Running Wild (31 page)

And he was still downstairs. Drinking. Alone.

In the distance, she heard a clock striking the half hour.
Half past two.

Well that was quite enough, she decided throwing back the
sheets. She was going to discover what was wrong. She slid her feet into a pair
of slippers and reached for her blue velvet wrapper to cover the almost sheer
silk of her nightgown. It was still so warm, though, she thought looking at the
wrapper. What had she to cover at any rate? Nicholas did not want her, not even
when she lay half-naked on the beach. What use was there in the wrapper? None.

She descended the stairs and crossed the hall. Light spilled
through the partially open parlor door, and the clink of crystal rang in her
ears as she slipped inside.

Nicholas stood bent over a parlor table, pouring brandy from
a decanter into an already half-full glass. He lifted his head when she
entered, stared a moment, then straightened. His dark blue eyes wandered over
her body, and her breath caught in her throat.

He’d stripped off most of his clothing, leaving only his
shoes, pants and collarless pleated shirt. At some point he’d unbuttoned the
shirt, exposing his upper chest to her greedy gaze. He’d rolled up his sleeves
as well, and as he lifted his glass to his lips, the muscles of his forearm
contracted, displaying the strength generally hidden under fabric. After a
couple of gulps, he let his arm fall to his side again. A slow, lascivious
scrutiny of her person followed, and then his gaze caught hers. His eyes
glittered with scarcely controlled lust.

“Miz Montgomery,” he said in a harsh, low voice. “Somethin’
I can do for you?”

“You’re—you’re drinking,” she stuttered, for it was
difficult to think when he looked at her like that.

“Yeah. It’s the best way to get drunk.”

She took a deep breath. An ocean breeze rolled through the
open windows, lifting the curtains and bringing his scent with it: male musk,
combined with pine and leather and gun smoke. The breeze flowed over her skin
but did nothing to cool the desire that sight and scent ignited. “You seem to
have accomplished that already.”

“Hours ago. Now I’m just maintainin’.”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps you ought to go to bed instead.”

His eye twitched and he took another sip of his drink. His
gaze roamed boldly over her breasts, her belly, along her thighs and then back
up again. It felt physical, as if he was touching her. “If I could sleep,” he
said, “I wouldn’t be drinkin’.”

“But how would you know that if you haven’t attempted it?”

His jaw, dark with a day’s stubble, clenched. A delicious
little thrill fluttered in her belly. He wanted her. In spite of all he’d said,
he
still
wanted her. “Go back to bed, Star.”

The sound of her name on his lips brought memories of the
better moments on the beach, the marvel of his hard kiss and the magic of his
fingers exploring her private areas. Her blood tingled in heady recollection,
then flowed downward to settle between her thighs. “I couldn’t sleep, either.”

Eyes narrowing, he leaned against the wing chair next to
him. Not for support, she supposed, but to appear casual. It didn’t work. Every
beautiful muscle in his beautiful body was taut. Her hands yearned to run over
them, his arms, his chest, relishing the power moving under her fingertips.

“You oughta know better than to sashay around a man at this
time of night dressed like that.” He paused. “I can see through most of that
gown, and what I can’t see, I can damned well recollect.”

He looked raw, dangerous, and exciting. Tendrils of fearful
expectation trickled along her skin and tripped through her belly, then
downward. Why had she never before considered using alcohol to seduce him?

She took a step toward him.

His eyes widened and he straightened. “
Sonuvabitch
,”
he swore. “If you aren’t the stupidest woman on the planet. I’m drunk and
you’re barely clothed and it’s the middle of the night. I don’t have a whole
lotta self-control right now, woman, and I’m past the point where I give a damn
about findin’ it. If you’ve got a lick of sense you’ll high-tail it outta
here,” he said, motioning to the door with his glass, “because you got just
about two minutes before I cross this room, drag you to that couch and take
what you’re offering with that gown.”

Her heart fluttered as desire turned into a sweet ache in
her most private regions.

She took three more paces into the room.

Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Shakespeare, Hamlet

The booze hadn’t done a thing to dull Nick’s hunger. Three
hours of drinking made his brain foggy, but his eyes were working just fine. As
soon as Star entered the room, his body started working, too. Ah hell, any
man’s would, seein’ a woman dressed that way. Her nightgown was so sheer that
he could see her nipples tighten in arousal as his gaze ranged over her body.
And she wore nothing, not a
stitch
underneath. Anticipation flashed
across his skin, and his blood galloped through his veins, turning that hunger
to hard, driving lust. All the booze did was drown his conscience.

His didn’t miss her three steps into the room, either.

She wanted him, even after the misery on the beach, and why
shouldn’t she? She wanted all men. She’d proven so these last weeks. First, she
seduced him into taking her virginity. Afterward, bored with him—he’d never
been more than a plaything to her—she sought out other toys. Back to her
Society beaus, who now took what she offered without guilt about ruinin’ her,
cuz he’d done it for ’em.

As his brain overflowed with visions of her in other men’s
arms, he slammed his glass down on the table, careless of the fifty-year-old
brandy sloshing ever the sides. He crossed the room to seize her shoulders in a
crushing grip. She winced but stood her ground, cuz Star never backed down to
anything, even when she ought to. In fact, her lips parted in invitation, while
she stared up at him with those wildcat eyes, burning with desire, rimmed by
fear. Fear of him.

Star liked fear.

He bent his head to take her mouth in a fierce kiss, his
lips unyielding as his tongue plundered those recesses, leaving nothing
untasted, untouched. He wanted what she’d given to those men, everything, all
of her. Wanted to erase every trace of those bastards from her body and mind,
wanted to hear her protest his treatment and beg forgiveness for her treachery.
But mostly he wanted her response—savage, wanton, untamed.

He got it. She threaded her fingers through his hair and
kissed him back, meeting every challenge with one of her own. For a time they
battled for control of the kiss. Then he slid his hands down to her hips to
press her against his erection, glorying in the feel of her muscle under her
woman’s curves. She was hard and soft, tough yet yielding, always ready for a
new contest, determined to win and win big.

In this, though, they could both win, the prize being mind-melting
ecstasy. Blood pounded in his ears, and he ground against her, his body
instinctively hunting for the wet cave to sheathe himself, hidden under that
gown.

Gasping, she pulled her head back. It was the only movement
she could make; he’d locked his arms around her waist. “Nicholas. . . .” she
rasped.

“No, damn it,” he snarled. He captured her mouth again to
silence any objection and forced her lips apart for a second battle. She
struggled. Then he slid one hand up to caress her breast, thumbing the peak.
Moaning, she relented, granting access for another desperate rape of a kiss.
She leaned into him, surrendering to his strength, yielding to his will.
Holding tight, he moved her backward, toward the couch, as a small voice in the
back of his mind whispered
wrong. This is wrong
.

But he was still enraged and rock hard and determined to
have her. He’d show her how a real man felt inside her, instead of the pomaded
and perfumed dandies she’d opened her legs for.

He pushed her onto the couch. With one knee between her
thighs and one on the floor, he continued kissing her, forcing her backward
until she lay stretched out on the sofa. Her breasts flattened out, and her
nipples, pebbled with excitement, pressed against the flimsy fabric of her
gown. She stared up at him with big round eyes, panting.

And didn’t say a word.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.
The whisper became a chant as he
slid down her body to take one clothed nipped in his mouth. It tickled his
tongue. He sucked on the peak, while hiking the skirt of her gown up to her
waist. Closing her eyes, she moaned again, grasping his shoulders, adding fuel
to the fire down below.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She’s not saying no. . .
.

He slid his hand over her belly and through the tight snatch
of curls and between her legs. She was wet, damn near dripping. His heart
started galloping as he dipped a finger inside, then spread more of that warm
honey through her folds, seeking and finding her swollen bud. She cried out,
her hips jerking. Her breasts jiggled invitingly, and her cries turned to
whimpers. His blood surged, making him almost unbearably hard, desperate to
feel her closing around him. Clenching his teeth, he fought for restraint and
continued a light, rhythmic stroking. The smell of her woman’s desire rose from
her body, enclosing him a sensual embrace, as a beautiful rose flush colored
her cheeks and crept down her neck. Her face grew taut and her legs shook,
signaling her approaching climax. Watching her, hearing her, pushed him toward
the edge, too. Much longer—

She arched slightly and then let out a low keening scream as
she came against his hand.

Breathing heavily, he tore at the buttons of his pants and
the ties of his drawers, freeing himself. After finding her entrance, he
growled his victory and plunged inside.

She jerked. Her eyes flew open.

Damn she was
tight. Still.

Another thrust, as deep as he could with one knee on the
sofa and one foot on the floor.

Unbelievably tight, a hot, wet grip around his erection.

“Nick . . .” she breathed, staring at him with wide gold
eyes. “Oh please . . .” The words turned into a moan and she closed her eyes.
Was he hurting her? It must hurt if she was that tight. Another moan and she
clutched at his arm, her nails digging into him as her muscles tensed. Damn,
damn
,
not again.

For God’s sake, Nick, withdraw
.

He couldn’t. His body demanded release. Then a flush colored
her neck, her back arched, and with another low cry, she came. Her face creased
in ecstasy and the rolling spasms of her orgasm squeezed him. It was too much.
Heat grabbed him at the root, surged upward, and with two more thrusts, it
burst forth, rocking him in pleasure. For a moment her eyes widened in wonder,
another convulsion gripped him, and with a low, sweet sigh, she fell back. She
shut her eyes again.

He closed his, too, and slumped against the couch back,
trying to catch his breath. She was still so remarkably tight, hugging his
slowly shrinking cock in a wet embrace.

Because, a little voice said in the back of his mind, she
wasn’t like Eva or May, loose after servicing many different men . . . because
she’d never been with any other men.

The voice rose. Echoed.
No other men
.

Just him.

Two weeks of heaviness lifted from his chest, leaving it so
light it felt like his heart might float away. Until he looked at her. Until
his eyes took in her closed lids and her arm flung over her head. Her nightgown
was rucked up, exposing her female parts like she was a whore. That was exactly
how he’d treated her, cussing at her, ignoring any objections and overcoming her
struggles with brute strength to drag her to this couch and all but force
himself on her. On her
parents’
couch no less, while they slept above
him.

Guilt settled like a yoke on his shoulders.

***

Star could barely breathe. Her heart was flying; her skin tingled.
The brandy-taste of Nicholas’s kisses lingered in her mouth, and those areas
down below, why she could find no words to describe it. No good words at all
events, for the marvelous way it had reacted to Nicholas’s touch, both inside
and out. Nothing she’d ever read on the subject came close to describing that
wondrous joining of bodies. And hearts? Well at least
her
heart had been
engaged and for now, that was enough.

Night breezes flowed through the open windows and over her
body. Ah but she could stay this way forever, somewhere between heaven and
reality, reveling in the magic of her lover inside of her, the sound of his
harsh breathing, music to her ears.

“Sonovabitch.”

Except that Nicholas was cursing.

Why was he cursing?

He withdrew from her, leaving her empty, and she could not
contain a tiny whimper of disappointment. His wool pants brushed against her
thighs as he shifted backward. Thoughtfully, he pulled the hem of her gown down
to cover her private parts.

With a little sigh, Star opened her eyes. Nicholas was
sitting at the opposite end of the couch, fully clothed, or at least as much as
he had been earlier. Smiling sleepily, she sat up, too, propping herself in the
corner of the couch to correct for her still-languid muscles.

Oddly enough, Nicholas’s countenance was not an ear-to-ear
grin as she’d have expected, but blank. “Here,” he said handing her a
handkerchief, “you’ll need this.”

“Oh,” she said. He was correct. An unfamiliar warmth was
spreading between her legs: his seed, leaking out of her. Gracious, but she’d
never thought of that. She attended it while he sat mutely, some heavy emotion
settling over him like a cloud.