The Ice Prince by Sandra Marton

softly.
    “Glowering, huh?”
    “Like a thundercloud.”
    “Well, I came here because I was angry.”
    “I know. I was, too.”
    “But then you opened the door and I saw you.”
    “All dressed up,” Anna said, fluttering her lashes. “That designer robe. My hair in my eyes. And you couldn’t resist me.”
    Draco grinned. Then his smile faded.
    “And I knew I’d been lying to myself. That I’d come because I wanted you. I was just too thickheaded to see it.”
    “Too proud, you mean.”
    “No,” he said quickly. Then he shrugged. “Maybe. Hell, not maybe. Yes. You’re right.” He kissed her, luxuriating in the sweetness of her mouth. “And you figured this out because …?”
    “Because I can be the same sometimes. Proud. And a little arrogant.” She sighed. “Which adds up to sometimes refusing to admit the truth to myself. See, you were supposed to be a chicken sandwich and a pot of tea.”
    “I am shocked,
bellissima,
” he said sternly, “shocked to learn that you were waiting for a chicken sandwich and not for me.”
    Anna laughed. “You aren’t my type at all, you know.”
    “Well, you aren’t mine. You’re too beautiful, too sexy, too—”
    “I’m serious.”
    She was. He could see it in her eyes.
    “Because?”
    “Because I’m not into arrogant, ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ guys.”
    “Me? Arrogant?”
    “You, Prince Valenti. Impossibly, egotistically arrogant.” Her voice fell to a husky whisper. “And overdressed.”
    “Over …?” Draco laughed. She was right. She lay naked beneath him, but he was still wearing all his clothes. “You’re right. But that’s an easy problem to solve.”
    He rose to his feet, toed off his mocs, stripped off his clothes, watched her eyes darken when she saw that he was hard and erect again.
    “Better now?” he said as he came down to her and gathered her in his arms.
    “Much better. Much, much …”
    He stopped her with a kiss. And then another kiss. He kissed his way down her throat, to her breasts, heard her breath catch as he sucked her nipples.
    “Draco,” she whispered, and he wrapped his fingers lightly around her wrists, lifted her hands to the bed’s headboard, to its pale oak latticework.
    “Hold on to that,” he said gruffly, and he grasped her thighs and spread them wide. He looked at her for long seconds and then he gave a soft groan. “Such a perfect flower,” he whispered, and he put his mouth to her and kissed her.
    Anna cried out and jerked against the kiss, against the stroke of his tongue, and he slipped his hands beneath her, lifted her to him, sucked the sweet pink bud until she moaned with pleasure.
    Yes,
he thought.
Yes.
This was why he had come here tonight …
    For her. For what she was, a woman with the heart and passion of a tigress.
    For what she was, not who she was.
    For her.
    “Anna,” he said, rising above her. “Anna,” he demanded, “look at me.”
    Her eyes, dark and filled with a woman’s mysteries, met his. When they did, he entered her. One long, hard thrust and he was deep inside her.
    Together they set a rhythm as urgent as their need. Anna, sobbing, moved with him, moaning, her arms and legs wrapped around him.
    “Draco,” she said, “Draco …”
    She felt her muscles begin to contract and she arched upward as she cried out.
    His groan of release seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
    She was weeping when he collapsed on top of her, tears of joy that he kissed away before rolling onto his back, taking her with him and holding her tightly against his heart.
    Anna slept.
    At least she thought she’d slept, because she opened her eyes and saw that the room was dark.
    Someone had shut off the light. Drawn up the duvet that had been left, folded, at the foot of the bed.
    No. Not “someone.” Draco. She was in his arms, draped over him, skin to skin, her face against his throat, her hand splayed over his chest.
    She could feel his heart beating slowly, steadily against