Wicked Pleasures (5 page)

Standing in the middle of the room, time ticked by.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. Snapping out of her murky
outlook, she went to all of the windows. Not surprising, they were
locked and bolted. The French doors did open. Walking out onto
balcony, she peered over the wrought iron railing and onto the lot
below. There were no cars parked in the driveway. Climbing down
would be impossible and she’d probably break her legs if she
jumped. Then her situation would be worse. Staring out, the house
was closed in by woods. She listened closely, hoping she’d hear
traffic in the distance. Nothing but birds chirping.

Going back inside, she went to the cherry walnut
wardrobe and opened the drawers. She found them full of luxurious,
delicate panties and bras of all different colors and designs.
How arrogant of him.
Of course he’d like to see her wearing
sexy lingerie. She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a bra and panty
off the top.

Next, she examined the walk in closet, lined with
designer outfits and shoes. It was three times larger than the one
at her apartment, and stocked with labels she couldn’t afford.

Oddly, everything was in her size.

She didn’t want to wear any of the clothes, but her
only other choice was to go naked. Nudity wasn’t an option, she
didn’t care how much “freedom” it’d give her. A pair of jeans and a
lightweight blouse was the simplest things she could find. She
wasn’t out to impress Roark. She certainly wouldn’t be using the
fancy evening dresses and stilettos.

The bathroom gave her another round of admiration.
It wasn’t just a bathroom, but more of a retreat or spa. From the
granite counters, glass vessel sink with high-arc waterfall faucet,
to the multi-head shower, it was sleek and elegant. However, what
enticed her more was the deep freestanding tub big enough for not
only two, but three or maybe four. She visualized herself bent over
the side, pinned—by Roark. “Oh holy mother of all good, what in the
hell is wrong with me?” An image of his thick cock came to mind and
her thighs quivered. Her temperature rose a few degrees and she
wanted to pound her head against the wall to dislodge any thought
of the ogre penetrating her.

She was impressed—with his dick and choice of décor—
and she sure wished she wasn’t. Did Roark think he could persuade
her to like being his captive? He was an evil, egotistical man who
was holding her against her will and he was going to be arrested,
she’d see to that. He was a lunatic who believed in some madcap way
that she was “chosen” to have his offspring. Did he even realize he
was on Earth, not Mars?

Sliding out of the sheet she’d taken from Roark’s
bed, she climbed under the hot mist of the shower. With one nozzle
targeting her head, another at her back, and if that wasn’t enough
pleasure, a pulsating spray aimed directly at the apex of her
thighs. She didn’t know such things existed where she could get
clean and satisfied at the same time. A giggle erupted and she
closed her mouth to stifle any noise. She didn’t trust the ogre. He
was probably lingering like a pervert, listening. On second
thought, Roark wasn’t the peeping type. She had a feeling that if
he wanted something, he wouldn’t be passive aggressive.

The fact remained, she didn’t want to be here. She
wanted to go home.

Finishing, she got out of the water, dried off and
dressed.

Glancing at the clock, she remembered he’d given her
thirty minutes. She had an urge to take her glorious time and let
him simmer. Who was he to give her a time limit? She was an adult
for goodness sake. Testing him was an option, but she knew what
he’d do, and the last thing she wanted was for him to come into the
bedroom. So, reason outweighed retaliation. Leaving the room, she
made her way down the stairs, feeling like the kitten walking into
the lion’s den.

All of the curtains were closed on the windows and
no lights were turned on, making the downstairs dark.

Did Roark know she was wandering his mansion?
He’d definitely not like her snooping.
That was his problem, not
hers.

Like a prowler sneaking through the shadows, she
continued her investigation. At turtle pace, she moved into the
unknown and found it somewhat exciting. Her heart raced as the
hairs on the back of her neck lifted. She expected Roark to sneak
up behind her, which made her nervously peek over her shoulder now
and again. Not knowing the layout of the bottom floor made her
apprehension rise, but she followed the hallway, peeking into
several rooms— guest bathroom, workout room—as she passed. The next
room brought her excitement.
A library!
The shelf-lined
walls were brimming with books. Interest consumed her and
excitement motivated her. She crept in silently, her nostrils
filling with the strong odor of mahogany, leather and paper.

As a child, she had dreamt of having her own library
where she could pick a book and curl up on a window seat, then fall
into fantasy. Being quite the nerd growing up, she’d preferred
books over people. Not much had changed, not in the scheme of
things. She still spent more time reading than socializing. That’s
why she enjoyed her job and was good at publishing.

Sliding her hand along one shelf, she fingered each
binding, reading the vintage titles, until one caught her
attention.
The Two Little Travellers.
Pulling it out from
its nest, she slipped her hand over the worn hardcover as emotion
swathed her. The picture of the boy and girl had faded with time,
but she remembered every detail and every line written. When she
was a child, her mother had read from the book as Bronte had
listened intently. Through blurred vision, she thumbed through the
yellowed pages.

“Be careful. That is a treasure.”

Bronte jumped and the book went flying from her
hands to land with a loud thump at her feet. She whirled and found
Roark sitting in the wing back chair by the window, the same chair
that had been empty when she came into the library. “Why do you
keep doing that?
How
the hell do you keep doing that?”

“Your instincts are weak, my dear.” He got up and
moved toward her—lean, muscular body, long legs. Sex appeal at its
finest.

He’d changed and was cleanly shaven. The ends of his
long hair were damp and dripped onto his shirt. A whiff of soap and
man invaded her senses as the image of them in the tub together
came back. Her insides quivered and she forced the telltale feeling
away. Smoothing her tongue over her lips, she was finally able to
speak again. “My instincts are just fine. You should worry about
the weakness of your brain cells.”

One corner of his mouth cocked. Of course, he’d find
humor in her bluntness. He bent, picked up the book, and as he
brushed past her to replace it, his body warmth seeped through her
clothes and deep into her skin. She stepped back until imprisoned
by the shelf and Roark. Gazing up into twinkling eyes surrounded by
long, sooty eyelashes, she guessed he could melt any woman within a
ten-mile range, including her and she didn’t like it one bit.

Seconds turned into minutes. She wondered if he’d
kiss her because his eyes told her that he wanted to. She didn’t
want him to…not at all. It didn’t mean anything that she wondered
what he tasted like.

“What do you think of my library?” he asked, a
crease marred the area between his brows.

“I don’t see you as the reading type.”

He laughed and the sumptuous sound played her nerve
endings like a stringed instrument. “Not only do I read, but I am
talented and skilled in many things.”

Insufferable , egotistical man!
But sexy like
a tanned hero.

“I can only imagine what skills you speak of.
Burping, ducking low ceilings and combing the swamp for dinner is
what comes to my mind.”

“Those weren’t your thoughts, my dear.” His breath
swept across her cheek.

He leaned closer and she breathed in and out, but
her insides remained unsteady and shaky. She stared at him through
her lashes and hoped with all her inner strength that if he kissed
her, she wouldn’t be overcome with a disobedient need.

A disappointed moan escaped her trembling lips when
he circled her wrists with his long fingers and inspected her
wound. Trying to pull away, she wasn’t sure if she didn’t try hard
enough or that he held her firmly, but she didn’t move. While he
touched her, sparks skipped along her veins and parked with
vengeance in her lower belly. Parts of her quivered—ones she never
even knew she had until now. Her core pulsated and her panties
moistened, and she realized he was more dangerous than she could
imagine.

“You didn’t dress the wound. The supplies were in
your bathroom.”

Angry at herself, she narrowed her gaze and made him
the target. “I’ll be fine! And how dare you stitch me!”

“Maybe next time I’ll have to cut off the hand
because infection has settled in.” His crystal eyes met hers as if
in challenge.

She gulped air.
Damn him!
“Cut off any part
of my body and I will rid you of your jewels,
both
of
them.”

“And then what fun would you and I have together?”
His eyebrow lifted.

“That’s the last thing we’ll ever do,” she forced
the words through thin lips.

“But I feel your need.” He skimmed his fingers along
her cheek and bottom lip. “I smell your scent and it’s a hypnotic
drive, pulling me in.”

“Mark my words. We will never have sex. Are you that
crazy to believe I’d sleep with a man who has not only kidnapped
me, but has the likeability of a tyrant?”

His charming smile was back. How could he turn on
and off his expressions like a faucet? He took a step back. “In
good time, my dear. You’ll be begging me to put out the flame in
your loins. Imagine what we could do in that tub in the bathroom.”
His gaze seemed to smooth across her skin. “We’d both find great
satisfaction in coupling.”

Bronte knew her cheeks were red because the searing
heat burned her. “Keep dreaming.” Her voice shuddered.

“No, Bronte,
you
keep dreaming. Your
fantasies bring me much pleasure.”

“Good. When you’re behind bars I hope these
fantasies you speak of keep you warm.” She jerked her hand and he
let it go. “I don’t need you examining my wound.”

“Since you choose not to take care of yourself, I’m
obligated. Just as I’d figured, you’d overlook the importance of
keeping your stitches clean. Go to the den,” he ordered.

Bile rose in her throat. “Basic manners 101. Say
please and thank you.”

His mouth thinned. “So you expect me to say please
before I take care of you? You should say thank you that I properly
took care of your wound.”

Balling her hands into fists at her sides, she
counted to ten, but it didn’t release any of her irritation. “I
didn’t ask for your help. Just like I didn’t ask to be kidnapped
and brought here. It’s your fault that I was hurt in the first
place. The only thank you you’re going to get is if you drop dead.”
Her heart slammed against her chest and she wanted to hog-tie him.
She’d never been so infuriated in her life to wish someone dead. He
didn’t even seem troubled.

“Fine!” He grabbed her up like a sack of potatoes
and threw her over his shoulder, holding her securely at her
thighs. She kicked her feet and used her balled fists to pound his
back. “Let me down, you jackass.” Her hands started to ache from
punching him. “You insufferable, pain in the ass, miserable
ogre!”

“Settle down before you hurt yourself.” As they were
moving through the hall, each step he took, her head bounced
against his tight ass, like a stick beating a drum. “Don’t act like
a spoiled brat.”

“Me? A spoiled brat!” Before she could debate the
repercussions of her next action, she chomped down onto his right
butt cheek. When he didn’t respond, she pressed her teeth deeper
through the material of his jeans, realizing his backside was
tighter than she’d first thought. He jerked her upward and her
clamp broke.

“Sweetheart, that area of my body only responds to
slaps, caresses and kisses. Anything else only pisses me off.” He
threw her down, thankfully onto the soft cushions of the couch in
the den.

Bronte looked up at him. The corners of his eyes
crinkled and she could have sworn his pupils turned red. His jaw
was tight and set at a daunting angle. Lifting her leg, she kicked
him hard in the gut and he bent over clutching his stomach. She
spared no time in jumping up, ready to run, but he recovered and
grabbed her waist, knocking her down onto the floor. She wasn’t
finished yet and whatever demon she had inside boiled to the
surface.

Rolling away from his grip, she brought her fist up
and connected a good punch to his eye. It barely fazed him, only
long enough for her to bring her foot hard into his knee. Any
chance of getting away faded. The couch blocked her on one side and
his massive body was in her path on the other. She was doomed. And
caged like an animal.

“Enough!” he roared. He took her by the elbow, laid
her on top of the couch and pinned her against the cushions.

Bronte attempted to move her legs and arms but she
was stuck. She was breathing so rapidly that her lungs ached. “Get
off, you bastard!”

His breathing was heavy too and loud in her ear.
Their chests brushed against each other. The beating of his heart
vibrated her breasts and joined tempo with her own. It was as if
their body fed off the other’s, drawing from one another. Pleasant
warmth spread over her and consumed her every cell, stealing her
logical thought. She’d never experienced such a devastating mixture
of hatred and something else…
something that scared the life out
of her
. Her body filled with need as she laid her hand on the
corded muscle of his arm.

He stared down at her. He felt it too, she knew by
his amazed expression. His large hands were on her skin, his musky
scent and the sweat beading on his forehead made her insides throb.
She had an uncontrollable urge to taste the dampness from his brow
and beyond. The magnetic lure was undeniable while overwhelming. A
craving soared through her as she imagined herself ripping off his
shirt and licking his toned his body. She’d wished many times that
she’d meet a man who’d bed her without inhibition. One that had
spirit that matched her own.