Passion's Mistral (22 page)

between her legs to cup her very essence.

A groan of need echoed in Silkie’s throat. Her hips arched upward from the mattress as she pressed her

core against the invasion of his hand. Eyes flaring wide, nostrils drawing in labored breaths, she could feel

the pulsation of his blood traveling along his long fingers, transmitting that pounding rhythm to her

receptive lips, dragging from her a response she could not contain. Wetness oozed forth, seeping forth

like dew falling from a rose at dawn.

“You are mine, little cat,” he whispered. “Never forget that.”

His middle finger drew upward, lightly traveling the valley between her nether lips, then slid authoritatively

into her moist center, driving deep.

Silkie thought she would pass out from the sheer intensity of the sensation focused between her open

legs. The heat of his palm cupped possessively around her, the conquering invasion of his finger, made it

impossible for her to do more than produce a muffled growl, the susurration nothing more than a keening

sound of submission.

He withdrew his finger slightly and at her whimper of denial, he smiled, gazing into her pleading eyes with

a knowing look. The finger returned to its pebbled depths, probing as deeply as its length would allow.

Sighing with relief, Silkie closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly closed as his finger began moving in a

tight circle within her silken depths.

“There was a time when I would have allowed you to lie there so passively, my precious whore,” he said.

Lifting his leg, he ran the sole of his foot along her shin from ankle to knee and back again. “I would have

taken you quickly as you deserve then left you to that impotent fool you call your husband.”

Silkie’s eyes flew open and she glared at her tormentor. She pulled angrily against the bonds, grunting

beneath the restriction of the gag.

He laughed at her fury. “Ah, you do hate me to insult that worthless sap, don’t you?” Her growl seemed

to amuse him more and a sparkle entered his amber eyes for a moment before his smile fled, his jaw

clenched. With a look that sent a shudder of apprehension through his victim, he thrust two more fingers

inside her, stretching the tender flesh.

“Bitch,” he hissed, twisting his fingers, withdrawing them then driving again deeply. “I’ll make you forget

him or die trying!”

Whimpering with barely restrained passion, Silkie levered her hips upward, striving to impale her lower

body on the power of his questing hand.

“I want you to feel me, little cat,” he vowed. “I want you to—”

The jarring intrusion of the telephone made Silkie groan with frustration. She watched her attacker jerk

the receiver up and bark at the caller. So close was the attacker’s face to hers, she could hear the

conversation from the other end.

“I hate to bother you, but—”

“Then don’t!”

“I thought you might like to know your mother is in the lobby,” Henri whispered.

“What?” Patrick shouted, sitting up. His eyes were wide, his face beet red.

“She just hiked across the island and she and Bradford are talking to Derek about getting circum—”

“I’ll be right there!”

Silkie sighed. “No more playtime, huh?”

Patrick glanced down at her. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.” He reached out to stroke her face. “What

do you desire this evening, milady?”

Silkie thought about it for a moment. “We haven’t done the savage Indian and captive white woman yet,

have we?”

Her husband grinned. “No.”

She yawned. “Go see what Fay wants then get back here, Sugar Buns, while I’m still in the mood for

love.”

He was out of the bed like a shot, ducking into the bathroom of their new Victorian-era styled house.

She lifted her head and through the open door watched him jabbing his arms into a white cotton shirt then

stabbing the shirttail into a pair of faded blue jeans. He disappeared for a moment and the smell of that

very expensive French men’s cologne Henri gave him twice yearly—birthday and at Christmas—wafted

back to her. She smiled at him when he reappeared, hopping on one foot as he jammed his other foot

into a sneaker.

“Calm down,” she recommended.

“She is at the resort!” he complained. “At the resort! I’m going to have a long talk with my mother!”

She turned her head as he stomped to the door, his shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world

had suddenly settled upon them.

“Paddy?” she called out in a sweet voice.

“Um,” he replied as he jerked open the bedroom door.

“Do you think you could untie me before you go?”

The End