Captive but Forbidden by Lynn Raye Harris Page A

him she didn’t usually sleep very well.
    Eventually, he fell into a light doze, his mind filled with thoughts of her—of the soft cries she’d made as he’d taken her, of the way her body opened to him, moved with him, the way she’d found her pleasure and cried out his name.
    Beneath the surface, he was troubled. Troubled because she’d trusted him. She’d flat-out told him earlier that she wanted someone who would love her, who would give her a family, and though he knew he wasn’t that man—couldn’t ever be that man—he’d accepted her trust and taken her body because he was too weak to say no.
    Because she’d gutted him with her trust and her need and he’d been powerless.
    A few hours later, in the dim light of dawn, he felt her stir. Her hand slipped along his chest, her fingers spreading wide, as if she were learning him by touch. Her mouth pressed against his skin, and his body hardened instantly.
    He should have gone back to his bed on the couch, but it was too late. He knew, even as her fingers found him, wrapped around him, that he was not pushing her away.
    He should, he definitely should—but he couldn’t. Instead, he lay there, let her stroke him, purr against his skin. He groaned her name when she climbed on top of him and took him inside her inch by slow inch.
    She was so warm, so wet, and he closed his eyes, let himself feel the pleasure of her fingers splayed against his chest as she rode him slowly, so slowly he thought he would die of anticipation.
    “Raj,” she said. “Oh, Raj.”
    Once more, she broke his control. He threaded his fingers in her hair, pulled her down to him, kissed herthoroughly, his tongue sliding against hers, his lips molding hers as she began to make little noises in her throat that drove him insane.
    He flipped her over, slid so deeply into her body that they both groaned with the pleasure.
    “Don’t stop,” she said, as if sensing that he was at war with himself. “Please don’t stop.”
    He didn’t. Not for a very long time.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    V ERONICA woke alone. Martine stood by the bed as usual, a maid and a breakfast tray close by. Veronica pushed herself upright, disappointment hollowing her stomach as she blinked in the bright morning light.
    She ran her hand over Raj’s side of the bed, came away cold. He’d been gone for a long time.
    Ridiculously, she thought of their fiction—which was no longer fiction, and yet her lover had left her. Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen with her after all.
    The thought made her head throb.
    Instead, she ate her breakfast, listened to Martine detail her morning appointments and took a shower. She dressed carefully in a bright pink cashmere sweater dress, deciding at the last minute to be a little naughty and pulling on tall, suede boots to complement it.
    Then she brushed her hair into a thick ponytail and went to face the day.
    She drew up short when she entered the living area to find Brady.
    And Raj, she realized. He stood by the window, looking all dark and broody and distant.
    “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her heart beginning to throb as Raj turned toward her. She couldn’ttell what he was thinking. His expression was hooded, his feelings a mystery to her.
    Part of her cried out in protest. How could he have made love to her the way he had and be so distant now? How could he not look at her with heat simmering in his eyes? She felt as if her feelings must be written all over her face, and yet he was as unreadable as stone.
    She shot a glance at Brady. He was oblivious to the undercurrents, thank God. He walked over and gave her a hug, then took her by the hand and led her to the couch.
    “You need to sit down, Veronica,” he said.
    The first prickles of alarm dotted her skin.
    “What’s going on?” Her gaze slewed from Brady to Raj.
    “I’m sorry, Veronica,” Raj said, his sexy voice so impartial and cool. Not at all the voice of the man who’d whispered in her ear last night. Who’d