Rebel (27 page)

I would have cried out when his mouth withdrew, but he simply moved to the other breast, giving it the attention I craved, this time sucking harder, biting harder; and to my astonishment I felt a spasm of pure sensation rock my body, making my womb clench. I had climaxed from his mouth on my breasts. What kind of wanton was I?

The best kind,
his answer came out of nowhere, voiceless, but I knew it was Cain. It was all right.
Every woman should be a wanton with her lover.

Are you my lover?

What do you think?
Even in my head he sounded sardonic, but I didn’t mind. That was Cain.

And I could have him any way I wanted him, I knew that instinctively. I could lie passive and responsive, letting him pleasure me, cover me, make love to me. I didn’t have to do a thing.

Suddenly that wasn’t enough. His mouth was drifting across my stomach, and for a moment I worried that he could feel the faint unevenness of the scars that marred my body. And then I forgot all about it when he moved lower, pressing his mouth against the soft curls that protected my sex.

Instinctively I closed my legs, and he laughed.
You aren’t getting away with that.
He pressed my legs apart, gently, inexorably, and after my initial resistance I let go, letting him move down, lick me between my legs, a slow, erotic sweep of his tongue, as if he was savoring the taste of me.
Yes, I am,
the words came.

Stay out of my head,
I protested silently, and I felt the soft brush of his laughter against me.

I’m going to be everywhere inside you, angel,
he said.
And you’re going to want me there. Stop fighting what you want and claim it.

Arrogant bastard,
I thought, glad he could hear me.
And
I’m
not the angel,
you
are.

Most people would disagree,
he said, and then the conversation vanished as he put his mouth against me, licking my clitoris with such precision that I made a raw sound of pure need, a tiny, shivering orgasm sweeping over me once more.

You’re too easy,
he said, and I froze, ashamed once more.
Stop it,
he added, lifting his head, and his cool fingers replaced his mouth, stroking me, sliding inside me, and I was wet, and ashamed, and wanted to pull away even as his wicked fingers kept my arousal at a fever pitch. He slid upward, pulling me into his arms, trapping me there when I wanted to turn away. His mouth was at my ear, and this time the words were spoken, distinct in the noiseless night.

“You are a responsive, beautiful woman, Miss Mary.” He felt my immediate stiffening, and he laughed. “Yes, love, I know you’re Martha. Plain-speaking, straightforward, working in the kitchen while everyone else gets the goodies. But for me you’re Miss Mary, lush and private and mine. And when I lick your pussy, I want you to come.”

The words shocked me.

“And when I fuck you, I want you to come so hard you scream,” he said. And his words were another forbidden arousal.

Then do it
. My silent demand hung in the night air, but to my surprise, he simply laughed.

“Too soon for that, darling,” he said against my throat. “This is going to take all night.”

I shivered in anticipation, not certain if I was aroused or afraid. Or both. His hand was still between my legs, stroking softly, and he pulled me to him with his other arm. I pushed my face against the smooth
warmth of his chest, hiding from his too-observant gaze, relaxing into the slow, sensuous touch of his long fingers against me, inside me. I had climaxed twice with him, an astonishment, and I knew there was nothing I needed to do right then. I didn’t have to pretend to have an orgasm; I didn’t even need to struggle to achieve one. In a strange way, it felt as if coming twice meant I had already done my duty, and I could just curl up against him, letting him touch me as much as he wanted to, rubbing my face against his hot skin like a kitten while I enjoyed being stroked and petted.

“Now, when did sex become such a chore?” he whispered in my ear as the rough tips of his fingers teased my clitoris, and I jerked, startled at my own fierce reaction. “You don’t have to prove anything. There aren’t any rules in this bed.” He moved his head slightly, so that his breath was hot and arousing against my ear as two fingers slid inside me, deep, a slow, erotic sweep that had me tightening my hold on him.

He was still listening to my thoughts. I didn’t ask him how he could do that—Thomas never could. I opened my mouth to tell him not to, but once more I was mute, nothing more than a rough sound coming out, and I shut it again. I wasn’t going to think about anything. I was going to keep my mind a white-cloud blank. I was going to—

I spasmed, arching off the bed, burying my face against him as another climax rocked me, and he held me, hard, prolonging it so that I froze, breathless, my entire body trapped in a tight knot of explosive power.

He eased me out of it slowly, gentling me down, and I was vaguely aware of an anger that he understood women’s bodies, that he understood
my
body so well that he could arouse and shatter me with ridiculous ease. As I sank back against him, my face wet with inexplicable tears, part of me wanted to punch him, hit him, hurt him, simply for knowing me too well.

He threaded his hand through my hair, his mouth brushing away my tears. “You think too much,” he said, this strange, half-spoken, half-thought conversation part of my resentment. “Just take the pleasure and stop fighting.”

I could. I could let him do anything he wanted to me, let it take all night. He could stay in charge, manipulating me, pleasuring me, controlling me. Or I could see what I could do to shake his complacency.

I reached my hands up, cupping his face, and for the first time in my life I did the unthinkable. I kissed a man. All my life I had been the one who was kissed, the receiver of pleasure, never the giver. All that was about to change.

I pressed too hard at first, pushing him back, and
then I softened it, tasting him, letting my tongue trace the outline of his lips, slide between them to taste his tongue. His quiet sound of surprise hit me low in the belly, and I smiled against his mouth. I was liking this, far more than I’d ever expected.

I slid my hands down over his smooth chest, letting my fingers trace the outline of his taut muscles, the sleek heat of him, the hard points of his nipples, and on impulse I leaned down and licked one. He jerked in response, and I liked that even more. I licked the other one, and then fastened my mouth over it, as he had done to me. It was tricky—there wasn’t much to latch onto—but his response made it worth the trouble, his muttered curse music to my ears.

“You’re wading in dangerous waters, Miss Mary,” he growled low in his throat, and the name felt like an endearment. I let my hand move down over his flat stomach until I reached the beginning curls of hair, and I hesitated. Nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. It was a body part, just like any other. It had been inside me already—it was time to learn it. I reached down and slid my hand over his cock, determined not to jerk away.

It was astonishing—smooth and silky to the touch, hard as iron, hot and almost pulsing in my hand. My fingertips traced the veins that stood out, drifted over the head, already damp with arousal,
and slid down to cup his testicles, heavy and hot in my hand. He groaned, and I wondered if he was listening to my thoughts, but he said nothing, and I smiled. I’d finally managed to shake him from his self-assured control.

I moved my mouth down, kissing the flatness of his navel, letting my tongue dance in the silken trace of hair, and suddenly I wanted more. I wanted to taste him; I wanted him in my mouth, at my mercy; and before I could think twice I shifted my head down and took him, bringing his hard cock deep into my sucking mouth.

He cursed, a string of foul, utterly arousing words, and his hands twined in my hair, not holding me there, simply caressing me as my tongue learned the contours, the texture, every bump and ridge. His skin was different there, tasted different, and I experimented, bringing my mouth up to encircle only the head, then sinking back down to encase as much as I possibly could, then repeating it, and suddenly the pleasure wasn’t for him, it was for me, arousing me impossibly, so that I was shaking, sweating, wanting so much from him, wanting this surrender. The taste, the silk, the suck of him, filling me . . .

He pulled my head away, and I fought him for a moment, then gave in, let him pull me up and cover my mouth with his, his kiss hungry and demanding; and I realized with shock that I’d almost brought
myself to another of the seemingly endless orgasms simply by using my mouth on him. Who would have thought that such a forbidden act could bring such pleasure? My state of arousal was so high that it wouldn’t take much to put me over the edge again, but I tried to hold back as he pushed me down onto the mattress, following me, moving between my legs.

He was covered with a film of sweat, shaking slightly, and I wanted to laugh in triumph.
I thought this was going to take all night?
I sent the thought out to him, not yet trusting my voice.

“It will,” he said, sounding faintly grim. “But right now I can’t wait anymore, you witch.” He positioned the thick head of his cock against me. Now that I’d felt it, touched it, tasted it, the thought was even more arousing, and I was shaking too, waiting for the heavy thrust that would claim me.

Instead he pushed in slowly, so slowly I wanted to scream. I could feel everything as he sank in, and he felt bigger than ever, moving through the slickness of my own arousal, no pain, just a slow, inexorable claiming that was making me shake and shiver and arch against him, trying to hurry his possession, trying to pull him in, but his control was back, and he refused to be rushed. “I want you to feel this,” he whispered against my ear. “I want you to be so caught up in you and me that there isn’t room for anything else. Not doubt, not control, not trust or
Thomas or any of the thousands of reasons you don’t want this. I want you to think only about why you do. Why you want me inside you. Why it feels like you’d die if you didn’t feel me inside you. And then you’ll understand what I’ve been feeling for the past week, every time I look at you.”

I tried to punch at him, but I was too caught up in the sensations rocketing through me, and I simply clutched the sheet below me, arching my hips for the final thrust that brought him into me completely.

Instinctively I squeezed the walls of my sex, trying to draw him in even deeper. He cursed again. “Martha, you’re going to kill me,” he said.

My name. And he began to move, slow, steady thrusts that shook my body, shook the bed, shook him. I wrapped my legs around his hips, reveling in the feel of him, and we began the slow, inexorable dance of love and the little death that felt cataclysmic. He felt so damned good.

I closed my eyes and let it flow over me as he rocked me, rocked us into a deeper kind of sensuality than I had even guessed existed. When his hands slid under my butt, bringing me up even higher, I managed a surprised sound as the momentary discomfort brought an odd stab of even stronger arousal, and my sudden, ungovernable need made me almost panicky, my fingers reaching up to dig into his shoulders, clawing at him as he moved faster and faster,
until we were both covered with sweat and he was slamming into me, hard, so hard.

And then he froze as time stood still, and he stared down at me, wild and lost and loving, and this time when I exploded he came with me, hot semen flooding me, his indrawn breath the only sound he made as he shook in my arms, rigid.

He collapsed against me, and I knew the wetness on his face was sweat, not tears, but I could fool myself, couldn’t I? Stray, lingering convulsions rippled through my body, and at each one he groaned, his cock twitching inside me in reaction.

It wasn’t enough, and I couldn’t imagine what my lingering sense of need meant. I was drained, exhausted, trembling in his arms as he kissed my face, my mouth, my neck, and then I knew what I needed. He had filled me with his life’s essence. I needed to give him mine. I wouldn’t be complete until I did, and the last bit of fear dissolved into a different kind of lust. The lust to give, to be taken in an entirely different way.

I reached up, my hands weak and shaking, and caught his head as he started to move downward on my body. I brought him to my neck, and I could feel his mouth, hot and demanding, his tongue licking my skin, his teeth, just a tease; and with sudden despair I realized that was all he would do, until I told him otherwise.

I said the damning words. “I love you,” I managed to squeeze out the merest breath of sound, but it was in the air, alive, shocking. “And I think you love me. I want you to take me. Take . . . my blood.”

I don’t know what I expected. He didn’t hesitate, the permission unleashing whatever trace of restraint he had left. He bit deep, hard; and for a brief moment the pain shocked me, only to be followed by the most exquisite pleasure imaginable, almost better than sex. Almost. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close against me as he drank, sucking at me, and this time the final climax was no surprise at all.

C
AIN WOKE FIRST, THE BRIGHT
light of day streaming in the French doors, illuminating everything. Martha lay curled in his arms, relaxed, trusting, and he could see the dried traces of tears on her face. He’d always wondered why women cried when they had sex. The most blissful moment life had to offer shouldn’t bring tears as well, but for the first time he had an inkling of just why. There were the rare times when the pleasure was so intense it seemed too much to withstand. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt that way before, but there had to have been numerous times. If he stopped to think, he’d come up with them, but right then he didn’t want to think about anyone but Martha.

He should pull away from her. She thought she was in love with him. Even worse, she thought he
loved her. Women didn’t understand that great sex could be just that. And the sex had been beyond great. It had been bone-shattering. But he couldn’t afford to be sentimental. The shit was about to hit the fan, or had already, and he couldn’t waste time lying in bed with her. The night had been long, he’d been hungry, and she’d managed to keep up with him. He wasn’t sure which of them had passed out first, and his morning hard-on was getting worse the more he thought about it. The damned thing was going to fall off if he didn’t give it a break. He pulled out of her arms carefully, letting her settle back in a gorgeous sprawl of limbs.