Anew: Book One: Awakened (8 page)

I’m sufficiently well versed in
full contact martial arts and lethal hand-to-hand combat to have at least some
understanding of what it takes to get a human body to move with such discipline
and agility. Yet she makes that appear effortless. When she comes out of the
last spin, her eyes are wide with discovery and she is smiling.

Guided by an inner rhythm that I
can’t hear, she moves into another series of steps, supporting herself on one
leg while the other rises straight from her hip, extending over her head, and
down again, two quick steps and the other leg rises in the same lithe, elegant
motion that appears to defy gravity. Watching her, I notice for the first time
that she is dancing
en pointe
, all of her weight resting on the tips of
her toe shoes.

Even as I’m marveling at how she
is able to do that, she gathers herself, takes several quick gliding steps and
leaps into the air. Her torso and arms are flawlessly poised, her legs extended
in a perfect split. She sails an impossibly great height above the floor and a
similar distance across it in seeming defiance of gravity.

Returning to earth as lightly as
thistledown, she looks exhilarated but a moment later, her face contorts in
pain and she suddenly crumbles. To my horrified eyes, she resembles a wounded
bird torn from the sky.

I’m at her side instantly,
gathering her into my arms. “What’s wrong? Tell me!”

To my great relief, she doesn’t
question my presence but says only, “My leg…cramp--
aaaah
!” Her hand
flutters to her right calf where I can see muscles contracting in what must be
agonizing spasms.

Her pain stabs through me.
Between yesterday’s flight into the wilderness, the long hours at the piano and
now this, she’s pushed herself too far too fast. Worse yet, I let her do it.

Through gritted teeth, I tell
her, “Just because you know how to do something doesn’t mean that your body is
prepared to do it.”

To my horror, her eyes fill with
tears. She blinks them away but not before I realize how exhausted and
vulnerable she is. Cursing under my breath, I stretch her leg out and begin to
carefully massage the tightened muscles. For several long moments, she remains
tense with pain but gradually her discomfort begins to ease.

When I’m sure that the spasms
have stopped, I look her over carefully. She’s pale
and there are dark shadows under her eyes. I blame myself for giving in to her
need to know herself at the expense of her physical well-being.

“Did you sleep at all last
night?” I ask.

“A few hours.” She looks away
from me. “I’m fine. You can let me go now.” With perfect if misplaced courtesy,
she says, “Thank you for your help.”

I scarcely hear her. So little
separates us skin from skin that I can feel the rapid rise and fall of her
breathing. She twists slightly but toward, not away from me. The full curve of
her breast brushes against my arm.

Instantly, she stills but not
before I have to remind myself in the most forceful terms that she’s injured.
She needs care before and above anything else.

I stand, holding her in my arms,
and ignoring her murmur of surprise, carry her from the studio. The spa is a
short distance away along the arcade. As we enter, the air fills with the
scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Diffuse lighting glows softly. Water
splashes down a wall opposite the entrance. I’ve always stuck to the gym but
right now I’m glad that the spa exists.

“You’ve been pushing yourself
too hard,” I say, aware that my voice is suddenly thick. “Let’s undo the
damage.”

At the far end of the spa is an
area overlooking a secluded garden shielded from the rest of the palazzo by a
high stone wall. The glass panels separating the interior from the garden are
closed but on warmer days they can pivot to create a very private outdoor
retreat. At the center of it is a large tub that is filling as we approach. Steam
rises from the water frothing from dozens of whirlpool jets.

My thought is that a good long
soak should ease her cramped muscles but before I get any closer, Amelia
stiffens in my arms, her hands pushing against my chest.

“No!” she says. “Not there!”

She is suddenly, fiercely
resistant.

“Whoa! What’s wrong? It’s just a
whirlpool bath. It will make you feel better.”

“No!”

I gaze down at her, seeing her
luminous eyes filled with fear. She is so unexpected, so courageous, so
challenging… What could possibly frighten her like this?

I’m tempted to ask but I can
sense that she’s right on the knife edge of panic. This isn’t the time to push
her.

“All right. If you don’t want
that, it’s fine.”

She calms as I carry her away
from the whirlpool into a quiet, windowless area of the spa equipped with a
massage table and shelves filled with scented oils. At the touch of a button, a
sound system fills the air with the whisper of surf and the far off call of
gulls.

Amelia exhales in relief but her
eyes never leave me as I set her down on a padded bench. I kneel in front of
her and stroke my hands down along her calves to her ankles where I encounter
the silk bindings that hold her toe shoes in place.

My fingers linger on the taut
ribbons twined around her limbs before I recall what it is I’m supposed to be
doing. Untying them takes concentration but they finally give way, releasing
the shoes with them.

Looking up, I find her watching
me. Her eyes darken as I press my thumbs into the balls of her feet and rotate
them slowly, keeping at it until her toes curl and she makes a sound deep in
her throat.

Satisfied for the moment, I
stand and draw her up beside me.

Don’t give her any reason to
run.

 “I can leave you to undress,
Amelia, but I’d prefer to stay and help. It’s up to you.”

A tremor runs through her. Small
white teeth sink into her lower lip as she considers.

Staring at her, I inhale sharply
and cast around for something, anything to distract myself. Last season’s stats
for the “Patriots” who after a twenty-year drought finally managed to come back
and win Super Bowl XCII. Design specifications for my company’s next gen body
armor to protect soldiers and peace keepers in the field. Even the latest
P&L statements for a nanotech firm I’m considering acquiring.

On a whisper of sound, she says,
“Please stay.”

I close my eyes for a moment in
profound thanks for whatever quirk of the Universe has decided to favor me
today. When I open them again, her breathing is more ragged and her pupils are
dilating.

I don’t kid myself that I’m in
any better shape but I am determined. That first time with her, I lost all
control. That’s not going to happen again. Ever.

Slowly I slide the leotard from
her shoulders, remembering all too vividly how she looked on the balcony in the
rain. Her lush, exquisite breasts hold me mesmerized for a long moment. I move
on without touching them. Do that and there won’t be any massage.

At the tuck of her waist, I hook
my fingers under the top of her tights and pull them off as well but leave her
panties in place, partly to avoid alarming her, mostly to avoid seeing exactly
how much temptation I can resist. Kneeling again, I free first one foot, then
the other before tossing the garments aside.

“Lie down.” I gesture to the
table. “On your stomach.”

As she settles herself, I coat
my hands with oil scented with sage and ginger, warming it between my palms.
Her beautiful face is turned to one side, her eyes closed. Dark feathery lashes
fan across her pale cheek. A small furor of pain and tension lurks between her
brows. I’m determined that before I’m done, it and every other remnant of
stress in her will be well and thoroughly gone.

Beginning with her neck and
shoulders, I work the oil into her skin with long, slow strokes. Her muscles
are taut under my fingers and the heels of my hands. I wonder if she has been
this way ever since awakening, suspended in a state of bewilderment, confusion
and fear with inevitable physical consequences. My respect for her courage
redoubles.

When my hands reach the base of
her spine, I stop for a moment, step back, and study her. I can’t help myself.
She is quite simply perfection. Her long, slender back, the curve of her high
rounded ass, her slim, tapered legs all enthrall me.

I force myself to breathe in and
out slowly. My cock is so hard it’s painful but I almost welcome that,
determined as I am to prove to myself that I can keep control. That has never
been more important to me than at the moment when she stirs slightly, her
eyelids fluttering as though she is suddenly aware--and having second
thoughts--about what she is allowing.

Before that goes any further, I
glide my hands down the length of her legs with slow, circling motions,
concentrating on easing the muscles in her calves, along the back of her
thighs, and inward. I can feel the tension ebbing from her, replaced by
something else entirely. She is pliant under my hands when I stop.

Softly, I ask, “How’s that,
better?”

Amelia makes a faint,
inarticulate sound. Her delightful posterior rises a few inches off the table.

I repress a groan. She’s so
exquisitely responsive.

“Not quite yet?” I work my way
back up her legs, making sure that all the strain in them is gone before I
settle my palms firmly on the curve of her ass. Slowly, I squeeze, kneading,
letting my thumbs slip toward her cleft just barely covered by the rapidly
dampening silk of her panties.

“Ian...”
The little catch
in her voice coupled with her soft gasp do away with any thought I have of
being able to draw this out much further.

“It’s all right, baby, I’ve got
you.”

With my hands grasping both her
hips, I turn her over. She blinks up at me, surprised but, I’m relieved to see,
unresisting.

“Show me what you want,
sweetheart,” I urge.

This has to be for her, only for
her. I owe her that but I owe it to myself as well if I’m to have any hope of
holding onto the idea that I really can be a better man.

Her flush deepens and for a moment I think she can’t or
won’t comply. But she surprises me. My breath catches as slowly, hesitantly her
fingers begin to trace a path down her torso, below her naval to…

Amelia

M
y
fingers, brushing the lacy edge of my panties, feel scorched by flame.
What
am I doing?

What I desperately need to do. I
can tell myself that I was designed to submit to him and to please him. That
would absolve me of all responsibility if not for the inconvenient fact that he
asked my permission
. I
wanted him to stay.
I
wanted him to touch
me.
I
want us to--

I
,
Amelia,
my mind
flooded with impressions, experiences, and sensations from the moment I awoke.
Not to mention memories that are not supposed to exist. None of this is what
Susannah gave to me. It is my own, shaping the woman I am becoming.

Myself.

Even as I gaze up at Ian, my
body still resonating to his touch, I have to acknowledge how much I want him.
If I deny that simply for the sake of proving that I am capable of doing so,
I’m denying my own deepest yearning. In effect I’m faced with a conundrum--able
to prove that I possess my own will and am capable of making my own choices
only by rejecting both.

Under other circumstances, I
might find such a quandary intellectually challenging. At the moment, I have no
patience for it whatsoever.

Slowly, keeping my gaze locked
on his, I slip a finger just inside my panties. My lips press tightly together.
If he expects a more articulate invitation, I’m afraid we’re both going to be
disappointed.

He smiles. Not the wolf’s grin I
remember so well from the balcony but more open and unguarded, a glimpse of the
man I hope he really is. Still, the note of command in his voice is
unmistakable.

“Stretch your arms over your
head and keep them there.”

I do so with speed that deepens
his smile, then am forced to wait and watch as he slowly picks up the bottle of
fragrant oil and trickles a stream of it…

Aaaahh.

Drops of oil settle one by one
between my breasts, down my torso to my naval. Ian rubs more of it between his
hands, gives me a long look, and…

Ohmygod.

My hips rise off the table as
his palms cup my breasts, squeezing firmly, his thumbs rubbing over my hard,
sensitive nipples.

A low gurgle of dismay escapes
me when he stops. Again! His hand stretches across my abdomen, pressing me back
down.

“Be still,” he says.

I obey and he resumes the slow,
sensuous massage, moving along my body inch by inch, touching me everywhere
except where I need him most. Even my toes get his attention, each one
stretched and rolled between his fingers as sensations shoot from them directly
to my groin. My hips rise helplessly.

He shakes his head in what I
hope is mock dismay. “So disobedient. What shall we do about that?”

I’m desperate enough to at least
try to tell him. But before I can gather the breath to do so, he hooks a finger
around the narrow edge of my panties and drags them not down as I’d like but up
until they are drawn tightly, squeezed between the outer lips of my sex where
they apply exquisite pressure.

He pours more of the warm oil
directly onto the silk and with a fingertip traces the fabric stretched above
my clitoris. The friction is so intense that I all but come off the table.

“Ian…!”

He ignores my plea and continues
the sweet torment until I can do nothing but whimper. Only then does he finally
take hold of my panties where they rest against my hips and in a sudden, almost
harsh movement, jerks them off.

Before I can even begin to
react, he presses his hands against my inner thighs, spreading me wide.

“Like that,” he says, his voice
low and husky. “Stay just like that.”

I struggle to obey. His long,
too-skilled fingers begin to tease me intimately, pinching my labia together
before spreading them apart. He repeats the rhythm of constrict and release
until, when I think I can’t bear it any longer, he runs his oiled thumb and
forefinger along the inner sides of my sex.

I feel myself becoming hotter
and wetter with each passing moment. When he begins a slow, circular motion
with his thumb against my swollen clitoris, I stop breathing entirely. At the
same time, he thrusts his fingers into me, unerringly finding that
ultrasensitive spot I became so well acquainted with in the golden bed.

A moan breaks from me as he
increases the pace, his hand moving up and down rapidly, his eyes locked on
mine. Pleasure builds in me, higher and higher, teetering on the edge of
becoming exquisite pain.

I gasp, dragging in air, and cry
his name. “
Ian
!”

My orgasm is sudden, intense,
and merciless. In the throes of it, my entire body bows, the back of my head
and the flats of my feet pressing into the table. Even then, he doesn’t relent
but maintains the pressure, driving me on and on until finally, as tears seep
from the corners of my eyes, he gives in and at last lets me subside.

“My God,” he murmurs, gazing
down at me with scorching eyes. “You are so fucking hot.”

I am still shaking with the
intensity of my release when he lifts me from the massage table. My head
nestles into the curve of his shoulder and my eyes drift closed, only to open
again as he carries me into a room constructed entirely of dark polished stone.
Stands of tall ornamental ginger plants heavy with red spiky blossoms spice the
air.

He sets me down on a bench of
the same polished stone--onyx, I think--and quickly strips off his clothes. I
can’t take my eyes from him, although to be fair I don’t really try. He is the
personification of male beauty, broad in the shoulders, his torso tapering to
narrow hips and…

The grin he gives me assures
that I have no chance of recovering my composure. I can only go along meekly as
he guides me to a wide stone pillar in the center of the room. I have just
enough time to wonder what he intends. He wasn’t serious about my being
disobedient, was he?

At a flick of his hand, water
showers out over the top of the pillar and cascades down, running away into a
drain set in the floor.

“Better than the tub?” he asks
as he steps close beside me under the fall of hot, steaming water.

I manage to nod even as I marvel
that my body, so recently sated--or so I thought--can possibly be tightening
with need for him again so quickly. Yet it is, so much so that the muscles at
my core clench when he takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so that
I’m facing the pillar.

“Put your hands flat against the
stone and keep them there,” he orders.

I do as he says but reluctantly.
I want so much to touch him.

With greater care than he took
on the balcony, he takes the pins from my hair and lets it down. It brushes the
center of my back just above my waist and falls over my breasts.

His voice is husky as he says,
“Tip your head back, baby.”

When I’ve done so, soaking my
hair in the process, he says, “Close your eyes.”

Again, I obey and am enveloped
in the scent of honeysuckle and ginger shampoo being rubbed gently into my
scalp and through my hair. That this man who can be so intensely, even roughly
passionate is also capable of such tender care comes as a surprise. He does a
very thorough job of it, then follows up by rubbing body wash over every inch
of me. Every single aroused, yearning inch.

By the time I’m thoroughly
cleaned and rinsed, I can’t stay still any longer.

Turning, I face him and my eyes
widen. His state of arousal didn’t escape my notice when he undressed but
neither did I have much time to contemplate it. Now I can’t seem to do anything
else.

Before I can stop myself, I ask,
“Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

A low, surprised laugh breaks
from him. “Yes, but I might as well get used to it. This is how I am around
you.”

I’m not the only one swimming
against a current of carnal desire that threatens to carry me away?

Mimicking his own fondness for
issuing orders, I reach for the bottle of body wash. “Let me.”

He arches a brow in surprise but
doesn’t refuse. Even so, I can’t mistake the hot desire in his heavy-lidded
eyes that mingles with wariness as I slowly spread my hands across his chest. I
explore the powerful curve of his shoulders before brushing from the silky dark
hair shadowing his underarms down the sides of his chest to his hips and back
again.

By the time I pour more body
wash into my palms, his breathing is ragged.

Focusing entirely on the task I
have set myself, I move behind him to wash his back and buttocks, lingering for
a moment on the rock hard muscles there. He groans and reaches a hand to take
hold of me but I evade it and step in front of him again.

“Almost done,” I murmur and sink
to my knees.

His startled grunt delights me.
Slowly, with the same meticulous care that he gave me, I wash his feet and
legs. Long before I’m done, his erection is thrusting out from his groin,
demanding my attention.

Giving in at last to the
temptation I’ve felt from the first moment I saw him nude, I take both my
courage and the base of his penis in hand. The sensation almost undoes me. He’s
so smooth, so thick, so hard… I stroke along his length, finding the velvety
softness at the tip and catch a hot, silken drop of creamy fluid on my finger.

Obeying an urge I can’t resist,
I rise, step back just far enough so that my eyes meet his, and suck the tip of
my finger between my parted lips. He tastes salty and delicious, and I want
more.

But I’m not going to get it, at
least not right then. Ian closes his eyes for a moment as though he’s in pain.
When he opens them again, the sheer intensity of his hunger makes me gasp.

Before my courage can fail, I
turn and place my hands against the stone pillar, my legs spread and my
posterior thrust out at a most unladylike angle. His indrawn breath emboldens
me.

I turn, look over my shoulder at
him, and whisper a single word, “Please.”

What I see in his eyes almost,
but not quite, unravels me. I wanted to take the initiative and make it clear
that this is my choice. I can hardly complain about the outcome. Nor as it
turns out do I have any reason to do so. Ian grasps my hip with one hand and
with the other carefully inserts two fingers into me, circling the inner walls
of my vagina until I mewl in need.

He groans with relief. “Sweet
Amelia, so ready!”

A moment later, his fingers
withdraw. He positions himself, clasps both my hips, and in a single thrust
seats himself fully inside me. The shock of being so filled, so suddenly sends
an ecstatic shudder straight from my groin to the pleasure centers of my brain,
which seem in danger of imploding.

I can sense that he is teetering
right on the edge of losing control yet he still manages to hold on. Bending
low over me, his breath brushing the sensitive skin below my ear, he murmurs,
“All right?”

I manage a gurgle that I hope he
will take as agreement.

At once, he almost entirely
pulls out, then thrusts again and again, rapidly building to a pounding rhythm
that shatters my awareness of all else. The water falling over us, the smooth,
hard texture of the pillar under my hands, even the beating of my own heart
dwindle to insignificance.

There is only Ian, his power
claiming my own, our shared hunger, and the precipice of incandescent pleasure
to which he is driving us both.

I reach it almost too quickly, screaming his name as I do.
He joins me a moment later, his body arching over mine, his fingers splaying
over my abdomen, locking me against him. At the last instant, his hand grasps
my chin, turning me to him, and his lips find mine in a devouring,
soul-penetrating kiss that strips away all remaining barriers between us.

I fall into oblivion but I am not alone. Ian is there with
me, holding me, making me feel uniquely and perfectly safe.