Dark Torment (15 page)

“I really don’t know how to dance to this.” She
pulled away her hand, both relieved and disappointed to have the decision taken
from her.

“I do. Put your other hand on my shoulder. It’s too
late to back out now.”

“Gallagher . . .”

He reached out and caught her hand, placing it firmly on his
shoulder. One arm slid around her waist. He pulled her close to him, not right
up against his body but near enough that her skirt brushed his legs.

“Gallagher . . .”

“Relax. You’re as stiff as a board. Let me lead
you.” He began to move in time to the music, dragging Sarah after him.
Being held so close to him, with his arm hard and warm around her waist, sent
her senses spinning with mingled pleasure and alarm. This was all wrong, she
knew, and she also knew that she would bitterly regret it in the morning. But
just for tonight . . .

“That’s better. You’re doing fine.
One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three-four . . .” He counted off
the rhythm, molding her body into a pattern of intoxicating dips and sways and
turns.

When Sarah became more comfortable with the steps, he increased
the tempo until he had her twirling breathlessly, laughing. She felt so
strange, unlike herself. It was as if the beauty of the night and the feel of
him holding her, his hard legs brushing hers with every step, had cast a spell
over her. Looking up at him, watching that chiseled mouth quirk with honest
amusement, seeing the blue eyes twinkling down at her out of that darkly
handsome face, feeling the height and breadth of him against her, the strength
of his muscles beneath her hand and against her legs, she was in danger of
forgetting who she was. Who he was. The silvery spill of moonlight washing over
them as they danced among the trees, the warm, perfumed air, the haunting lilt
of the music drifting from the house, each carried its own brand of magic. As
did he. He was enchanting her, he and the night and the music together,
conspiring. Sarah felt it happening but could do nothing about it. She was
already bewitched.

The fiddles reached a climax, and Gallagher spun her around, then
dipped her over his arm so that her head fell back toward the ground. She
clutched frantically at his shoulder for balance, laughing up at him, feeling
her hair slipping from its pins to hang thick and heavy behind her, but not
caring. At that moment, in his arms, she felt herself everything she had always
wanted to be: beautiful, feminine, the kind of woman whom a man like Gallagher
could look at and desire. . . .

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” she asked as
the music ceased and he pulled her upright but did not release her. Sarah was
supremely conscious of the warmth of his hand clasping hers, of the strength of
the arm around her waist as he grinned a little mockingly at the honest
admiration in her question.

“When I was a boy, I lived in a castle. A very big castle
with battlements and turrets, made of stone as black as the devil’s
heart. There, among many other useless accomplishments, I was taught to dance.
Much good that it ever did me.”

“You’re making that up!” Sarah accused, laughing
again. Then, when he said nothing, just looked down at her with a whimsical
expression, she added with a touch of uncertainty, “Aren’t
you?”

He shook his head, then grinned tantalizingly. “What do you
think?”

Sarah considered the matter for an instant. “I think you
are,” she decided.

“Then I must be.” He was looking down at her, his
mouth twisted up in a half-smile. The expression in his eyes was unreadable.

“Your hair fell down.”

Self-consciously Sarah lifted the hand that had rested almost
forgotten on his shoulder and tried to tame the wayward mass. But she needed
both hands for that, and he would not release the other one.

“Leave it. It becomes you.”

She looked up at him uncertainly. Was he teasing her? He seemed
perfectly serious. With the moonlight illuminating his face she could see that
he was no longer smiling. His eyes had changed from bright blue to a darker,
smoky sapphire. . . . Something about the way he was looking at her made her
suddenly, achingly aware of how close he was, of the way he was holding her.

“The music has stopped. You can let me go now.” She
tried to pull away, suddenly very self-conscious. She was enjoying his touch
too much. It was time she remembered who, and what, they both were.

“I don’t want to.” His voice was husky. Sarah
looked up at him, her eyes widening, her breath catching in her throat. His
hand released hers to capture her chin.

“Gallagher . . .” His name was both a plea and a
warning.

“Miss Sarah.” He was mocking her, but the mockery
sounded oddly gentle. “I think I’m going to have to kiss you again.
Miss Sarah.”

“Gallagher!” Before Sarah could do more than gasp out
his name in strangled protest, he was bending his head. Sarah could only watch,
mesmerized, as that handsome mouth descended so very slowly toward hers. He was
not holding her so tightly that she could not have evaded his kiss if she had
wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She was horrified to discover that,
more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, she wanted him to kiss her.

When his mouth touched hers in a gentle, butterfly kiss, the shock
of it made her shudder. She closed her eyes helplessly, pressing close to him,
her lips fluttering apart as she sighed her surrender. She did not make even a
token protest. This was what she had wanted since that other time when he had
kissed her. But she had not realized the depth of her own need—until now.
Her mouth opened to him, her lips trembling beneath the heated encroachment of
his. His tongue was hot and spicy-tasting as it explored the wet sweet cave of
her mouth, licking over her lips and the smooth surface of her teeth before
venturing further to stroke the ridges at the top of her mouth, the soft skin
of the insides of her cheeks, and then, finally, her tongue. She trembled
against him. Shyly at first, and then with increasing boldness, her tongue
moved to meet his, to learn the inside of his mouth as he was renewing his
discovery of her own. She loved the taste of him, the passion. Her arms crept
around his neck, her fingers tangling in his thick black hair. It curled around
them seductively, as cool as the moonlight and as soft as raw silk. The back of
his neck felt hard and warm in contrast.

To her surprise, as he felt her surrender he seemed to shudder,
too. His arms went hard around her waist, pulling her even tighter against him.
Sarah felt the heat and strength of him with every centimeter of her skin. Her
fingers clenched on his hair.

“Gallagher,” she sighed against his mouth. He broke
off the kiss, lifting his head a little away from her. Sarah moaned a protest,
clutching at the back of his neck, her eyes opening to look at him in dazed
reproach. His eyes seemed lit by tiny, raw flames. His answering whisper was
hoarse.

“Dominic. My name is Dominic. Say it.”

“Dominic,” she responded obediently. She would say
anything, do anything, if only he would kiss her again.

“Sarah.” Her name was a mutter of satisfaction as his
mouth came down on hers again, not gently this time, but demanding and
receiving her response. Sarah clung to him with all her strength, on fire for
him, letting his lips and tongue teach hers all she didn’t know about
kissing. She felt as if she were melting in his arms.

One arm left her waist to slide between them. His hand crept up
the silk covering her rib cage to close over the slight curve of her breast. At
the feel of his hand warm and intimate against her, Sarah went rigid with shock
and an excitement that she immediately strove not to recognize. Her eyes flew
open; her hands slid from around his neck to shove frantically at his wide
shoulders. He was going too far. He had to stop. Her insistent pushes brought
results at last: his eyes opened, to gaze down into hers with smoldering
intensity. His mouth continued to hold hers captive; his hand stayed cupped
around her breast, which to her horror seemed to swell against his palm. She
shoved at him again, harder this time. Her urgency finally communicated itself
to him. He lifted his head—but not his hand.

“Sarah?” It was a husky question.

“Please—let me go.” Her words were disjointed.
Her hands were braced against his shoulders, holding him off as best she could.
She had no illusions that she could maintain the slight distance between them
if he wanted to force the issue. But, curiously, she did not think he would do
that.

“Has no one ever touched you like this before?” He
sounded almost detached—except for the huskiness that deepened his voice
to a rasp. As if to underline his question, his hand tightened over her breast,
squeezing gently. To her distress, Sarah felt every nerve she possessed quiver
and tighten in response.

“No! What do you take me for?” The question was
furious, to hide her rapidly growing urge to close her mouth and let him hold
her as he would. She had never dreamed that, by the simple act of covering her
breast with his hand, a man could rouse in her such feverish confusion.

“A lady. A very lovely, innocent lady who is shocked at
herself because she enjoys my touch.” The words were very low, a velvety
growl that caressed her ears even as his hand caressed her breast. He kneaded
the small, silk-covered mound very gently—and then his thumb moved, so
slowly, over the sensitive crest. Sarah felt the shock of it clear down to her
toes. It was all she could do to repress a gasp. She thanked the Lord for the
darkness that hid the sudden mortified crimsoning of her cheeks as she felt her
nipple stiffen under his hand. But the darkness could not hide the rise and
fall of her chest as her breathing quickened.

“Don’t be ashamed, Sarah. It’s perfectly natural
for you to feel as you do. Let me show you. . . .”

“Let me go. Please.” Sarah barely managed to get the
words out. More than anything in the world she wished she didn’t have to
say them. She wanted him to show her what it felt like to be a woman. Oh, how
she wanted that! The touch of his mouth and hand had ignited a fire in her that
threatened to consume her.

“If you want me to.” But he leaned closer, his mouth
descending again until it was a scant inch from her own. Sarah looked up into
his eyes and felt as if she were drowning in their shadowed depths. There was a
curious roaring in her ears, and her knees felt as if they could no longer
support her weight. His thumb moved across her nipple once more, and then back.
She moaned involuntarily, her eyes fluttering shut. She forced them open again,
knowing that if she closed them she was lost. . . . But the sheer, overpowering
attraction of his face so close to her own made her head spin. She bit down
hard on her lower lip, trying to muster her spinning senses, trying to fight
him—and herself.

“Do you want me to let you go, Sarah?” He was
whispering in her ear, his breath warm, teasing. His thumb moved again, finding
the hardened bud that quivered at his caress. His hand shifted; he caught her
nipple between his thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed it. Sarah felt
another shaft of fire shoot through her body like a lightning bolt.

“Yes,” she moaned, forcing the word out. She was
swaying in his hold, her head thrown back so that the tumbled masses of her
hair cascaded over his arm toward the ground. Her eyelids were fluttering first
closed, then open as her body warred with her mind. He started to remove his
hand, slowly. She felt the withdrawal of that tingling warmth like a physical
pain. Her flesh ached for the return of his touch. . . . “No,” she
whispered, surrendering.

Before she could stop herself, her hand caught his where it
hovered just over her breast without touching it, and pressed it wantonly back
against her starving flesh. At the indescribable pleasure of that possessing
hand, she sucked in her breath. Her eyes closed momentarily; her knees felt
weak, and she swayed closer to the solid strength of him. He made no move; even
his hand was still on her breast. Her eyes opened again to find that he was
watching her, his eyes narrowed. She stared up at him, her own eyes glazed,
watching him watch her, knowing that her behavior was utterly shameless but too
drunk with passion to care. Tonight she was just a woman like any other woman,
and he was just a man. Her woman’s body craved the maleness of him like a
thirsty man craved water in the desert. And of its own volition her body was
letting him know of her need. Her nipple was pebble-hard against the cupped
palm of his hand; she knew he had to feel it, know the eagerness it signaled.
He also could not miss the quick, hot indrawing of her breath, or the trembling
of her limbs, or the sultry glow of passion that she knew must be suffusing her
face, lighting her eyes. . . . He was still watching her, unmoving. With a
wordless whimper, her hand left his and, with its fellow, crept around his
neck. Blindly she lifted her face toward his, seeking his kiss, her eyes
closed. For once she would let her senses, not reason, rule her. For once she
would allow herself to be weak and silly and feminine—all the things she
usually despised. Gallagher’s arms around her, his mouth on hers, his
hand on her body made her a traitor to the self she had always known. It was as
if someone totally different inhabited her body—just for tonight.

“Are you sure, Sarah?” Sarah quivered at the
tenderness she thought she heard in his voice. She kept her eyes tightly shut;
to open them would be to invite an end to the rapture that held her in thrall.
She was no longer a plain, prim old maid, but a woman, desired and
desiring—just for tonight.

She lifted her face to his again in silent assent. He needed no
further invitation. His mouth came down on hers again, not roughly but
possessively, as though he meant to make it his. She surrendered her lips to
him, opened her mouth to him, moaned at the caress of his lips on hers, at the
hot wet invasion of his tongue. . . .