Anew: Book Three: Entwined (5 page)

“You do realize that there’s no
music?” he asks with a slight smile.

I breathe in deeply, inhaling the
scent of his skin, freshly washed cotton and denim, a slightly woodsy soap with
a hint of pine, and beneath it all, pure Ian, addictive to all my senses.

“You’re wrong,” I murmur.

He looks down at me with a faint
smile. His gaze is shuttered but I nonetheless catch a glimpse of the fire he
is struggling to conceal. It warms me to the center of my being.

“About what?” he asks.

My throat is tight with emotion.
All the fear and dread, my anger at him, my confusion over what’s happening
between us. I’m desperate for it to go away, if only for a little time.

“Music is all around us. It’s in the
wind, the water, the whispers of the night. It’s in us.”

“You’re a romantic,” he says
gently, as though that is something rare and precious.

I flush. “And you’re not? You fight
for a better world, Ian. That means you believe it’s at least possible. What’s
more romantic than that?”

His beautifully chiseled mouth
tightens. Almost harshly, he says, “Don’t make me out to be someone I’m not,
Amelia. I fight because the only alternative in this world is to submit. I had
a taste of that when I was younger. Never again.”

I’m relieved that he’s still willing
to speak of his past. We’ve held on to that much progress, at least. Even so, I
say, “That’s fine as long as you don’t end up fighting against yourself.”

He starts to respond but thinks
better of it. Instead, he draws me closer. Moving as one with him, the sides of
the sarong have drifted open. As sensitized as I am by his nearness, even the
soft cotton of his T-shirt feels rough against the bare skin of my abdomen and
the underside of my breasts.

“I should have gone with chain
mail,” he murmurs, “instead of this flimsy thing.”

I smile against the broad curve of
his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to really regret choosing the sarongs, not
judging by the movement of his hand that has slipped under the silk. His thumb
is lightly stroking the indentation of my waist. My smile deepens. The hard
bulge of his erection pressing against me offers further reassurance that my
decision to rely on actions rather than words was right.

“You have the softest skin,” he
murmurs.

Reluctant to break the moment, I
let my body speak for me, moving in perfect harmony with his. The night has
deepened, surrounding us like a veil that shuts out the rest of the world. I
could stay like this, in his arms forever but I yearn for more.

Daring greatly, I lift my head and
meet his gaze. At once, my breath leaves me in a rush. His eyes are filled with
hunger so intense as to be scorching. But his mouth is set in a hard line,
proof that he remains determined not to yield to what we both so obviously
want.

Take me to bed
, I plead.
With my eyes, with my body, all of me. I’m consumed with need.

Nothing. The man is a rock and not
only in the deliciously unyielding firmness of his body. A mule has more give
in it.

“Fine,” I murmur. “Be that way.”

He stiffens, no doubt wondering
what I intend. The wary look is back but so is his obvious concern for me. I
can’t help but be touched by that even as it only strengthens my resolve.

Holding fast to his hand, I turn
and start resolutely toward the master bedroom wing. Inside, I’m quaking but I
refuse to let that stop me. I can’t bear another moment apart from him.

“Amelia?”

I keep walking without so much as a
glance back at him. I’m afraid that if I hesitate at all, he’ll stop or, worse
yet, let go of me.

 “We can’t,” he says, correctly
intuiting my intention. “It’s not safe for you.” The words are torn from him.
They tear at my heart in turn.

With vastly more blitheness than
I’m feeling, I say, “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got the perfect solution.”

“Do you?” He sounds bemused but
also intrigued. Most importantly, he isn’t refusing, at least not yet.

The bedroom is as I remember it
from the first day--at once minimalist in the Japanese style but also
comfortably Western. A single lamp glows beside the bed with a lattice head-
and foot-board carved of driftwood.

Still holding Ian’s hand, I face
him and ask, “Do you trust me?”

“Of course, I do--”

“I mean
really
trust me.
Enough to do something even when you don’t think it’s a good idea?” Before he
can reply, I add, “Something really important to me. That I want more than
anything else.”

He takes a breath and lets it out
slowly. I haven’t yet released mine when he says, “Yes.”

That’s it, one word, so simple yet
it gives me all the permission I need. I let go of his hand and take a step
back but still hold his gaze.

Smiling, I say, “Take off your
clothes.”

Amelia

W
ithout taking his eyes from mine, Ian tugs his
T-shirt up and over his head. His willingness to comply, even against his
better judgment, reassures me that this is right. That’s good because it’s pretty
much the last coherent thought I can manage.

Bare chested, he is temptation
incarnate. My tongue sneaks out to lick my upper lip as I gaze at him.

“Now the rest,” I murmur.

His face darkens. It takes me a
moment to realize what’s happening. Suave, sophisticated Ian is blushing! I
only just manage to restrain a giggle but the impulse to laugh dies away when I
remember something he said to me at Carnival. I was gaping at a the sight of a
woman at the clothing-optional event leading a nearly nude man by a leash
secured around his sack. A dominatrix, Ian called her, adding that was
something he’d never tried in a tone that made clear he had no interest in ever
doing so.

Yet here he is, allowing me to call
the shots. I can’t bear the idea that he would do anything he really doesn’t
want to out of some misplaced sense of guilt. But before I can voice my
concerns, Ian shucks off his jeans and boxers in a single motion, and
straightens.

His cock, freed from restraint,
arches up toward his naval. I can’t help but stare, riveted by the memory of
how the velvety tip feels rubbing against my slit before easing inside me, the
whole long, thick length of him thrusting first slowly, then hard and fast,
driving us both to ecstatic release. Between my thighs, I can feel how wet I am
becoming. How ready.

“As you can see,” he says wryly,
“It’s impossible to conceal how you effect me.”

He doesn’t sound any too pleased by
that but he’s still giving me free rein. I decide that I’d better put it to
good use while I still can.

“Uh, yes, well…” I’m so distracted
that I have to struggle to form words. “Lie down,” I manage finally, gesturing
to the bed. “On your back.”

His gaze sharpens. Hastily, I add,
“Please.”

When he’s stretched out, his arms
held stiffly at his sides, I take a step back and gaze at him. Men make such a
fuss about the bodies of women and I suppose I can understand that if only in a
theoretical sense. But he is so deeply satisfying in a way I can barely grasp.
The mere fact that he exists fills me with gratitude for nature, creator of
starry skies, color-drenched sunsets, majestic mountains, and Ian. I can’t take
my eyes from him. That I have held him, taken him inside me, felt him come undone
in my arms seems nothing short of miraculous. I want to do all that
again--desperately.

With a smile that I hope hides how
vulnerable my need for him makes me feel, I slip off my panties, first down one
leg, then down the other. Dangling the scrap of peach lace from one finger, I
approach the bed.

“Hold out your hands.”

The look he shoots me is blistering
but he does as I say. Such is his willingness that I can only conclude he’s
anticipated what my ‘solution’ is. His trust moves me deeply. My hands shake a
little with the force of my emotions as I loop the silk around his wrists,
joining them together. Kneeling on the bed, I draw his arms up and secure them
to the headboard.

“You don’t seriously think this
will hold me?” As though to show me the futility of my plan, he tests the
strength of his bonds. And discovers that silk can be much stronger than it looks.

“Amelia,” he growls in warning.

Gazing at him, I’m reminded
suddenly of the first time we made love, in the golden bedroom of the palazzo,
when he secured me because he feared that he would lose all control if I
touched him. Now he’s given up that control--to me. His willingness to do so
tells me that despite everything that has threatened to tear us apart, we’ve
journeyed a long way together in just a short time. I refuse to turn back now.

Stepping away from the bed, I undo
the ends of the sarong and let it fall into my hands. “Don’t worry,” I say with
far more courage than I’m feeling. “I’m not done yet.”

As much as I regret destroying the
beautiful garment, it’s being sacrificed for the greater good. Torn into two
strips, it’s perfect for securing Ian’s ankles to the foot of the bed.

“This is crazy,” he says. “Let me
go.”

As he speaks, his eyes rake over my
body. I have to resist the urge to cover myself. I’ve lost weight since we
arrived. The bones of my rib cage are more prominent. Below my naval, my
abdomen has become concave rather than merely flat. I’ve managed to stay clean
but nothing more. My hair is a wild tangle of curls that defies all efforts to
tame it. There isn’t a hint of mascara or lip gloss on my face. I am simply as
I am, naked for him to see.

 “This is perfect,” I counter,
refusing to be quelled by my own insecurities. “You won’t be able to touch me
so you certainly can’t worry about hurting me in any way.”

“I’ll snap right through these,” he
warns, pulling at his restraints.

“They’ll hold for awhile,” I
insist, unsure whether I want to be proven correct or not. “Long enough for
what I have in mind.” I kneel on the bed, my hands resting on my thighs.

He stops struggling and stares at
me. The tip of his tongue brushes over his lips. He looks torn between
anticipation and dread. “What’s that?” he asks.

With a smile meant to reassure us
both, I stretch out on all fours and crawl toward him up the length of the bed,
never taking my eyes from his. Softly, I say, “Let me show you.”

I sound far bolder than I feel but
I can’t deny the excitement that runs like quicksilver through every cell in my
body. No wonder he likes being in charge. However serious my intent and how
high the stakes for both of us, this is
fun
.

Solemnly, I remind myself that he
is recovering from serious injuries. I have to go slowly and with care. But
that only makes the challenge all the more enticing.

To begin, I drop a light, coaxing
kiss at first one corner of his mouth and then the other. His skin is warm,
firm, and smooth. Growing bolder, I trace the contours of his lips with the tip
of my tongue.

“You taste good,” I murmur.

He frowns, staring at me with a
mixture of confusion and caution. “You seriously want to do this?”

I wave a hand at the pair of us,
him trussed up and me…not. “I’ve come to the conclusion that actions count far
more than words.”

His bewilderment deepens. I know he
wants to ask what I mean but I have no interest in getting into that now.

“Later,” I murmur and take his
mouth with mine. My tongue, slipping past the hard ridge of his teeth, finds
its mate. We stroke, swirl, tempt while the world rocks on its foundations and
time itself seems to slow. Finally, I break away, breathless, and kiss a path
down the hard, corded column of his throat, lingering where his life’s pulse
beats. The anguish I experienced when I feared he was about to die resonates
deep within me. Rather than struggle against it, I accept that I am a willing
hostage to Ian’s well-being.

Even as passion surges in me, I’m
mindful of the risk he’s taking right now, this man for whom control is so
important. That he would do so speaks volumes about the hope he still has for
us, despite his greatest fears. I’m determined to leave him in no doubt that
what he wants is already his.

My fingertips trace across the
broad sweep of his shoulders and down his muscular arms, lingering over the
bulge of his biceps. I never fail to marvel at how--not precisely gentle, he’s
rarely that--but how measured he is in his touch, his embrace, his possession
of me. What small flashes of pain I have experienced at his hands have been so
entangled with ecstatic pleasure as to be inconsequential.

My throat tightens as I confront
the stark evidence of the pain he has suffered. Hesitantly, giving him every chance
to object, I lower my head and brush my lips along the puckered ridge of the
wound that almost killed him.

“I am so glad,” I murmur past the
tightness in my throat, “that you’re alive. I cannot imagine the world without
you.”

I look up at him, my eyes
glistening with tears. “I’ve never known such fear as when I thought I would
lose you.”

That’s the truth even though he
won’t understand the full extent of it. Not at my worst moments in the
gestation chamber, when I was treated like a lab animal at the mercy of those
who refused to even recognize that I was capable of awareness, have I
experienced such terror as when I thought Ian was going to die. The mere memory
of it is a black pit in my mind, overflowing with anguish and despair.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, gazing at
me. “Thanks to you. You brought me back.”

The words, spoken with a note of
reverence, tell me that this is something important but the meaning eludes me. “I
don’t understand--”

He frowns, as though chasing a wisp
of memory. “I don’t either, not really. But I was somewhere outside myself and
you drew me back. I didn’t want to leave you. I couldn’t.”

I lower my head, not wanting him to
see my reaction. My throat is thick, my eyes burning. I am pierced by the
sweet, sharp thorn of his need for me. I don’t feel in any way worthy of his
simple, honest trust but I will seize it all the same and never let go.

“Then be with me,” I whisper
against his skin. The tip of my nose skims the thickening line of hair that run
below his naval to his groin. At its base, his cock leaps into my hand. I grip
it lightly, stroking my fingers along the heavy, boldly veined length and
smile. His heart is still too great a mystery, his mind can be infuriatingly
stubborn. But I’ve always gotten along well with this part of him.

In appreciation, I bend and swirl
my tongue around his velvety smooth tip. He’s thick and hot, and he tastes
delicious. I lap at the pearly drops of his pre-come and groan softly in
delight.

Ian makes a harsh sound and pulls
against his bonds. “Amelia…” His tone is at once a warning and a plea. He wants
control back but I’m not remotely ready to give it to him.

“Patience,” I murmur. Resisting the
urge to take him fully into my mouth, I use my hands instead, gently caressing
his inner thighs, stroking my fingertips along them before moving up to lightly
cup his scrotum. Bending, I blow on him softly and am rewarded by his gasp.

He is staring at me with trepidation
and yearning that banish the last tiny remnant of my self-consciousness. Boldly,
I tease his head, lingering over the ultrasensitive frenulum on the underside.
He groans and arches his back, pulling against the restraints.

Holding his gaze with mine, I cup
his cock in my hand and lightly kiss the crest, once, twice, again, working my
way all around. My tongue follows, exploring the same territory with slow, long
strokes before I finally give in to temptation and glide my lips over his tip
and down his shaft. He’s very long as well as thick. In this position it’s
difficult for me to take him as deeply as I’d like but I manage well enough all
the same, moving my head up and down. On each upstroke, I flatten my tongue and
lick the underside as my hand continues to move up and down his shaft, a caress
that I’ve learned from experience is particularly effective.

“Fuck!” Ian’s back arches sharply,
driving him deeper into my throat.

Delighting in the effect I have on
him, I release him almost entirely, lingering to suck his crest before taking
him deep again. His low groans turn to gasps as I move up and down, savoring
every inch of his length. I crave him in every possible way. The taste I had
during Carnival of his unbridled passion has only whetted my appetite for more.

I suck and swallow him, my hand
moving in perfect tempo with my mouth, breaking off only when I absolutely have
to breathe before resuming. My senses swim. My awareness of everything else--the
room, the atoll beyond, the vast expanse of the ocean separating us from the
world--all begins to flicker. There is nothing except Ian, my boundless
gratitude for his life, and the intimacy between us.

His testicles tighten in my hand. I
feel them pulling up and know that he is very close. With that, I take him as
deeply as I can, wanting all of him.

“Amelia!” My name is wrenched from him
even as his thick, hot come jets down my throat. The intensity of his orgasm
rocks me to my core. It is at once shattering and healing. I can feel his heart
pounding in rhythm with my own, the two of us in perfect unison.

Abruptly, his body sags. I raise my
head and gaze up the long, sculpted length of his torso. He appears insensible.
For a moment, I’m terrified that I may actually have hurt him.

That notion vanishes in an instant when
he opens his eyes. The look in them is blazing, feral, beyond any figment of
control. With a swift jerk, he cracks the wooden headboard of the bed and sits
up. His arms, still tied at the wrists by my panties, come down over and around
me. Held in the vise of his embrace, I am lifted over his cock, my legs forced
wide apart by his. He rubs my swollen, wet clit along the length of his shaft
which, to my giddy astonishment, is rapidly hardening again.