Man of Ice (13 page)

She sobbed. He was doing something to her, something that made a rush of pleasure shoot through her like fiery shafts, that made her body crave what he was doing, what she was feeling…

There was a fullness that grew unexpectedly, that teased and provoked and excited. She was empty and now, now, she felt the impact of the fullness, shooting through her like fireworks, making her body throb in a new rhythm, making her blood flow faster. She could hear herself breathing, she could hear him breathing, she could feel his hips moving, his skin sliding sensuously against hers, above her, as his body moved closer and closer. She couldn’t breathe for the hectic beat of her heart. She opened her eyes, her nails biting into his muscular upper arms as she tried to look down, to understand what was happening to her.

“No, don’t look,” he snapped when she tried to see. He kissed her eyelids, so that they had to close, and his mouth found hers again. His hand was still between them, and she was feeling things so intense that they made her mind spin.

“What are you…doing?” she gasped against his devouring mouth, shivering as the pleasure suddenly gripped her and made her body convulse.

“My God…what do you think I’m doing?” he cried out, shuddering as his hips pushed down in a pressure that sent the sun shattering behind her eyelids in a burst of pleasure so primitive that she sobbed like a child.

She couldn’t tell how he was touching her now, she didn’t care. She was moving with him, helplessly. Her taut body felt hot and tight and swollen. She felt it opening to the fullness that was alien and familiar all at once. This, she thought blindly, must be how a man prepared a woman for his body, this…!

His mouth never left her own. She was buffeted in a hard, quick rhythm that increased the fullness and the pressure, and it wasn’t enough to fill the emptiness she had inside. Her legs felt the rough brush of his as she heard the anguish that came gruffly from the lips possessing hers. She could hear someone pleading, a sobbing high voice that sounded oddly like her own. She went rigid as the feeling stretched her as tight as a cord and suddenly snapped in the most unbelievable rush of hot pleasure she’d ever known in her entire life.

She felt intimate muscles stretching, stretching, felt her body in rhythmic contractions that threatened to tear her apart. And even as they took her to a level of ecstasy she’d never dreamed existed, the plateau she’d reached fell away to reveal one even higher, more intense…

She cried out, shivering, sobbing, drowning in pleasure. She must have opened her eyes, because his face was above hers, taut and rigid, his eyes so black they might have been coals. His teeth were clenched and he was trying to say something, but he suddenly cried out and his face flooded with color. She watched him in rapt wonder, saw his eyes go black all at once, saw the helpless loss of control, the set rigor of climax that made his face clench. The pressure inside her exploded and she felt his body go rigid, convulsing under her fascinated eyes as his voice cried out hoarsely in an endless moan of pleasure. His chest strained up, away from her, his arms shivering with the convulsive pleasure. He shuddered again and again, and all the while she watched him, watched him…

He felt her eyes, hated them, hated her, even while the world was exploding under him. He thought he was going to faint with the onrush of ecstasy, reaching a level he’d never dared achieve before it left him helpless. Always, he’d been in control. He’d watched women in this anguished rictus, but he’d never allowed a woman to see it happen to him. Until now. He was helpless and Barrie could see. She could see…what he really felt. Oh, God, no…! He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. She could see everything…
everything.

The room seemed to vanish in the violence of his rapture. It was a long time before he could open his eyes and see the carpet where his cheek lay against her body. He was shaking. Under him, he felt her labored breathing, felt her cool skin touching his, felt her hands touching his hair, heard her voice whispering shaken endearments, whispering, whispering. Damn her. Damn her!

As she held him, her breasts were wet, like the rest of her body. He was heavy, lying on her. She felt his shoulders and they were cool and damp. She moved her hands and felt his thick gold hair, wet with sweat. When she moved, she felt the pressure of him deep inside her body. She gasped.

When he could breathe completely again, he lifted his head and searched her eyes with barely contained fury at his loss of command, raising himself on both elbows so that she came into focus. He looked odd. He poised above her with a dark scowl.

His jaw tightened. “I saw you watching me,” he said. “Did you enjoy it? Did it please you to watch me lose control to the extent that I couldn’t even turn my face away?”

The angry words shocked her after the intimacy they’d just shared. She didn’t understand the anger that flared in his face. He looked at her with contempt, almost hatred, his lips making a thin line. He took a rough breath and began to lift away, but she hated to lose the intimacy, the oneness he’d shared with her. Her body gripped him in protest at his upward movement, but then she suddenly cried out and her fingernails bit into him.

“Dawson, don’t!” she whispered frantically, clutching at him.

He stopped moving at once, afraid that he’d hurt her. He scowled. “What’s wrong?” he asked curtly.

Her face was rigid. She could feel the contractions inside her body. “It…hurts when you move,” she said, embarrassed. She licked her dry lips. He muttered something that made her color and started to withdraw again, but this time he did it gently, with a slow, steady pressure. It was still uncomfortable, but not painful.

She looked down and blushed as red as a rose as he lifted himself completely away from her.

He rolled away from her and got to his feet, his muscles trembling from the violence of his fulfillment and the fear her cry had aroused. Memories of the night in France came back and he couldn’t look at her.

He’d hurt her again. He jerked his clothes back on, hating his helplessness. He was just like his father, he thought furiously, a victim of his own uncontrollable desire. He wondered if Barrie had any idea how it frightened him to be at the mercy of a woman or why.

Barrie didn’t understand his coldness, but slowly her pride came to the rescue. She couldn’t bear to think of the risk she’d just taken, of the things he’d said to her. She’d welcomed him without a thought for the future, walking like a lamb into the slaughter, just as she had five years ago. Would she never learn? she wondered bitterly.

She drew herself up, wincing at the unfamiliar soreness, embarrassed and hurt as she reached for her things and began to dress, more clumsily than he had. She didn’t understand what had made him so angry. He’d wanted her. Had it only been to prove his manhood after all? He’d given her pleasure that she never expected, and at first he’d been tender, almost loving. Now he wouldn’t even look at her.

He was breathing a little unsteadily still. She didn’t seem to be damaged, at least, thank God. But as his fear for her subsided, his anger at himself only increased. His body ached with the pleasure he’d had from her, but his pride was lacerated. He’d lost himself in her. He’d been helpless, so in thrall to desire that he’d have taken her in the hall, in the car…

He turned away, unable to bear even the sight of her. He was like his father. He was a slave to his desire. And she’d seen him that way, vulnerable, helpless!

She bit her lower lip until she drew blood. “Dawson?”

He couldn’t look at her. He stared out the window with his hands tight in his pockets.

She felt cold. Her arms clenched around her body. It was impossible not to understand his attitude, even if she didn’t want to. “I see,” she said quietly. “You only wanted to know if you…could. And now that you do, I’m an embarrassment, is that it?”

“Yes,” he said, lying through his teeth to save his pride.

She hadn’t expected him to agree. She stared at him with eyes that had gone dark with shock. The clock had turned back to France, to that night in her hotel room. The only difference was that he hadn’t hurt her this time. But she felt just as cheap, just as used, as she had then.

There was really nothing else to say. She looked at him and knew that the love she’d felt for him since her teens hadn’t diminished one bit. The only difference was that now she knew what physical love truly was. She’d gloried in it, drowned in the wonder of his desire for her, given all that he asked and more. But it still wasn’t enough for him. Now she knew that it never would be. He hated his hunger for her, that was obvious even to a novice, despite the fact that he’d indulged it to the absolute satiation of his senses. He wanted her, but it was against his will, just as it had been five years ago. Maybe he hated her, too, for being the object of his desire. How ironic that he was impotent with everyone else. How tragic.

She knew that it would do no good to conduct a postmortem. He was uncommunicative, and all her efforts weren’t going to dent his reserve. She turned and went to the door, unlocking it with cold hands. Even when she went through it, he never looked her way or said a single word. Nor did she expect him to. He’d frozen over.

* * *

She took a bath and changed her clothes. Her shame was so sweeping that she couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror. There was another fact that she might have to face. He hadn’t even tried to protect her, and she’d been so hopelessly naive as to welcome the risk of a child. If she’d had any sense at all, she’d have let him writhe with his insecurities about being a man. If she’d had any sense at all, she’d have run like the wind. Which was, of course, what she was about to do.

It only took her a few minutes to pack. She put everything into her suitcase and garment bag and carried the lot down the staircase by herself. Rodge and Corlie were busy with their respective chores, so they didn’t see or hear her go out the front door. Neither did Dawson, who was still cursing himself for his lack of restraint and pride.

He didn’t realize she’d gone until he heard the car engine start up. He got to the front door in time to see her turning from the driveway onto the main highway that led to Sheridan.

For a few seconds, he watched in anguish, his first thought to go after her and bring her right back. But what would that accomplish? What could he say? That he’d made a mistake? That giving in to his passion for her had been folly and he hoped they wouldn’t both live to regret it?

He closed the front door and rested his forehead against it. He’d wanted to know that he was still a whole man, and now he knew that he was. But only with Barrie. He didn’t want any other woman. The desire he felt for Barrie was sweeping and devouring, it made him helpless, it made him vulnerable. If she knew how desperately he wanted her, she could use him, wound him, destroy him.

He couldn’t give anyone the sort of power over him that Barrie’s mother had held over George Rutherford. He’d actually seen her tease George into a frenzy, into begging for her body. Barrie didn’t know. She’d never known that her mother had used George’s desire for her to make him do anything she liked. But Dawson knew. A woman with that kind of power over a man would abuse it. She couldn’t help herself. And Barrie had years of Dawson’s own cruelty to avenge. How could he blame her if she wanted to make him pay for the way he’d treated her?

He didn’t dare let Barrie stay. She’d seen him totally at the mercy of his desire, but she didn’t, thank God, know how complete her victory was. He could let her leave thinking he’d turned his back on her, and that was for the best. It would save his pride.

From his childhood, he’d known that women liked to find a weakness and exploit it. Hadn’t his own mother called him a weakling when he’d begged to be held and loved as a toddler? She’d made him pay for being born. And then George had married Barrie’s mother, and he’d seen the destructive pattern of lust used as a bargaining tool, he’d seen again the contempt women had for a man’s weaknesses. He’d seen how his father had been victimized by his own desire and love. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to him. He wasn’t going to be vulnerable!

Barrie thought he’d only wanted to prove his manhood; she’d think he’d used her. Let her. She wouldn’t get the chance to gloat over his weakness, as her mother had gloated over his father’s. She wouldn’t ever know that his possession of her today had been the most wondrous thing that had ever happened to him in his life, that her body had given him a kind of ecstasy that he’d never dreamed he was capable of experiencing. All the barriers had come down, all the reserve, all the holding back.

He’d…given himself to her.

His hands clenched violently. Yes, he could admit that, but only to himself. He’d gone the whole way, dropped all the pretense, in those few seconds of glorious oblivion in her arms. He hated that she’d seen his emotions naked in his eyes while he was helpless, but that couldn’t be helped now. It was the first time in his life that he’d ever been able to give himself to pure physical pleasure, and it was probably only due to the enforced abstinence of sex. Yes. Surely that was the only reason he’d had such pleasure from her.

Of course, she’d had pleasure from him, too. It touched something in him to realize how completely he’d satisfied her in spite of her earlier fear. He felt pride that he’d been able to hold back at least that far, that he’d healed the scars he’d given her during their first intimacy.

But wouldn’t it be worse for her, now that she knew what kind of pleasure lay past the pain? And wouldn’t she be hurt and wounded even more now by his rejection, after she’d given in to him so completely? His only thought had been for his pride, but now he had to consider the new scars she was going to have. Why hadn’t he let her go while there was still time? He groaned aloud.

“Dawson?” Corlie called from the kitchen doorway. “Don’t you and Barrie want any lunch?”

“Barrie’s gone,” he said stiffly, straightening, with his back to her.

“Gone? Without saying goodbye?”

“It was…an emergency.” He invented an excuse. “A call from a friend in Tucson who needed her to help with some summer school project. She said she’d phone you later.”