He suddenly moved his free hand, cupping her entire sex through her jeans. He pressed. Francesca whimpered helplessly.
“No,” he rasped, as if arguing with himself. His dark head dipped again to her breast. “I’ll take what’s mine.”
Part II
Because I Could Not Resist
Chapter Three
Francesca had intuited that it would be a bad idea to associate with the likes of Ian Noble. She’d known she was way out of her depth every time he looked at her with that enigmatic gleam in his cobalt-blue eyes. Hadn’t he even warned her in his subtle manner that he was dangerous?
Now here was proof of it: nearly two hundred pounds of prime, aroused male flesh pressing her against the wall. He was consuming her like she was his last meal.
He plumped her breast farther into his hand, serving her flesh to his marauding mouth. He tugged on her nipple again, causing a sweet, sharp suction. Francesca gasped, her head banging against the wall as arousal stabbed at her sex, the strength of her reaction unprecedented. His hand at the juncture of her thighs pressed, alleviating her ache . . . mounting it.
“Ian,” she said shakily.
He lifted his dark head a few inches and stared at her breast. The glistening nipple was reddened, the center nubbin elongated and stiff from his ravening mouth and laving tongue. His body tautened; his cock lurched against her belly. He gave a rough growl of male satisfaction at the sight.
“I’d have to be a fucking robot not to want that,” he said in a low, savage tone. She whimpered in raw lust and bewilderment. The slightly lost expression mingling with his scoring stare caused something to stir deep inside her spirit. Who was this man? She hated the war she sensed in him. She put her hand on the back of his head, furrowing her fingers through his hair. It was every bit as silky and thick as it looked. His gaze flashed up at her. She pushed his head toward her breast.
“It’s all right, Ian.”
His nostrils flared. “It’s not all right. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know what I’m feeling,” she whispered. “Who better?”
He shut his eyes briefly. Suddenly, she felt the tension break and he was kissing her mouth again, flexing his hips, pressing his erection into her soft, harboring flesh. Francesca clutched at his head, feeling herself drowning in the essence of him. Through an intoxicating haze of rising lust, she heard distant footsteps.
“Oh. There you are . . . excuse me.” The footsteps began to retreat.
Ian lifted his head, and she was pinned by his stare. He shifted his body, making sure her bare breast was blocked from view before pulling her loosened hoodie over her exposed flesh.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Ian uttered sharply. She glanced around, confused by the question uttered in French, which she didn’t speak.
The footsteps paused. “Je suis désolé. Your cell phone won’t stop ringing in the locker room. Whatever Lin wants to talk to you about seems really important.”
She recognized Lucien’s French-accented voice. It sounded muffled, as if he spoke with his back to them. Ian’s stare bore down on her. She sensed the moment when he withdrew. His body still pressed against her, hard and aroused, but a door in his eyes seemed to slam shut.
“I should have called her earlier. It was rude of me. Remiss,” Ian said, his gaze never leaving Francesca’s face.
The footsteps resumed, and she heard a door slam. He pushed himself off her.
“Ian?” she asked weakly. She felt strange, like her muscles no longer knew their purpose, as if the weight and strength of Ian’s body had been the only thing keeping her upright. Her hand slapped against the wall in an abrupt attempt to right her world. His arm thrust forward. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her. His gaze ran over her face.
“Francesca? Are you all right?” he asked sharply.
She blinked and nodded. He’d sounded almost angry.
“I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean for it to,” he said in a stark tone.
“Oh,” she said stupidly, her mind reeling. “Does that mean it’s not going to happen again?”
His expression flattened. What in the world was he thinking? she wondered, mentally flailing.
“You never told me before. The men that you live with—do you sleep with one of them? All of them?”
Her brain stalled.
“What? Why would you ask me something like that? Of course I don’t sleep with them. They’re my roommates. My friends.”
His narrowed gaze lowered over her face and chest. “You expect me to believe that? Three males live in the same house with you, and the whole thing is completely platonic?”
Anger streamed into her lust-dazed consciousness. Then it began to roar like a tidal wave. Was he purposefully trying to insult her? It was working. What an infuriating bastard. How dare he say something like that to her so coolly after what he’d just done?
(After what she’d allowed him to do?)
She stepped away from the wall, pausing several feet away from him. “You asked, and I told you the truth. I don’t care what you believe. My sex life is none of your business.”
She began to walk away.
“Francesca.”
She paused but refused to turn around. Humiliation had started to brew with her anger. If she looked at his gorgeous, smug face, she might explode.
“I only asked because I was trying to understand how . . . experienced you are.”
She whipped around and stared at him in amazement. “Is that important for you? Experience?” she asked, wishing the stab of hurt she’d felt at his words hadn’t rung in her voice.