French Silk(22)

Yasmine's skin was slick with sweat. It gleamed, reflecting the glow of the bedside lamp like polished bronze, except that none had ever been sculpted as exquisitely as she.

She rose above Congressman Alister Petrie's limp, spent body and with adoration gazed down into his flushed face. "Not bad, sugar," she whispered as she brushed an affectionate kiss across his lips. "You found my G-spot."

Keeping his eyes closed, he chuckled. "Get off me, you insatiable bitch, and pour me a drink."

Yasmine gracefully left the bed and moved to the dresser where earlier she'd arranged a bottle of his favorite brand of scotch, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. Articles of clothing were strewn on furniture and across the carpeting. She was attired only in a pair of large gold earrings that brushed her smooth shoulders whenever she moved her head.

Their love play had begun the moment he'd entered the hotel suite. During a lengthy, tongue-twining kiss, she had guided his hand beneath her skirt, pressing it between her open thighs. "You know what to do, baby. Make me crazy."

"You mean this?" His fingers separated the moist flesh and slipped inside her. "Lucky for you your customers wear your merchandise," he whispered as he stroked her. "What if everybody decided to go without underwear?"

"Everybody would have a lot more fun."

They eagerly shed their clothes without compromising the carnality of the kiss or his manual stimulation. Naked, they fell onto the bed, a tangle of brown and white limbs.

Now, Yasmine mixed his drink while watching him in the mirror. She always loved him best immediately after making love, when his sandy hair was uncharacteristically mussed and his lips were soft and relaxed. They were almost identical in height, but he had more physical stamina than his lean, compact physique indicated. The sheen of perspiration on his smooth chest reminded her of how vigorously he made love, and she felt another tingle of expectation between her thighs.

He stacked the pillows behind his back and sat up against the headboard. Returning to the bed with his drink, she stirred it with her index finger, then ran it across his lips. "How is it?"

He sucked her fingertip. "I taste you," he said huskily. "And me. Delicious. Perfect."

Smiling with pleasure, Yasmine handed him the highball and lay down curled against his side. He kissed her forehead. "You do everything perfect, Yasmine. You are perfect."

"No shit?" Snuggling closer, she applied her mouth to his nipple and damply agitated it with her tongue.

"No shit," he moaned.

"I'd make you a perfect wife."

His reaction was abrupt and negative. He stiffened, and not with heightened desire. "Don't spoil our time together, Yasmine," he urged softly. "These hours are so hard to come by. So precious to me. Don't spoil them by bringing up a topic that makes us both unhappy."

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "It doesn't make me unhappy to think about becoming Mrs. Mister Petrie."

"That's not what I meant. You know what I meant."

"I think about it all the time. It's what I want more than anything in the world," she said fiercely. Tears formed in her eyes and shimmered in the soft light.

"Me too, darling." He set his drink on the nightstand and turned onto his side to face her. "You're so beautiful." His hand glided over her breast. Her nipples were only slightly darker than her skin and very responsive. He bent down and kissed one, raising it with gentle plucking motions of his lips.

"Am I a fool to love you?" she asked.

"I'm the fool."

"Do you ever intend to leave her?"

"Soon, Yasmine, soon. You've got to trust me to choose the right time. This is a difficult situation. It's going to take a lot of finesse to escape it without someone getting hurt, namely you."

They had met a year earlier in Washington, D.C., at a black-tie reception in an African nation's embassy. Yasmine had been invited because she was reputed to have roots in that country. The story had been fabricated by some unknown source, but her agent had liked it and kept it alive for publicity purposes. It certainly had more romance and intrigue than the truth—that her family had lived in Harlem for four generations.

Resplendent in a gold lamé dress, she had been introduced to the handsome young congressman by one of his colleagues. For several minutes Alister had been tongue-tied, but her laughs and gentle teasing soon put him at ease. They ignored everyone else at the reception, eventually left together in a limo provided for her, and concluded the evening in bed in a suburban motel.

It wasn't until the following morning that he confessed to having a wife and children at home in New Orleans. The passion that Yasmine had exhibited in bed hadn't prepared him for the passion of her unleashed fury. She had railed at him, called him scandalously filthy names, and threatened him with voodoo curses that would shrivel his manhood and render it useless.

"You f*ck 'em and forget 'em, is that it, Congressman? Well, sugar, you're not dealing with any ordinary dumb chick here. I'm Yasmine. Nobody screws me over and gets away with it."

Once he had calmed her down, he explained the sad state of affairs. "My and my wife's families were friends. Belle and I grew up together."

"Big f*ckin' deal."

"Please, Yasmine. Hear me out. You don't understand our society down there."