by Anne Stuart
Unfortunately he got there ahead of her, and she realized her relief was premature. He leaned up against the door, blocking her way, and she halted. Why did he have to be so big, she thought desperately, and why did she have to be so damned short? It wasn't that his size was particularly menacing, at least not anymore. But it was…distracting. Disturbing.
"But that doesn't explain why you'd have sex with me after I did that to you. And I'm not going to start believing anything kinky, like you're into pain—I know that's not true. So you obviously forgave me for hurting you. But you're not about to forgive me now, are you?"
In fact, she couldn't forgive him when he hadn't even said he was sorry, but she wasn't about to point that out to him. She just waited for him to move, certain that he'd have to, sooner or later. She could be just as stubborn as he was, and the longer this went on, the more determined she was not to speak.
"So while we're having this heart-to-heart chat, Libby," he continued, "why don't you explain to me why some of the lousiest sex in my life was the best you ever had?"
It was so unexpectedly cruel that her defenses were ripped away, so cruel that words, which should have come then, failed her. She looked up at him in stunned shock, and realized that her eyes were stinging. Oh, God, don't let me cry in front of him, she begged. I'll do anything, anything, just don't let me cry.
It was small comfort that he looked equally horrified. "I didn't mean that," he said quickly. "Not that way. I meant…oh, for God's sake!"
She was crying now, and she wasn't going to stand in front of him and let him watch. She charged him like a bull, trying to move him out of the way of the door, but she might as well have been a mosquito dive-bombing a bear. He could hold her off one-handed.
"Cut it out, Libby! I just meant you must have had a lousy time. I still can't figure out why you wanted to do it when you wouldn't even let me touch you. Ouch!" She kicked him, hard, though she stubbed her toes doing it. She considered kneeing him in the balls, but he was too tall for her to reach, so she punched him in the stomach.
"You're a violent little thing when you're pissed off, aren't you?" he said calmly. "So instead of hitting me, why don't you just tell me how you were able to enjoy sex when it was over just as you were getting turned on? Or has it just been so long since you've been laid that anything would do? Because trust me, I can do a much better job than that given the right time and place. Like now."
She stopped hitting him, as real panic washed over her. He was holding her arms, carefully, so he wouldn't hurt her, but enough to keep her from doing any real damage. Enough to keep her from running away. She looked up at him, not bothering to disguise her panic.
"It's very simple, Libby. Tell me no. That's all you have to do. Just say no. Because if you're not going to, I'm going to take you over to that bed and show you what the best sex in your life ought to be. And that's a promise."
She couldn't get her mouth to work. Her voice had caught in her throat, and there was no way she could bring the word out that she needed.
He waited, patiently, and then he nodded, a faint, satisfied smile on his face. "Nothing to say? Good. Get on the bed."
He caught her elbow before it landed in his stomach, turned her around and picked her up, carrying her over to the bed and dropping her in the middle of it. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it on the floor, and suddenly he looked like John again. Clean-shaven, long-haired, wild and dangerous, he looked like the creature she'd seen trapped in that phony jungle room.
Say something, she told herself urgently. He'll listen. He said he would. Tell him no. But she kept her mouth shut, silent, as he climbed onto the big high bed, crawling toward her like a sleek, dangerous jungle cat.
He reached for the hem of her T-shirt, and she didn't stop him as he pulled it over her head, tossing it after his, exposing her breasts. He sat back and looked at her in the flickering candlelight, and she wanted to cover herself with her hands. She didn't. She just sat there, defiant, waiting. Waiting for him to change his mind? Waiting for him to do what he promised? She wasn't quite sure what she wanted. Only that she wouldn't speak and end it.
Strange, but his gaze felt hot where it touched her skin. The night was warm but she shivered, anyway, and he moved, pushing her down on the bed before his hands slid down to cover her breasts.
They were too small, but he didn't seem to mind. His touch was feather soft, arousing, frustrating, and then he leaned forward and put his open mouth against hers, kissing her.
She held very still, trying to be calm as he kissed her, but when he pushed his tongue into her mouth she jumped, panicked, trying to scoot away from him.
He didn't let her, catching her shoulders and hauling her back. "That's nothing, Libby," he said. "You may as well relax and get used to it. My mouth, my tongue, my fingers. I'm going to touch you, taste you, everywhere, until you don't know where you end and I begin. And all you have to do, love—" he brushed his lips against hers "—is say no."
She held her breath, and he put his mouth against hers again, lingering for a long, tantalizing moment. "Just say no," he whispered in his harsh, strained voice. He covered her mouth, using his tongue again, and this time she didn't jump. "Oh, God, please don't say no," he whispered.
She lifted her clenched hands off the mattress beside her and slid them around his neck. And she kissed him back, badly, she knew, but it didn't matter. Anger had vanished, shame and wisdom and second thoughts. He'd promised to show her, and she was going to take him up on that promise. She needed to know what it was like.
But first he showed her how to kiss. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, slowly, deliberately, toying with her, calming her, arousing her, using his lips and his tongue and his teeth, coaxing her into doing the same, until she was suddenly breathless, panting, not with fear but with the first raw tendrils of desire.
"That's good, Libby," he murmured, letting his lips trail down the side of her neck. "There's nothing to be frightened of. And there's no hurry. No one's going to interrupt us—we've got all night, and I intend to take my time with you. I think you need to come twice…maybe three times before I do. To make up for lost time." He licked her nipple, and she fought back a little squeak.
He looked up at her through his long, tousled hair and grinned. "You can make noises, you know. You can moan and shriek without using words, and they won't count, I promise you. Go ahead, Libby. Let me hear you moan."
She wouldn't have, of course, except that he'd covered her breast with his mouth, sucking on her, and it seemed to strike a nerve that went straight down between her legs, and there was nothing she could do but make a strangled noise of sheer pleasure.
"That's a start," he said, blowing on her nipple where it was wet from his mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, and she found she was clutching the bed again, grabbing the sheet in her fists. "You have perfect breasts. Not too big, not too small. Absolutely perfect." He put his mouth on her other breast, while his fingers toyed with the first, and she bit her lip, afraid she might cry out when she felt the faint, incredibly arousing touch of his teeth against her.
Just when she thought she couldn't stand it anymore he moved his mouth away, down her belly, tasting, biting, nibbling at her skin. She was too dazed to realize that at some point he'd unfastened her shorts, and by the time she knew what he was doing he'd pulled them off her legs and thrown them on the floor. "That's better," he murmured. "I was getting impatient. Let's get the first one out of the way." And he put his mouth between her legs.
She felt a moment of grim satisfaction. If he thought that would work he was going to be surprised. Other men had tried it, and it had left her entirely unmoved. It had seemed to excite Richard, though, so she'd let him do it, but if John thought it was going to have any effect on her…
She caught her breath as an odd shiver danced across her skin. What had she been thinking about? Oh, yes, that it wouldn't have any effect on her…
Another shiver, this on
e harder, longer, and she realized she might possibly have been mistaken. She unfastened her death grip on the sheets and tried to push him away, but he simply caught her hands in his so she couldn't interfere.
It was like a slow fire licking at her, a strange sort of tickle that made her crazy, and she jerked, trying to move him, but he ignored her, concentrating on the task at hand, and she opened her mouth to tell him to stop when her body convulsed in a sharp, deep spasm, so intense it was almost painful. She fought it, panicked, and he slid up beside her.
"You did it again," he said. "What are you afraid of?"
She was trembling, her body feeling almost cramped from the small explosion that had raced through her. She wanted this done and over with—it was too disturbing, too upsetting, too impossible.
He kissed her mouth, and he tasted like sex. "We'll count that one, but just barely," he said. "Let's try something else."
Enough was enough. She tried to scramble off the bed, not quite certain her legs would hold her, but he simply hauled her back, against him, her back up against his stomach, his arms holding her tight. She remembered waking that way in the rain forest. It seemed centuries ago, and yet it had only been yesterday. But there was no safety in his arms now, only demand and danger, as he wrapped an imprisoning arm around her waist, pulling her tight against him, and put his other hand between her legs.
"I know, you hate this," he mocked in a gentle whisper. "I'm doing terrible things to you and you can't make me stop, and all you want is for me to go away and leave you alone. Is that it?"
How did he know just how to touch her, just where? She squirmed in his arms, but it only felt better, and she knew that this time she wouldn't be able to stop, wouldn't be able to control it, and she wasn't sure why she even wanted to.
"That's right, love," he whispered against her ear. "That's better. Move against me. Show me what you like. Do you like it hard? Or softer? Or a little bit of both? I'm here to please."
She was shaking and she couldn't stop. Everything he did to her was one more frustration, one more delight. When he licked her ear she wanted to howl. When he bit her shoulder she climaxed, and this time she couldn't stop it. It rocked her body, and she heard her voice cry out, a thin, high-pitched wail, as her body shook and twisted in dark, unthinkable pleasure.
She could barely breathe when he turned her on her back and covered her, sliding deep inside her, so deep she choked. She wanted to beg him to stop, to give her time. She needed to find her defenses, to find safety somewhere, but there was no safety with him in her body, surging, pushing deeper, faster. He caught her legs and pulled them around his hips, and unbelievably she wanted more, she wanted all of him. She clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging in tight, and his answering growl was one of animal pleasure, and she knew that this time she wouldn't be able to climax, not this way, not at all, not again.
They were both slippery with sweat in the night air, sliding against each other, and she could barely hold on to him. She let out a soft, despairing cry, afraid he was slipping away from her as she felt the ice begin to freeze her once more, when he muttered, "No you don't, love. Not this time." And he reached between their bodies and touched her, hard, just as he filled her so deeply he pushed her halfway across the bed.
She screamed, but it didn't stop, it just went on, endlessly, rolling over and over in the darkness, wave upon wave of hot, prickly sensation that threatened to shatter her. She felt him go rigid in her arms, the sweet flow between them, and she knew she was crying again, those damned tears.
She was still shaking, racked by stray spasms, when he withdrew from her and pulled her into his arms. She buried her face against his chest, hiding, weeping, as he held her. He kissed the top of her head, her cheekbones, every place he could reach.
And finally, when she'd stopped crying, when she could breathe again, when she could move without another orgasm shimmering through her, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
"Yes," she said.
Chapter Fourteen
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The night was endless, over in moments. He pulled the mosquito netting around them, closing them in a curtained wonderland, closing out the world. And she talked to him. She told him of silly things, of things that mattered. And he talked to her. Things he said he'd never told anyone else, and she believed him. And they made love. Endlessly. He took her body beyond limits she hadn't even realized existed, and he coaxed her past fear and shyness until, by morning, she was a glorious, brazen vixen. He pulled her onto his lap, letting her find him, fill herself with him, and he sat back, not moving, under iron control, while she learned what pleasured her, how to bring herself to the very edge and then hold back, just slightly, to make it more powerful. And he lay back against the pillows, watching her out of half-closed eyes, and this time it was his fists that clutched the sheets until they ripped in his hands, while she moved against him, taking him deep inside her.
She could feel the heated tingles dancing against her skin, feel the shuttered darkness begin to close in, and she slowed, clutching his shoulders, pleading. "Finish it," she gasped. "I can't…"
He shook his head, but she could feel the fierce tension running through his body, and she knew the price it cost him to deny her. "You do it," he said. "You tell me when."
"I can't," she said, but she began to move again, unable to stop herself, needing more of him, needing all of him, needing what he was holding back, and when she felt herself begin to fly apart she cried out.
"Now!" she gasped, and he was with her, immediately, joining with her as they tumbled into oblivion.
She collapsed against him, breathless, sweating, and she kissed his mouth, laughing. He reached up to cup her face, holding her still, when there was a sudden noisy pounding at the front door.
They both froze. Libby tried to pull away from him, but he caught her and held her, still inside her. "Who is it?" he called out, sounding about as welcoming as a wild boar.
"Who the hell do you think it is, mate?" A voice called back. "It's your old pal Roger, here to pick up a young lady and deliver her to the mainland. Unless you've changed your mind."
Dead silence. He tilted his head back and looked up at her. "No," he said finally. "I haven't changed my mind. Give us a half an hour and I'll bring her down to the dock."
"Make it fifteen minutes. I've got a schedule to keep."
John didn't try to stop her as she pulled free, sliding off the bed. "I'll be ready in ten," she said, grabbing her discarded clothes and heading for the door.
"Libby…"
She turned to look at him. "Yes?"
She didn't know what she expected him to say. To beg her to stay? Not likely.
She hadn't even realized how light it was. It must be midmorning. The candles had guttered out sometime during the night, and the mosquito netting lay tangled around the bed. She couldn't even remember when they tore it down, though she had vague memories of the two of them being tangled in it.
"Nothing," he said.
She stood there with her clothes held to her naked body, looking at him. He'd done exactly what he said he was going to do and no more. He'd given her the best night of sex she could even begin to imagine. He hadn't offered anything else.
She turned to go, thanking God that she'd wept enough during the night, only to step in something soft and gooey. She looked down to see that she'd stepped in her discarded pan of brownies. Right at a time when she really needed chocolate.
She took the fastest shower on record, threw on the clothes she'd brought with her, shoved her feet in her battered sandals and started out the door to the dock, hoping against hope that she'd get out of there without seeing John again. She was halfway to the small, compact steamboat when she realized he was standing there talking to the captain, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. And that her shirt smelled like him.
She looked down. There was a spaghetti stain on the front, and she hadn't had spaghetti last night. She'd accidentally t
aken his shirt from the floor, and there was nothing she could do about it at this point, short of ripping it off and going topless to the mainland.
She could handle it, she told herself. She'd faced worse things and survived. How much worse could it get?
John had his back turned to her, deep in conversation with the weather-beaten, sandy-haired man who seemed to be the entire crew of the disreputable-looking steamer. John had a bite mark on the side of his neck. Scratches on his back. A love bruise right above his hip. She could only imagine what else was covered up.
Miraculously she didn't blush. After last night she was past blushing. "There's the little lady now," the captain said. "Now, don't you worry, miss, old Roger will see to everything. There are not many people John Hunter trusts, but I'm proud to say I'm one of them. I'll see you safely on your way back to your people."
She smiled at him, studiously ignoring John as she climbed aboard the boat. "You're very kind."
Roger gave her a gold-toothed grin. "Always glad to help a damsel in distress, I am. Though I think John's a damned fool—"
"Thanks, Roger." John interrupted him calmly, forestalling his comments. "I'll see you when you get back. Libby…?" He turned to her, but she'd moved carefully out of his way. She had no idea how he planned to say goodbye to her, but she wasn't taking any chances. If he touched her, kissed her, she'd probably throw herself at his feet and beg him not to send her away. And that would be excruciatingly horrible for both of them.
So she scurried behind Roger, out of reach, and gave him a bright, cheery smile. It didn't reach her eyes, but John was, after all, a man. He'd believe what he wanted to believe, and not look for hidden meanings.
"Thanks for everything, John," she said breezily. "I'll send you a postcard when I get back to Chicago."
He stared at her, an odd, arrested expression on his face, and for a long, breathless moment she thought he would do just what she wanted. Take her by the hand and drag her off the boat, back to the house. He'd kidnapped her twice already—why couldn't he make it a nice round number like three?