The Lover (8 page)

"Yes." There were so many things he would not have to lie to her about.

"What would you do… if I stayed now?"

The ache in his groin crawled up through his body, lodged inside his chest.

Pillowing her head with his left hand, he ran his right hand over the line of her shoulder—memorizing the delicate protrusion of bones, the indentation of her waist, the soft, luscious curve of her hip. "Do you want to stay with me…
now
?"

A delicate pink flush suffused her face. "Yes."

Michael grasped her knee, pulled it up and over his hip until her thigh notched his waist. "For sex."

"Yes."

The moist heat of her vulva seared his manhood. She was open. Unprotected.

An unwitting victim.

Forcefully he blocked the memories of what the man had done to him. To Diane.

Of what he would do to Anne.

"And will you lie to me?" he asked, needing her willingness, her openness, her naked passion.

Anne tentatively grasped his shoulders, leery of touching him, still afraid that
he
would reject
her
. "Why would I lie to you?"

Firmly securing her thigh, he grazed her swollen mouth with his, and eased his left hand out from underneath her head.

"Sometimes a lie is all that protects us." Michael tunneled his left hand underneath the pulsating warmth of her and clasped her buttocks—the velvety skin there was softer even than her face and breasts. "But there's no need to lie. Not to me." He feathered the crevice between her buttocks before slipping lower to seek out the core of her. "We both want… we both need… this."

Her vagina was burning hot. And wet.

Anne flinched at the insertion of his finger. "I don't know if I can take you right now. I'm… tender."

Michael could not promise that he wouldn't hurt her. In the end they would both be hurt. Or dead.

Shielding the truth with his lashes, he caressed her lips with his. "Do you trust me?"

"If I did not, I would not be here in your bed."

An invisible fist slammed into his gut.

He should give her to Gabriel.

Michael moved his finger back, circled tightly puckered flesh.

Anne tensed, frantically wriggled, was held firm by his arms and by her hair. "What are you doing?"

"I told you at the tavern that by the end of the night I would know your every crevice… your every orifice."

Jesus.

His finger was enveloped in blistering heat—hotter even than the fire that had burned him a lifetime earlier. He swallowed her gasp.

She tore her mouth away from his, hands lodging between their chests, pushing to escape the unexpected invasion.

But there was no escape.

"Put me inside you, Anne."

"But you have—"

"It is the French way. Relax. Take me. Many things will seem strange to you at first. I haven't touched a woman like this in five years. There's a special place inside you I want to caress. Let me give you pleasure, Anne."

"I don't want—"

But she did.

"What?" he mercilessly interrupted. "You don't want to explore the boundaries of passion? Wouldn't you like, just this once, to experience everything… every touch… every pleasure… that a man and a woman can experience together?"

Anne bit her lip, caught between propriety and a woman's curiosity. "Yes. That is why I came to you."

Even in this she would not lie.

"Then take me. Put me inside you."

Michael helped her, using his right hand to guide her trembling fingers until his manhood was gripped in a different kind of heat than that which bathed the middle finger on his left hand.

She convulsively gripped his waist with her strong thigh, inadvertently pulling him deeper. "Oh, my God!"

Michael kissed Anne's eyelids closed, unable to bear the stark emotion in her gaze.

He hurt her and she still trusted him to please her.

"Move with me." Her eyelashes tickled his lips. He carefully commenced the rocking motion that would ultimately bring them to completion. "Take your pleasure."

Make me forget…

Her body unwittingly responded to his, as it had in the night house. As it had when he had taken her maidenhead.

Michael watched her face—and did not think of the man who waited for him. He thought only of Anne Aimes.

A slight frown gathered between her eyebrows—they were a darker brown than her lashes, the same color as her pubic hair—as she concentrated on obtaining her release. He could feel her orgasm gathering inside her, could feel the pulse of his own need through the thin membrane that separated his finger and his manhood.

Her expression told him everything: where to touch. When to slow down. When to speed up. How deep to plunge. At what angle to penetrate. When to be gentle.
When to be rough
…

Anne's eyelids snapped open.

Her pale blue eyes burned with passion.

For him. With him.

"I want—" Anne gasped, instinctively arching her back when he flexed inside her.

He wanted, too
. So many things.

Her muscles tightened around him; Michael had to work to maintain the rhythm. He gritted his teeth; stinging sweat trickled down his temple.

"When you orgasm…" She matched him breath for breath. "I want you… to cry out… like you made me… cry out!"

He had not cried out when the man had taken him.

Would it have helped?

Had it helped Diane?

Would it help Anne?

A face was reflected in her dilated pupils—it was naked with need, curiously vulnerable in its single-minded intent, open mouth gasping for air, nostrils flared in undisguised want.

With a start of shock Michael recognized himself.

He didn't want her to see him like this.

The madam's tutelage came to his rescue.

"Come with me!" he harshly urged her. Expertly he twisted his wrist at the same time that he flexed his pelvis. "Now!"

Surprise etched Anne's flushed face. She threw her head back and cried out her release.

Michael buried his face in the hot, moist crook of her neck. Her muscles clamped his manhood and his finger in a fist-tight vise, fusing their flesh into one. For a brief second
he
was Anne Aimes, lost in innocent pleasure. An agonized groan vibrated in his chest, his lips, the tendons cording his throat. Then his seed burst from him and pooled inside the rubber condom, a hot bath of sperm.

Reason returned with release.

Stealing a woman's innocence would not bring back his own.

He inhaled the scent of roses, sex, and sweat, trapped in the spinster woman's hair and the ripples of her orgasm. He wondered how many more little deaths they would have before the final one.

Anne awoke with a start to palpitating, rose-scented sunshine. A white-enameled ceiling bordered by a cornice of gilded leaves stared down at her. Pale green silk climbed the walls. Brass gleamed—the footposts of a bed.

She shifted her hand across a cool, slippery-soft sheet and touched a hip.

A naked hip.

Her hip.

"Good morning."

Throbbing recognition pulsed through her body. It settled in the raw, swollen flesh between her thighs.

The pungency of sex and sweat abruptly overwhelmed the sweetness of roses.

Anne swiveled her head on the silk-encased pillow.

White-enameled wood and sparkling panes of glass materialized out of blinding sunshine—French doors. A man's dark head solidified out of shimmering dust motes—Michel des Anges.

Scalding embarrassment flooded her face.

He had told her he would make her cry out.

And he had.

Again and again.

Anne gripped slick handfuls of silk to prevent herself from flinging back the covers and running away as fast as her legs would carry her.

The medical conspectus had not cited the repercussions of coition. There had been no reference to the emotional cleaving that occurred with shared orgasm. No mention of the whispered exchange of confidences that exposed loneliness and incited lust.

She was not prepared for this.

Penetration
, yes.
Possession
, perhaps. But not this—awakening in the bed of a man who had stripped away her every inhibition to reveal her for the love-starved woman that she was.

"Good morning," she offered stiltedly, acutely aware of her unwashed face, uncombed hair, and unbrushed teeth.

Michel set aside a neatly quartered newspaper and rose from a yellow silk-upholstered chaise lounge.

His black hair was damp. It curled over the edge of his white linen shirt collar.

It had been damp last night, too. With sweat.

Hers
and
his
.

Memories flooded her consciousness—of him striding toward her, naked, with the full, heavy thrust of his penis swaying side to side.

How deeply will you penetrate me, monsieur*

Nine and a half inches, mademoiselle.

She instinctively glanced at the vee of his thighs as he strode toward her now.

The gray wool trousers were tented.

Do you always… get erect when you are with a woman?

Yes.

Immediately her glance darted upward.

He loomed over the bed, taller than she remembered, larger than she remembered.

Save for his penis.

She remembered that as being very large.

The scars ridging his right cheek sharpened. "A hot bath will ease your soreness."

Anne forced herself not to look away from his violet eyes—eyes that had seen both her nakedness and her need. "Thank you. I will take one when I get home."

A muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. "I did not please you?"

She took a deep, fortifying breath—
if she could solicit a sexual

liaison in the dark of night, she could face the consequences of her actions in the light of day
. "You must know that you did."

"But not enough for you to take me as your lover."

Her heart tripped inside her chest.

She was not the same woman who had demanded that he taste her, lick her, and who had then taken her pleasure.

Any more than he was the same man who had confessed his need to be touched, and who had then pierced her where surely no woman should be pierced.

With the sunlight clearly delineating the fine wrinkles around her eyes and the silver threading her hair, she was once again a spinster who must pay for her pleasure. Whereas he looked like a beautiful, scarred statue, remote and removed from the pleasures of the flesh.

Lucifer after the fall from grace.

He could not possibly want to be her lover.

"Is it…"
No, he had said a woman had not solicited his services in five years
. "Was it customary for a… patroness… to stay with you?" she asked coolly, carefully masking her discomfiture.

"If I invited her, yes."

A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks.

It was quickly followed by the cold slap of reality.

Any woman who paid ten thousand pounds would be welcomed by him.

"I do not wish to inconvenience you," she said stiffly.

"You do not inconvenience me. My home and my servants are at your disposal."

A chill premonition pricked the hairs at the nape of her neck. "You own… this house?"

The hand-carved cornice with its individually molded leaves that bridged the pale green silk-covered walls and white-enameled ceiling were unique works of art. As had been the marble staircase with the intricately fashioned wrought-iron balustrades they had traversed the night before.

"I also own an estate in Yorkshire county," he said, as if aware of the direction of her thoughts.

But that would mean
… "If you own this house… and an estate…"

Her mouth snapped shut.

How stupid of her to presume anything about this man.

Michel des Anges had no doubt made several fortunes. His expertise was a testament to the number of women he must have serviced throughout the years.

Gambling had stripped more than one man of his wealth.

"I see," she said.

His long, black lashes shielded his eyes. "What do you see, Anne Aimes?"

"Obviously you have fallen on hard times."

"Is that why you think I took you last night?" he asked silkily.

There was nothing soft or silky about his face. It was filled with stark challenge.

And the compelling knowledge of her most secret desires.

She had cried out
, his violet, black fringed eyes said. With the need for satisfaction. The need to be young. Beautiful. Touched. Wanted by a man.

By him.

A man who could overcome a woman's control and fulfill her wildest fantasies.

And he had.

For a price.

Anne retreated behind a wall of curtness. "Please leave me. I must get dressed."

Michel sat on the bed beside her, mattress sinking, silk and velvet covers bunching. She clutched the top sheet to her breasts and inched her buttocks across the mattress to stay the slide of her body.

Pain shot through her. It took a second to separate the stabbing ache between her thighs from the sharp hurt that yanked at her scalp. She stilled, held captive by her hair.

Why had he released it from the bun? She would never be able to get the tangles out.

How ridiculous she must look, with her hair loose as if she were a young woman.

A strong, scarred hand reached out, smoothed fine strands of hair off of her left cheek. "Don't run away from me now, Anne."

Blood thrummed underneath his hot, rough fingertips; his hip throbbed against hers, striking a rhythm deep inside her where he had ripped and torn and thrust and teased until pain had become pleasure so intense it had seared her soul.

Her throat tightened, there where he had muffled his agonized groan of release. "I don't know what you mean."

He continued smoothing her cheek, forging a raspy link of shared recollections:
his breath filling her lungs; her breath filling his lungs; their bodies merged into one, joined by sex
. "You're frightened."

Anne tensed, fighting his touch; fighting inexplicable tears. "Yes."

"Of me?"

Yes.

"I'm not…" She focused on the thick, black hair that curled at the base of his throat. Remembering its texture, crinkly and wiry. Remembering it abrading her breasts, an undulating blanket of prickly heat. "I'm not like that."

"But you are."

His fingers burned; his hip burned; the flesh between her thighs burned. It did not alter the truth. "No."

A thirty-six-year-old spinster whose only accomplishment was being a nursemaid did not scream and cry.

"Shall I tell you what I found most attractive about you at the House of Gabriel?"

Anne's gaze flew up and locked with violet eyes.

He would not lie to her, he had said.

But she didn't want to hear the truth.

"It is not necessary."

Sunshine brightly illuminated the left side of his face; light filtered through the tips of his lashes. Faint lines radiated out from the corner of his eye. "But it is necessary."

"I don't want—"

"We both want," he interrupted harshly. "That is why you made the assignation. And that is why I was there, waiting for you."

It was not
she
he had waited for.

He did not know her.

He had not even remembered her.

Anne stiffened, both angered and hurt at his deception. "You said you would not lie to me, Monsieur des Anges. It is a simple matter of business that brought us together. You waited because of the promise of ten thousand pounds. It is my money that you found attractive. Nothing more. Nothing less."

His fingers stilled.

Shadow darkened the bedchamber, an ominous cloud on the horizon.

And still his skin throbbed and pulsed.

Against her cheek. Inside her breasts.
Her womb
.

Every inch of her body remembered his touch, responded to it.

"Nothing is ever simple," Michel exhorted on a sharp inhalation of air. "Not lust. Not life. You've lost to death. You should know better."

Anne's heart kicked against her ribs, galloped to outrun her fear.

How could be possibly know
? …

The moisture in her mouth evaporated. "How do you know I've lost to death?"

"You told me."

Frantically she cast about in her thoughts. Remembering, remembering—

The wet lick of his tongue. Embracing heat; her breast boring into his chest; his masculinity nudging her femininity.

You woke up… earlier… and said that you were late. That you had forgotten "their medicine." Do you take care of someone… nurse someone?

No. Not anymore.

"I told you I would not lie to you, Anne Aimes." The raised ridges edging Michel's cheek whitened. "And I will not. Last night I waited for you in the hope that the woman who solicited my services would see my scars—and still want me."

And she had.

A shimmering burst of sunshine underlined her unspoken affirmation.

"You would not have been there, waiting, if not for the money," she insisted, forcefully concentrating on the nature of their relationship instead of that enervating, throbbing pulse that promised more.

More passion.

More pleasure.

The black of his pupils swallowed the violet band of his eyes. "If not for your offer," he agreed, "I would not have been there. Waiting."

The truth should not hurt.

"A man is more attracted to a woman's beauty than he is by her passion," she said defiantly.

Now where had that come from?

"No," Michel said, fingers and voice equally grating. "Only a fool values beauty over passion."

"Yet you did not notice me eighteen years ago."

She bit her lip to stop the words—
too late
, her pain echoed among the gilded leaves.

A rough, scarred thumb traced the heat racing across her cheek, gently brushed her compressed mouth. "Yet here you are."

Anne's lips quivered. "I remember…"
The woman he had danced with. Laughed with
. "Are your duties not more easily performed when a woman is… beautiful?"

"Every woman has her own unique beauty. Do you know how velvet is made?"

It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell whose pulse palpitated and pounded.

"It is… woven from different fabrics."

"There is a velvet woven from silk. Silk velvet."

"Yes."

It was very expensive.

"In the night house I looked at you while you sat across from me, and I wanted you because
you
wanted
me
. But in the vestibule I touched your cheek." His fingers rasped the length of her jaw. "And I thought…"

Anne stiffened, waiting, breath suspended.

"I thought I had never felt anything that soft… like velvet… until I touched your buttocks. Your skin there is like silk velvet."

She would not be disappointed.

"A man does not judge a woman's beauty by the softness of her…
bottom
."

Violet fire bled into the black of his pupils. "I assure you, a woman's bottom holds great appeal to a man."