Cheryl Holt (20 page)

He shrugged again, so unforthcoming that she longed to box his ears. She was so curious about him. Yet their assignations had been so odd, and so accursedly condensed, that she never uncovered any relevant information.

What drove him? Why had he been so affronted on her account? What part of his character had urged him to act as her defender?

Needing more revelations, she probed, “When was the last time?”

“A few months ago. I had to drag James out of a dockside tavern.”

“James is your brother?”

“Aye.”

“And he didn’t wish to depart?”

“No.”

With the modest revelation, a thousand questions popped up, but she seemed unable to voice any of them. His gaze
had dropped to her mouth and stayed there. He was endeavoring to intimidate her, though she wasn’t sure why, but whatever his incentive, he was in for a shock, because she wasn’t about to shy away.

“I don’t want to talk about my brother,” he finally said. As before, the pronouncement made it indisputable that it would be fruitless to pursue the topic. “In fact,” he proclaimed, “I don’t want to talk at all.”

Her heart sank. While she deemed that she belonged with him, and was ecstatic to offer comfort when he was suffering, perhaps he didn’t feel the same. His dictum constrained her to suggest, “Would you like me to go?”

He shook his head, and she repressed a shiver of relief. A drowning woman thrown a rope!

“I’m glad you came,” he admitted. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The disclosure severely astounded her, and apparently, him, as well. He scowled, pondering why he’d affirmed so much.

“So am I.” Boldly, she reached out and rifled her fingers through his hair as she’d been itching to do. It was thick and silky and damp.

He seized her wrist, shifting her so he could kiss her lightly, almost chastely. When he pulled away, there was a suspicious sheen in his eyes that
couldn’t
be tears. Yet she perceived that the frightful combat he’d waged on her behalf had gravely overwhelmed him, had loosened some compass that guided him. He was hovering on a cliff of despair and wretchedness over which he could leap. Or not.

She melted. For reasons she couldn’t define, the man called to her, intrigued and amazed, daunted and exhilarated, and she couldn’t bear his agony. Mothering instincts, to protect and hold dear, surged to the fore.

“Thank you.” She cupped his cheek with her palm and bestowed a chaste kiss of her own. “For what you did today.”

“You’re welcome,” he solemnly declared. Brooding and quiescent, he persevered in analyzing her when, more than
anything, she yearned to be whisked into his arms and treasured in all the ways of which he was so capable.

But he did nothing. He said nothing.

There was so much she aspired to tell him. That she was in awe, thunderstruck, and very likely falling ridiculously and senselessly in love, yet she dared not share any silly ardent outbursts. With ominous certitude, she grasped that he wouldn’t approve of a sentimental overture.

Still, she couldn’t prevent herself from stating, “I hate that you’re hurting. How can I help you?”

His focus sank to her mouth again, then lower, to her breasts. He caressed them meticulously with his eyes until the nipples peaked and rubbed against her corset, and she had to resist the impulse to squirm.

“If I requested that you disrobe”—his torrid examination slid up her torso—“and lie down with me on the bed, would you?”

There was a challenge in his solicitation. Evidently, he expected her to decline or feign offense. If he thought she’d retreat, he’d miscalculated, but then, he wasn’t the first man who’d underestimated her, and he wouldn’t be the last.

“Yes, I would,” she rejoined, calm as you please. “I would undress, and after, I would happily do whatever you ask of me.”

“That is what I want.” His puzzling attitude intensified. “That is the one thing you can do that will make me feel better.”

“Then, my precious champion”—she tipped her head, evaluating him, taking his measure, letting him see that she was unafraid of his shameless proposal—“that is what you shall have.”

Michael shifted against the edge of the tub, putting space between them, wanting Sarah to have plenty of time to come to terms with her brazen decision, but she didn’t seem to have the good sense to be anxious or frightened. The look she was giving him had him utterly unnerved.

Across the room, his large bed beckoned, urging him to carry her to its pliant mattress, to lay her down, to obtain some comfort. Hovering below, shielded by the soapy water, was his fierce cockstand, his phallus painfully begging to be assuaged between her heavenly thighs.

Though she didn’t grasp it as yet, once he stepped out of the bath, there would be no going back. His resolution was wrong, outrageous, idiotic, but he meant to indulge. Today and tomorrow and the next day and the next after that. For as long as Pamela deigned to impart her hospitality—though in view of her pique over his latest exploit, his stay might be cut short—he would contrive to debauch and defile Sarah in every despicable way.

Starting gradually, he would initiate and enlighten, tease and tutor, until her fabulous, compliant body was attuned and burning for his type of prurient excess. He would thrill, delight, enchant, supplying all the delectation she could possibly tolerate and, in the process, he would garner some satisfaction of his own. If it killed him, if it took every ounce of his resolve and strength, if he spilled himself a thousand times in order to achieve satiation, he was determined to eventually attain contentment.

Recent events had unleashed something inside him, something voracious and feral that scared him, because it was so powerful. He couldn’t quit thinking about her. Her
. . . in the stairwell, accosted by Brigham. Her . . . in her bedchamber, admitting that she’d spied on him while he’d fornicated with other women. Her . . . begging him to seduce her, to ruin her.

Pacing and cursing, he’d passed the night, unable to rest, helpless to cease his ruminating, his yearning. With morning, he’d been like a wild animal, unruly, unpredictable. Perched at his window, waiting for Brigham to emerge, he’d known the coward would strive to slip away like the dog he was.

The fracas had been welcome, vicious, malevolent, and he’d thrived on each punch thrown, on each smack of bone on bone, each spatter of blood that flew across the ground. In every muscle and pore, he ached—his ribs, his head, his hands—but he wasn’t repentant. Not over any of it, and he was so savagely delighted that he’d had the chance to vent his fury so meticulously. He felt as if he was coming back to life, reawakening after a lengthy slumber. But with the conclusion of the melee, a staggering emptiness had enveloped him and, as he’d soaked in his bath, he’d progressively deduced how to allay his troubled condition: He wanted Sarah Compton. Without limitation, without constraint.

When she’d appeared—as if his hulking thoughts had summoned her—he’d recognized, then and there, that the course he’d chosen was inevitable. He was ready to fuck and defile, to sate and purge himself; to finesse, beguile, and abuse her in every conceivable fashion, and he didn’t intend to be penitent for whatever he might perpetuate.

“For the remaining days that we are here,” he explained, “we will have a sexual relationship.”

“I’ve been hoping,” the insane woman freely assented.

“I will demonstrate the methods of loving, and you will practice on me until you grow proficient.”

“Very well.”

“You will do whatever I say.”

“Within reason.”

“No,” he interrupted, quashing her bit of bravado. There
would be no restrictions. “I will select the path. You will follow it. I will create the games; you will play. Enthusiastically and completely. Or not at all.”

She stared him down, biting against her cheek, obviously deliberating refusal. His Sarah was tough and proud; she wasn’t used to having a man tell her how to act, but then, as she’d issued from a family of men like Hugh Compton, what could he expect?

Half of his enjoyment would be attained from eroding her inhibitions, from her bowing to his stipulations, from her pleas for more. She
would
become complacent to his demands.

“Well?”

“If I don’t agree?”

“We won’t begin.”

Her dilemma was enormous. Just out of principle, she considered declining. She didn’t like him mandating her behavior, yet she craved the opportunity to experience what he was offering. She sought an affair on her own terms but, by his very disposition, their
amour
could never develop in such a lame manner. He was the type of man who would set the tone and pace. Surely, she comprehended that about him?

“Fine,” she ultimately said.

He had to prevent himself from shaking his fist in triumph. She would be his premium conquest. “I will require conduct of you that you’ve never dreamed possible.”

“I realize that.”

“You can’t be timid or shy. You must be mentally prepared to attempt whatever I suggest, and you shouldn’t be apprehensive or bothered by our conduct. Whatever transpires is allowed.”

“I’m not afraid.” She chuckled. “Or shy!”

“Your purpose will be to please me through the carnal acts that I teach you. In return, you will receive your own gratification. The sins of the flesh will overwhelm you; you’ll wonder why you’ve never committed them until
now.” Shrewdly, he regarded her. “Do you still wish to proceed?”

“Aye.”

“First, you must make one promise to me.”

“If I’m able.”

“You must promise me that you’ll never be sorry. That you’ll never harbor any remorse.”

He didn’t deem it feasible. In fact, he was quite convinced that the aftermath would be brimming with regrets, but perhaps if he instilled the concept at the outset, he might mitigate some of her later lamentation. “Swear it to me,” he insisted.

“I swear it. I’ll never regret what occurs between us.” She smiled. “I never could.”

He nodded, accepting her vow, pondering if she’d truly keep it. She was a woman of her word, but some transgressions—such as the ones he was about to perpetrate against her—were too serious to be forgiven.

“Have you ever seen a naked man?” he asked.

“When would I have?”

“Turn around.”

Puzzled by his request, she didn’t budge, so he clarified, “I’m going to climb out of the bath. I certainly don’t mind if you watch, but I hardly suppose you’re prepared for the sight.”

Her eyes widened with comprehension. He’d managed to shock her, and she leapt to her feet, geared to bolt.

“Stop!” he commanded to her retreating back, and she slid to a halt as he suppressed a wave of male vanity at how promptly she’d complied. What an interesting seduction this would be!

He exited the tub, the water lapping against the rim, and she vigilantly listened to every sound. Her torso was ramrod straight, her fists clenched at her sides, her head cocked. Reaching for a towel, he approached until he was directly behind her.

“I’m drying myself,” he declared. “I’ll have my robe on momentarily.”

“All . . . all right.”

Commencing at his hair, he fluffed at the dampness, then he moved down, to his neck, chest, buttocks, and legs. But for their labored breathing, and the intermittent crackling of the log in the fire, the room was deathly quiet, and she tensed as the towel scratched across his bodily bumps and crevasses.

Leaning down, he intentionally let the towel brush along her hemline, and she jumped whenever he encroached. Eventually, he tired of his petty amusement, and he donned his robe, stuffing his arms in the sleeves and binding the cord at the waist.

“I am finished.”

At the news, she endeavored to face him, but he prohibited the movement by wrapping himself around her and trapping her backside along his front. The sparse robe was the only garment covering him so, as he pressed his scantily clad form against her, it was as if he was wearing nothing at all.

In agony, he hardened to an obscene length.

Spreading his fingers wide across her pliable belly, he clutched at her and pulled her bottom against his groin. She had the most mesmerizing ass, perfectly forged for a man’s appreciation. He flexed into her skirts, sensing her figure, her cleft. To his relief, she didn’t shirk away from the intimacy, so he held her tighter and whispered in her ear.

“Do you have any idea what transpires when a man and a woman are alone?”

“No. I learned some from observing your behavior, but . . .”

He couldn’t abide her talking about what she’d beheld of himself and the other female guests. His plans for her included nothing similar to those decadent diversions, and he didn’t care to be reminded of how he’d debased himself and his partners. Impatient to brusquely silence her, he bit against her nape, and the sensation had the desired effect. With the unfamiliar impact, she sucked in a huge breath of air.

Their liaison would have nothing in common with the previous, lewd dalliances she’d witnessed. Her sensual fate was sealed. He wanted her; he would have her. But the journey would be languid and pleasant.

“A man and a woman,” he continued, “like to kiss and embrace. To fondle one another. They undress, so that their bodies can connect”—he nuzzled along her shoulder, and goose bumps prickled down her arms—“bare skin to bare skin.”

“Why?”

“A woman’s nudity incites a man to physical passion. He’s then eager to mate.”

“Do you want to . . .”—she swallowed, swallowed again, her head tipped to the side, exposing more for him to sample—“to
mate
with me now?”

“Yes, very much.”

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“You’ll have no secrets from me.”

“But we’re not married.”

“We don’t need to be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All in good time, my little virgin.” He laughed softly and swept his palms up her stomach to just below her breasts, not caressing them but drawing so near. She braced for the higher level of involvement, and was frustrated when it didn’t arrive. “How many pieces of clothing are hidden under your gown?”