Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  “Have you given up your feeble attempts at good sense?” She laughed softly, an effervescence bubbling in her veins.

  “I have no good sense where you’re concerned.” He stroked the length of her hip, caught the hem of her white lawn chemise.

  Turning on him, she put her knee on the bed and pressed her hands to his shoulders. “I’m handling this. You just stay quiet and do what I tell you.”

  His gaze feasted on the breasts that escaped the confinement of her corset and thrust at her chemise. She suspected he could almost see them through the thin cloth; she knew her nipples had come to attention at his notice. She took a long, slow breath; she taunted him with her body.

  “Tell me to unlace your corset,” he whispered, his lips forming each word with loving precision.

  She watched the motions and knew he wanted to leap at her. But for once in her life she held control. He would do what she wanted, because if he didn’t, she would walk across the room and he wouldn’t be able to follow. She was pitiless. She was unfeeling. She was exacting revenge and the promise of ecstasy, and she loved every moment.

  “Unlace my corset,” she commanded.

  His hands weren’t quite steady as they rose to their task, but he loosened the strings and began, with long, slow motions, to liberate her from almost the last of her clothing. Beneath the corset was her chemise, and beneath the chemise was bare body. She knew it, and he knew it, and he wanted to see her so badly that the knowledge brought the flush of triumph to Enid’s skin. All of Enid’s skin.

  So to show herself, she untied the ribbon at the neck of her chemise.

  It drooped over one shoulder.

  MacLean faltered.

  She slid her hand along her collarbone and under the bagging garment. Without taking her gaze from his face, she pushed her chemise down her arm. The ribbon snagged on her nipple for just a moment, then her breast popped free.

  MacLean gave a groan that fed Enid’s pleasure-starved soul.

  She floated her fingers back up her arm and over her own nipple, erect with excitement. She flicked it with her fingernail while he stared, fixated by the sight. She asked, “Aren’t you going to finish with the corset?”

  He jerked on the string so hard that he ripped the material around the eyelet.

  She should have cared, for she didn’t have another; she laughed.

  The speed and strength he used to pull the corset down dragged the chemise off the other breast and halfway to her belly. She helped him push the corset over her hips, and while she finished the job he managed to get ahead of her and shove her chemise down her arm.

  She was naked, he was in a hurry—everything was just as she remembered. But before she could experience disappointment, he paused. With his hands framing either side of her, he looked. In a voice of absolute worship, he said, “Dear God, you’re beautiful.”

  What was a girl to say to that? “Thank you.” She felt beautiful. He made her feel beautiful.

  Strands of his uncut hair shone auburn against the white pillow. His eyes slanted softly, and one lid drooped more than the other—a result of the explosion. The scars on his face were faded, but they, and the jut of his jaw, lent him a toughness he had never possessed before. For all that he couldn’t walk, his body glowed with muscled, muted power. She might have been undressing for a pirate, a robber king, a stranger, and the sense of muted danger made her pause and—shamefully—thrill.

  Nonsense, of course. He was no stranger. They were married. Perhaps time had improved his character, but she knew Stephen MacLean. He was an actor, and although he practiced an air of untamed menace, in truth he was only a petty thief and inveterate gambler. She was using him, and that was fine. He owed her.

  With a shimmy of her hips, she shook free of the chemise.

  His gaze followed its descent, and he said hoarsely, “So beautiful.”

  Her skin prickled, and she caught his wrist when he would have buried his fingers in the thatch of hair at her thighs. “Not yet,” she said.

  She thought he might cavil at the restraint, might even free himself and make a grab at her.

  Instead he smiled a lopsided smile and waited until she released him. Then, not quite touching, he traced the shape of her hip with his hand.

  She swallowed. His slow, sensuous pantomime fed her hunger and denied her thirst at the same time. His palm slithered up her belly—oh, not really, but just beyond touch—and traced the plumpness of her breasts. Her breath caught again and again at the hint of contact, the whisper of sensation. Each motion promised and didn’t fulfill, and she, who had wanted only promises, now sought fulfillment.

  She swayed forward, but his hand glided away, up to almost caress her collarbone, to almost stroke her neck, then to actually take a tress of her hair between two fingers and arrange it so it curled about her nipple, made coy by concealment.

  Ah, but she could tease, too. Catching the sheet in her hand, she slid it off of him, tormenting him and herself with the slow revelation of his hard-won and reconstructed body.

  His shoulders and arms bulged and rippled with imposing masculine power. Below, his ribs still protruded more than she would have liked, yet his hard work had layered muscle over the previously sharply defined ridges, and he was breathtaking. The distance between his collarbone and his waist seemed to stretch forever, and the spot where his flesh disappeared beneath the band of his shabby, cut-off trousers proved a provocation of the primal sort.

  She had seen his torso many a time; it had been impossible to avoid the sight as he lifted weights and tortured his body. But she had never seen below the trousers.

  She wanted to see below the trousers.

  He chuckled. “Curious, dearling? There are answers to be had.”

  He failed to take her domination seriously. He seemed to think he could control her with charming smiles and smoking desire.

  Two could play that game. She placed her hand atop the bulge in his trousers.

  He stopped smiling.

  The magnitude of him astounded her. Her hand could not encompass his length—and she tried. She stretched the tip of her longest finger toward the base and her wrist toward the tip, and realized she had forgotten more about MacLean than she remembered. Snatching her hand back, she glared at him. “Do you realize I haven’t done this in eight years?”

  “Damn, lass.” He lunged for her, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her over and onto him. “For all I remember, I might not have!”

  She laughed at his fierceness, then the impact of his bare chest on hers took her breath away. Catching the back of her head, he brought her lips to his. She met him eagerly. They pressed, open-mouthed, tasting each other, consuming each other. Her bare breasts against his chest seemed wicked and glorious, and she shifted back and forth, just enough to allow his curling hair to rasp at her nipples.

  He tore away his lips from hers. “Lass,” he said. Just that, but he moved with her as if the closeness delighted him, too. Sliding his fingers into her hair, he said, “I have wanted to love you since the first time I saw you. I want to pamper you, to see your face when you’ve indulged in love and you’re soft and warm . . . and ready for more.” He massaged her scalp in slow, circling seductions, and he tilted her head up to gaze into her eyes. “You’re the reason I didn’t die, do you know that?”

  “No,” she whispered. Smoothing her palms down his ribs, she wished he’d stop talking.

  Yet she reveled in his praise. He didn’t seem shocked at her licentiousness. He encouraged her. He didn’t seem repulsed, he seemed proud of himself. Proud of her. And his pride showed itself in the arousal that prodded at her stomach.

  Now he described her as if she were an angel. “Tell me,” she urged.

  “Every time I opened my eyes, there you were, feeding me, talking to me, bathing me—”

  “You were so thin.” She kissed his wrist. “You’re so powerful now.”

  “Sometimes at night, you’d be wearing that ghastly pink wrap
per of yours—”

  Indignation drew her from her balmy nest of satisfaction, and she struggled to sit up. “There’s nothing wrong with my robe!”

  “—And when you leaned over, I could see down the neckline to your breasts.” His gaze dropped to her bosom, and he caressed one with the lightest touch. “Your breasts have lured a man from the grips of death.”

  She giggled. A silly laugh, but he sounded so earnest, and the day had been so dreadful, and this . . . this time was a time set apart, a dream to match her long-lost fantasy of love. She thought she had forever squandered that fantasy on this marriage, but tonight, for just a moment, this man was the prince she had dreamed of. He had provided her with fulfillment; she would return the favor. “Wait until you see what I can lure with my whole body.”

  Beneath her, the rod in his trousers flexed.

  She kissed his shoulder and lingered on one of the scars there. “Does that hurt?”

  “No, you’ve kissed it better.”

  “Oh!” She liked that. “How about here?” She kissed a scar on his chest.

  “You’ve made that better, too.”

  “And here?” She loitered at his nipple, circling it with her tongue.

  “You could raise the dead,” he said fervently.

  She kissed her way down his stomach, finding each scar and rib, treating each to her approval, until she reached his waistband. Tucking her fingers within, she glanced up at him.

  He watched intently, his face still and bleak with need. “I feel as if I have waited for you forever.”

  Pressing her lips to the bulge in his trousers, she breathed the scent of soap, clean flesh, and MacLean. He was her husband. She wanted to make him happy, and in the process herself happy—and she knew how. Unbuttoning his trousers, she slipped her fingers inside. His belly rippled beneath her caress; she found his hardness at once, and explored him with a tender touch.

  She had forgotten so much; the firm, smooth head, the marbled rod. His size, his heat, the way his hips rolled as she stroked him.

  His trousers inched downward; he was removing them.

  “We have all night,” she chided.

  “I have about five minutes before I expire from eagerness.”

  As the trousers slipped lower, she captured him in her mouth. He tasted good, a clean male animal, and when she sucked, and swirled her tongue, the flavor became the slightest bit salty.

  He was close, so close . . .

  He sat straight up and pulled her back so that she sat on him, on his thighs, her heels tucked under her buttocks. His trousers hit the floor. She thought he would tumble her on her back and thrust into her, and she braced herself for the discomfort. Instead, he lifted her, shifted her. Her breasts touched his chest. He stared into her face, his eyes aglow with demand and desire. She felt the tip of him touch her, seeking entrance. She caught at his shoulders; her body softened, grew damp with longing.

  “Enid, help me.” He held her hips. “I can’t do it all. You’ll have to do your part.”

  Realization—and trepidation—struck her.

  He wanted her to guide him, to take him into herself.

  She was an experienced woman. A wife. MacLean’s wife. Yet she hadn’t been with a man in eight years. MacLean was so close she could feel his breath on her lips, see his pupils expand as he watched her and waited for her to decide—would she take him?

  In the softest of voices, he said, “You need to assist me. I can’t do it without you. I would be lost . . . without you.”

  More important—would she keep him? For that was what he demanded.

  The rush toward euphoria ceased. His still features might have been cast in steel; his scars, his broken nose, his harsh jaw proclaimed him a warrior, a man of savage strength held in check.

  Only his eyes were alive. His unique gold-shot green eyes commanded that she come to him of her own free will.

  “I need you to come to me,” he said, “to stay with me . . . forever.”

  The silence in the attic room grew to immense proportions. She wanted, so badly, to run, to hide, to never have to make this choice. For when she did, she would be his wife, not just for the night, but forever. That was the price she paid for tonight’s dissipation; if she refused, he would let her go. His character was strong enough to do that—but he would renew the assault another day.

  Sooner or later, he would prevail.

  She swallowed. All her fears rose in her.

  No one had ever loved her. Not forever. And she could love—had loved—too many times, and been left standing on the wayside alone.

  But MacLean was her husband. He had changed. He was different. He seemed honorable.

  And, after all, if she was wrong about him, it didn’t matter because she didn’t love him. In the morning, as every morning, they would still be bound by the vows they’d exchanged nine years ago, yet she would not love him.

  She could take the chance tonight because she wouldn’t let herself love. She would never again be open to heartache and sorrow. She would forever be free of the ambush of love.

  Slowly, she slipped her hand between them and positioned his penis in exactly the right place. She adjusted herself and pressed herself downward.

  He smiled, a slight, hard, brief smile.

  Then he proved the depths of his duplicity. For he didn’t need her help.

  He placed her hands back on his shoulders. His hands slid around her thighs. He opened her wider, pushing up with his hips.

  And entered her. Inch by inch, he stroked into her. She grimaced, always at the point of discomfort, determined not to engage in a fruitless wrestling match as she tried to free herself. Eight years had been too long, she had been too young, her body had healed from his early assaults and closed itself once more.

  But still he came into her, an inexorable march, stretching her so that she knew she would never find pleasure.

  Just like before. She would be unfulfilled.

  She tried to hide her disappointment, but he saw her distress. He observed everything. He was too perceptive, and she hated that, so she closed her eyes and turned her head.

  And he slipped one hand between them. He used two fingers to adjust her. He touched her, the veriest whisper of voluptuousness.

  She caught her breath. Her thighs flexed, and she lifted herself just the tiniest bit. That had been . . . enjoyable.

  His finger circled and touched her again.

  Everything flexed.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, hope and passion blossoming together.

  “Is that better, dearling?” His voice rasped a velvet seduction. “I felt that inside. You clutched at me, and you’re already so . . . tight.”

  She half rose away from his touch. Then settled back.

  His voice, smooth and seductive, rumbled in her ear. “You’re like a velvet glove around me, caressing me. I’m in . . . ecstasy.”

  Everything fit a little more comfortably.

  She rose.

  “I’m going to possess you. You’re going to know you’re mine every minute of the day. You’re going to want me inside you all night long.”

  At his husky warning, her knees gave out. She sank onto him, all the way down.

  Then they were moving together. Violently, intemperately, a clash of bodies. He fell back onto the pillows. She leaned forward over him, hands braced against his shoulders. He guided her with his hands beneath her thighs. Her muscles ached as she moved on him. His hips pumped beneath her. He filled her. He watched her face, forced the pace, silently demanded with his voluptuous fury that she spend herself on him.

  But she would not allow him to command her. Not about this. She had chosen to give herself to him. She was his nurse, his wife. She would force him to show his excitement. She moved with his rhythm, but she watched him in return. She ran her hands across his belly. She leaned back, placed her hands on his thighs, and proudly displayed her breasts.

  His discipline failed. His eyes half-closed. H
is head tilted back. He breathed in great gasps, and his neck corded with the madness of passion.

  She should have experienced triumph. Instead the sight of him beneath her, twisting in anguished pleasure, doubled and redoubled her own passion. She moaned with every stroke. To know that he found such ferocious delight with her—that was the true aphrodisiac.

  The whole world was encapsulated in a bed with rumpled sheets, a stack of pillows, and a flushed, euphoric MacLean held captive between her legs. They moved together, more quickly, more quickly, and she could contain herself no longer. Her body, already warmed with passion, surged into orgasm. She threw her head back. Deep within her, her muscles convulsed, and she wanted . . . she sought . . . oh, God, she found.

  She screamed her delight.

  He held himself in check, stroking in the small, restrained movement. Then when she’d reached the crest, he released his restraint. He pounded into her, carrying her to another orgasm, and another, and at the same time, he poured his seed into her, a mighty, virile, majestic mating.

  Gradually, her heart slowed. Lethargy took the place of passion, and she sank down on top of him, her head on his chest, her trembling thighs about his hips. The breath chafed in her lungs. She wondered briefly if anyone had heard them in the room below, then decided she wouldn’t worry now. In the morning, perhaps. Then she would think about things like . . .

  Like the fact that MacLean would assume she had promised him things she would never give.

  The thought made her muscles tense. Lethargy fled, and she feigned a casual withdrawal. If she could just slip away and go to her own bed . . .

  As if she could leave him and he would not notice.

  Holding her firmly in place, he said, “You panic quickly.”

  How did he know?

  “But you mustn’t. You’re mine now, and I’ll take care of everything.” He skimmed his fingers down her spine, caught the edge of the covers, and drew them over them both. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Closing her eyes tightly, she pretended to be asleep.

  In the wee hours of the morning, a pounding at the trapdoor and the shouts of men roused her from the depths of slumber.

  “Fire! For God’s sake, get out! The cottage is on fire!”