Little Red Writing by Lila DiPasqua Read Free Book Online Page A

her on such a carnal level. Especially since she’d been so dead inside for so long.
    Nicolas moved behind her. She felt his unmistakable erection against her bottom. Briefly, she closed her eyes. The light pulsing between her legs had just turned into a hungry throb.
    He slid his arms forward, brushing along the sides of her waist, and opened the book in her hands. Flipping a few pages, he then murmured against her ear, “Read this one.”
    He removed his arms but the sensations remained in the wake of his touch.
    Anne scanned her verses, quickly realizing he’d selected one of the most provocative, amorously suggestive poems in the book. She’d forgotten just how passionate her words were. Emotional and physical yearnings were in every line.
    She felt a twinge of sadness as she realized how much she’d changed, dismayed that she was revisiting old wounds—thanks to Nicolas. Her intuition told her he’d read some of her work and selected this very evocative poem intentionally. A purposeful strike at her pathetic weakened state. He might be a master of seduction, but she would not be played.
    But you want this  . . . She shoved the thought away, trying to mute her base needs.
    It was time to put an end to this. She’d tried being polite. She’d tried keeping a distance. She’d even tried diverting his attention to keep him otherwise occupied by sending him his grandmother’s books. All to no avail.
    He might be her patroness’s grandson but he was overstepping his bounds and she was going to rein him in.
    Anne shut the book, tossed it onto the desk and spun around to face him. “I know what you’re trying to do.” Her tone was firm, yet her ire hadn’t diminished her fever.
    His face was unreadable, giving nothing away. “Oh? What am I trying to do?”
    Jamming her fists into her hips, she rose onto the balls of her feet so that she was closer to eye level when she responded, “Bed me!”
    One dark brow rose, then his lips twitched as he held back a smile. He leaned in so that his mouth was mere inches from hers. “I know what you’re trying to do, Anne. Avoid me.” His warm breath made her lips tingle. “You’re afraid.”
    She dropped back down onto her heels. “Afraid? Of you? You jest.”
    “No, not of me. Of you. You want me and it frightens you. Admit it.”
    She gave a mirthless laugh. “Good Lord, you are conceited.”
    A slow knee-weakening smile spread across his mouth. “No. Just observant. Your body betrays you,” he said with far too much smugness.
    She hated it that he was right. Her body was betraying her. This tormenting need and the moisture between her legs were the last things she wanted.
    No, the last thing you want is for him to “know” that you desire him .
    “If it’s bed sport you seek, I suggest you look elsewhere. I am not looking for a lover.” Her body railed at her words.
    “Why not? Do you already have one?”
    “That’s none of your concern.”
    “I’ll assume that means no .” He shook his head. “I am amazed.”
    “At what?”
    “That such a beautiful woman has a cold empty bed, and no one to fulfill the carnal yearnings her body craves”—her sex contracted, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through her—“especially when it is obvious that she’s so naturally drawn to sexual pleasures. I’ve read some of your work, Anne,” he said. “Those poems were written by a woman of passion.”
    “I told you, I wrote those poems a long time ago. I’m not the same woman.”
    “Yes, you are. Now that the mask of propriety has dropped, the real Anne de Vignon finally appears. Spirited and fiery—just as your writing suggests. At last I get to see the real you.”
    “And why do you care to see the real me ?” No one had ever expressed such an interest. Certainly no man. And only after Roland had left had she finally seen that he didn’t care to know her either. “Why would it matter to you who I am?”
    He brushed a lock of her hair behind her