Chances & Choices (24 page)

But now, there was a light in his eyes that was slowly melting her defiance.

He had showered and changed into jeans and a v-necked cashmere sweater.  He must have fallen asleep, because his hair had been allowed to dry naturally, the dark waves rebellious and curling.  It gave him a boyish appearance that almost disarmed her.  She felt like running her fingers through its thickness, and burying her face in his chest.

She collected herself.
 Why wouldn't he stop looking at her like that?  Didn't he realise she was spoiling for a fight?  She was - wasn't she?

"Yes, I went to the party."

She walked past him to the living room, into the middle, choosing her battleground.  Looking up at him, she regretted her choice.  From the raised height of the dining room, he seemed to have an advantage.  However, he conceded this by joining her.

"You should have let me know."

There was no sign of the fight she was looking for.  His tone wasn't even reproachful, only matter-of-fact.

"I would have, except, unfortunately, I don't have a personal secretary."

He gave a slow grin and tipped his head to her.

 
"Touché."

He was close enough now that she could reach out and push his hair back from his forehead.
 She indulged herself.  It felt soft and springy and she could smell it's freshly washed scent.  She felt his fingers on the arm of her dress.

“The colour of this dress turns your eyes almost blue."

Claire shivered.  Since when did his slightest touch turn her blood to liquid fire?  When had her love for him become such a physical hunger?  The slow, gentle emotion become a deep, aching need?

Had her love for him suddenly become so deep because it was threatened?
 Whatever the cause, she knew now she loved him alone.  Her attraction to Richard was puny compared to this overwhelming wealth of emotion.

The unexpected strength and suddenness of her feelings frightened her.
  They left her so vulnerable, so dependent on his love.  Would he ever love her as much or would she always be second best?

She looked into his eyes. What lay behind their green fathomless depths, what secrets of the heart that denied her complete possession of that precious part of him?
 She felt his lips warm against her own. She returned the kiss, giving of herself completely, uncaring for the moment, welcoming whatever love he had to give her.

 
He sat in the armchair and pulled her down onto his lap.  The kiss continued and Claire began to trace his face with her fingers, exploring his features.  She felt as if she were rediscovering him - the warmth of his skin; the roughness of his jaw.  Her hands moved downwards to the strength of his shoulders.  The muscles of his thighs were hard against the backs of her own thighs and she could feel the strength of his desire.

Abruptly, he stopped kissing her and moved out from under her, sliding her off his knees so she was left alone in the chair.
 His back was to her as he crossed the room and took a swallow from a drink on the table beside the couch.  His shoulders were tense, strained and Claire knew he was struggling for control.  If only he would give in, not withdraw from her

"Who did you go to the party with?"

He was making small-talk, filling in the silence to distract her while he composed himself.  He didn't know he was on dangerous ground.  But Claire knew.

Here was her chance for the fight she'd wanted; only she didn't want it anymore.
 She wanted his love not his anger.  Or even worse, she feared his indifference.  He may not even care she went with Richard.  She tried to stall, attempting to inject a lightness into her tone.

"What makes you think I went with anyone?"

It had been the wrong thing to say.  He looked over his shoulder at her and, sinkingly, she knew she had alerted his suspicion.

"You would have felt uncomfortable alone; it was that type of party.
”

He faced her before continuing, his eyes narrowing.

"Who did you go with, Claire?"

For a brief moment, she was tempted to lie.
  No, it would be pointless; he might hear the truth from any number of people.  She took a deep breath.

"Richard Blake."

She saw his eyes blaze, and then the shutter came down so quickly she thought she had imagined the intensity.  Once more she was looking at the emotionless expression of the afternoon.  She would have preferred his anger.

He put an even greater distance between them, walking over and placing his unfinished drink on the cabinet.
 The action was executed with such finality that Claire felt herself panic; she couldn't let him withdraw completely.

"Andrea suggested it."

He gave a short laugh as he faced her.  It held none of its usual richness. There was a cynicism she had never heard before.

"You expect me to believe that Andrea suggested you take your ex-lover to a party you were invited to with your husband?"

Claire felt sick at heart; anything would have been preferable to his disdain.  Somehow she had to make him understand why she'd done it.  Why had she done it?  She answered him and her own question at the same time.

"She didn't think I should miss the night out just because you had to work.
 She intended I bring someone innocuous.  I brought Richard because I was mad at you."

She kept her eyes lowered while she spoke, but when he didn't speak, she raised them to his face.
 The disdain was gone, but it had not been replaced by the emotion for which she'd hoped.  He seemed to be considering, and then there was a determined set to his jaw.  He straightened, as if coming to a decision, and walked towards her, a definite purpose in mind.

Claire shrank back into the chair. There was hardness about him she couldn't equate with the gentleness he had always shown her.

His hand slid over her shoulder, easing her dress aside.  He bent to the flesh he had exposed, placing kisses with deliberate eroticism.  Each time his lips left her skin, he spoke.

"Don't you think,” his kisses were searing her neck now, “...that was just a bit ...," he moved back down to her shoulder, “... juvenile."
 His lips moved lower, grazing the tops of her breasts.

Claire could hardly concentrate on his words.
 He must have known this because he lifted his head, until he seemed to be towering above her.  He reached out and caressed her cheek and then ran his hand slowly down the path his lips had just taken.  He spoke in low soft tones, but Claire knew the words were not idly made.

"If you behave like a child there's always the danger I might treat you like one."
  Then his lips returned to their previous occupation.  Despite the sensations he was arousing, his meaning was immediately apparent.

"You wouldn't."

His lips lingered at the niche behind her ear and then his face was above her own, as he rested either hand on the arms of her chair.  A half smile lurked at the corners of his mouth, but it was not amusement she saw in his eyes.

"Oh, I would, if I wanted to."

He buried his lips in the hollow of her neck.  Claire lay back allowing him access to her throat.  His kisses were like wildfire along her sensitive skin.  She heard his voice in her other ear.

"But I don't want to."

His face was above her again; the determination had never left him.  He took her shoulders in a firm grasp, bringing her up out of the chair towards him.

"I'd rather treat you as a woman."

And then his lips took hers in a masterful kiss.  She was crushed against his chest as he carried her into the bedroom.  He stretched her out on the bed, continuing the domination of her senses.  There was no gentleness in the manner he set about achieving his purpose; his movements were firm and deliberate.  He laid her on the bed, methodically stripping her of her clothing before joining her.  

Insistent and forceful, he took his time roaming his hands, lips, teeth and tongue penetratingly into her every curve and crevice.
 His masculine body moulded to her, repeatedly hard and thrusting as she arched to meet him, every inch of her responding, mindlessly, to his intrusive possession and captivating assault on her body and senses.

She was aflame to his every touch, enthralled and opened to his unremitting mastery.
  Determined to demonstrate that his ability to arouse her was as powerful and persistent as any other man’s passion, he ruthlessly and repetitively took her body and soul; tenaciously laying claim to her in a myriad array of places and positions.

Claire was oblivious to his distanced determination.
  She was too caught up in the passion he was igniting, the intensity of her emotions finding expression.  She thrilled to the way he took that love from her.  Plundering, possessing, raising a frenzied passion that crested and exploded over and over again.  She was in a world where only he existed.  Finally, she lay exhausted and spent beside him.

He was propped up on one elbow as he pushed away the damp tendrils of her hair from her face.
 She was on her stomach, her face turned towards him, her grey eyes glowing, distantly, satiated.  He bent and kissed her cheek.

"I think I'll run you a bath.
 It could save you some aches and pains in the morning."

She blushed as recent memories began to invade her lethargy.
 She had no idea he could be so athletic or inventive.  Watching him pull on his jeans, as he sat on the edge of the bed, she wanted to stretch out and run her fingers down his rippling back.  Unfortunately, her limbs refused to oblige.  She did manage to turn her head and follow his figure to the door of the bathroom.  He looked back before entering and she met his eyes and their triumphant gleam.

It was only then that another memory crowded in on her.
 His voice at the height of her arousal.  "Tell me now, who did you take to the party?"  She had mumbled.  "What party?" her mind hardly registering the question as she was caught up in the mindless things he was doing to her body.  Claire felt a coursing anger fill her, replacing the lethargic mood.  The heaviness was gone from her limbs, and she sprang from the bed.

How dare he!

What right did he have to manipulate her?  She pulled on her short silk robe, tightening the sash furiously, furious because she had been a willing participant in her own sexual surrender.  She stormed into the bathroom her voice raised in anger and to be heard above the rush of the taps.

"Richard Blake!
 I went to the party with Richard Blake!"

He turned off the taps before straightening to face her.
 His stance was relaxed, confident; there was no question of him losing control now.  Despite her anger, she felt herself responding to the sight of his bare chest and the tightness of his jeans low slung on his lean hips.  Her response only increased her anger as did the slow drawl with which he answered her.

"So I understand."

"Yes, and I enjoyed myself immensely!  He was a very entertaining companion!"

His smile was sardonic as he moved unhurriedly past her.
 He paused, his hand on the door, lazily turning back before leaving.  "I'm sure you also enjoyed the entertainment I managed to provide."

Her mouth dropped open in astonished outrage.
 She grabbed the sponge that was floating in the bathtub and threw it at his grinning face.  He was too quick for her; it only made sopping contact with the closed door, his laughter mocking her from the other side.

She lingered in the bathtub, hoping he would fall asleep.
 But when she entered the bedroom, dried and dressed in her robe, he was awake, his arms propped behind his head.  She flashed him a look calculated to deflate his confidence, but he only smiled.

She could feel his amused gaze as she rifled through her drawers and returned to the bathroom once she found what she was looking for.
 She was treated to his unrestrained laughter when she re-entered.  The object of his amusement was a thick, flannel, vintage nightgown she had purchased to keep out the cold of the New York winters, although she meant it for a different purpose now.  It clothed her from neck to toe and even had a Victorian ruffle.

She ignored him and stomped to the bed, throwing back the covers, lying down, presenting him with her resistant, curled back.
  He turned out the lamp and slid down, slowly, into the bed.  His earlier amusement and deceptively casual movements left her unprepared for his swift, tearing action that effectively separated her from the offending garment, leaving her suddenly and unexpectedly naked.

She was mortified at how exposed she felt, the feeling only enhanced by the fact that he was semi-clothed in silk pyjama bottoms.
  Even more mortifying was her response.  Despite her indignation, her body was flushed and pulsing with desire as she found herself outrageously aroused by his caveman behaviour.

 
His hands seized her shoulders and she was turned into his arms, her face buried in his chest, his embrace unyieldingly possessive.  She struggled against him and her own desires, pummelling with her fists.  He merely tightened his hold and issued a warning.