ionian Sea with an anchor tied around her neck. And yet she rose from her seat with that quiet grace that he found uncomfortably captivating, and moved to settle herself in his lap. Somehow, she managed to do it gracefully, politely, as if seating herself on a man’s lap was as decorous an activity as, say, needlepoint.
    But that didn’t change his body’s immediate reaction, and his body was under no illusions—no matter how distant and polite she might wish to act, Nikos wanted her in every indecorousmanner he could imagine. And his imagination was extraordinarily vivid.
    He put his arms around her, holding her close, letting himself feel the suppleness of her skin beneath his hands and the soft cotton blouse she wore, that covered far too much of her body. He felt himself harden, instantly aroused and ready for her. It did not help that he knew exactly how soft, how hot, she would be for him. How uninhibited in passion. He let his head drop close to hers, and took a deep breath to keep himself from taking her where they sat.
    It was not time. Not yet. This was about revenge, not merely sex. He did not understand why he had to keep reminding himself of that.
    She wore the same sweet and spicy scent as the day before, inflaming his senses, just as she had yesterday. Her hair smelled of apples and musk, and something far more intoxicating that he suspected was all Tristanne. He dug his fingers into the sleek knot of her chignon, destroying it and its appearance of refinement, and sent her heavy mass of hair cascading down her back, enveloping them both in the scent and warmth of the dark blonde waves.
    She did not say a word. She only gazed at him, her chocolate eyes shuttered; wary. She shifted against his thighs, as if nervous, moving against his arousal and then away from it, though she had little room to maneuver. She let her palms rest gingerly on the width of his shoulders, as if she was afraid to touch him.
    “Much better,” he said. Their faces were so close together. He could lean forward and press his mouth to the elegant column of her throat, taste that strong, determined chin. “No man likes to see his mistress looking so civilized. It borders on insult.”
    “I will endeavor in future to look as disreputable as possible,” she said crisply. But he could feel her against him, not so restrained, her thighs restless against his. “Shall I makecertain to keep my hair in a great tangle? Is that what you require?”
    “That would be a good start,” he said, keeping his voice serious, though he wanted to laugh. He could see the color, high and hectic, that stained her marvelous cheekbones and added a frantic sheen to her eyes, though she still held herself so rigidly against him. “But you must also do something about your clothes.”
    “My clothes?” she asked, stung. Her gaze narrowed on his. “What is the matter with my