Free Turbulent Sea by Christine Feehan

with him there was more—the need to dominate, to enforce his will on her, because in the end, he had to take control back.
    When you're up on that stage and you're working the audience, all I can think about is slamming you against the wall and burying myself in you over and over, so deep they'll never get us apart . Deliberately he drawled each word, low and sexy, the smoldering heat slipping inside her until he saw the change on her face.
    His breath strangled in his lungs as her expression turned even more sultry, the pouring out of her voice passionate, her lips a sinful invitation, her body moving with a natural sexiness that couldn't be hidden, and her eyes, heavy lidded, almost drowsy, bedroom eyes, promising paradise when a man sank his body into the soft silky heat of hers.
    Stop it.
    She hadn't even missed a beat, gliding across the stage, moving under the lights, which could only mean she wasn't nearly as far gone as he was. Damn her. He was crawling out of his skin. She shook him on such an elemental, primitive level that he knew he'd never get over her. There was no walking away. No being sated by her soft, sexy body. He would never be free of her. If any other man approached her with the same possessive obsession, he'd mark him as a stalker and end him as soon as it could be arranged, yet even with knowing that his need of her wasn't normal, he knew he was taking her for himself—because whatever he felt—she was feeling it, too.
    He saw her gaze slide through the first few rows as if looking for someone—not him. Never him. Jealously was a black, empty emotion that threatened to choke the sense out of men. Who was she looking for? Her gaze touched on the man in the third row and moved on. Ilya understood she was looking for a specific person. A man?
    She'd been angry enough at him last night, but he would have known if she'd turned to another man. He'd left her alone all night because he'd wanted so badly to reach out and touch her mind with his. And he'd be damned if he'd give in to that kind of obsession. He was going to be in control one way or the other. The problem was, he'd lain awake all night, his body so painful, tight and hard he knew he couldn't let things continue this way.
    He slid his mind intimately into hers, once more allowing her to feel the depth of his sexual appetite for her. Her gaze jumped to his, her face flushed. He could see the rise and fall of her soft, full breasts beneath the tight shirt she wore.
    Up onstage, Joley knew she sounded as desperate as she felt. Her entire body was on fire. She detested letting him know he was getting to her, but if he didn't stop the audience was going to witness spontaneous combustion.
    I'm working.
    Is that what you call it? Working? You're shaking your sexy little ass in front of that idiot, third seat from the middle, and he's nearly comatose. If you do it again, he'll do something stupid like run up onstage to grab you and then I'll have to kill the poor bastard and you'll be angry with me.
    You can't talk to me now. I mean it . If he'd wanted to talk, he should have done it all through the long night when she couldn't sleep, when she'd lain awake on her bed waiting to hear his voice.
    Her breasts ached and her nipples were hard pebbles rubbing against the lace of her bra with every movement of her body. She was on fire, throbbing and pulsing with hot desire. He did that to her with just his voice. A look from his eyes. A touch. He could reduce to her to pure physical need. If he wasn't all the things whispered, rumored about him, he still was a dangerous man. She could lose herself in him. There was a part of her that craved his arrogance, his domination, his complete confidence and power.
    Onstage she owned the world—she had the power, but with his voice in her head, he slowly took it from her.
    Stop fighting me.
    She closed her eyes, wanting him. Craving him. I can't let you win. You know I can't, Ilya. You'd take everything from me .