by Cheryl Holt
Commencing at her neck, she worked across her breasts, her stomach. Briefly, she rasped across the delicate cleft between her legs, but she didn't care for the stimulation it induced, so she bent over and rubbed down thigh and calf. As she straightened, movement captured her attention, and she glanced into the mirror.
A man was lounging behind her, perfectly at home, and casually viewing all! The sight was so startling that she was temporarily paralyzed, incapable of processing what she was witnessing. His appearance seemed like a dream, and she narrowed her focus at his reflection, grappling to make sense of the bizarre development.
Not an illusion, he was really and truly there.
Tall, with trimmed black hair and striking sapphire eyes, he was a ravishing man—perhaps the most handsome she'd ever encountered. He had high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a generous mouth. His wide shoulders tapered to a thin waist, lanky hips, long legs, and powerful, muscled thighs.
He wore only a pair of fitted trousers, no shirt or shoes, and she was tantalized by the absurd observation that she'd never before beheld a man's unclad chest. It was covered by an intriguing fur of dark hair, piled thick on top then dwindling across his flat stomach to a slim line that disappeared into the waistband of his pants. The top two but-
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tons were undone, so she could see much farther than she ought, and the spectacle was perturbing and exhilarating in a manner she didn't comprehend.
"Lovely..." he murmured in an enticing baritone that skittered across her nerve endings and induced her abdomen to clench in response.
The peculiar salutation snapped her into action, and she whirled to face him. Nervously, she clutched at the towel, desperately striving-to shield herself, but his probing examination slithered over her like a tangible caress, lingering on her lips, her breasts, the juncture between her thighs.
"How did you get in here?" she reproached, endeavoring to sound adamant and assertive, but the quaver in her voice communicated her uneasiness.
"Through the door." He gestured, and she noticed a second screen and a door behind it, adjoining her dressing room to the next bedchamber.
He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. "You're not welcome. Leave at once!"
"Are you sure you want me to go?"
"Absolutely!"
"But wouldn't it be more amusing if I stayed? You could climb in the tub again, and I could wash you. Or"—he glanced down at his pants that so graphically outlined his masculine form—"I could soak in the water, and you could bathe me. Either way, I promise the experience will be everything you desire. And more."
A man and a woman bathing? Together? Washing? Each other? A whirl of incredulous scenes flashed through her mind, and her heart raced.
His fingers went to the front of his trousers and touched the placard as though he was about to release the rest of the buttons and strip himself. Panicked, she kept her gaze bravely affixed to his. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Disrobing."
"Don't you dare!"
He chuckled, oozing charm. "I'd heard you were eager, but I don't mind prolonging things with a few games."
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She had no idea what he meant and couldn't even hazard a guess. Flustered, she resorted to the type of polite disdain she regularly employed with recalcitrant underlings. "I've politely requested that you leave, and now I insist."
"Before you've had your fun?"
The question was mildly raised, his tone one of intimate promise about matters she didn't understand. There was a confidence and subdued arrogance in his demeanor that seemed to guarantee gratification.
He moved closer.
The mirror was directly behind her, the basin on one side, the vanity on the other, and he was in front. She was hemmed into the corner, unable to slip past, and it occurred to her that—discounting Hugh—this was the only instance she'd ever been closeted with an adult man. The doors were closed, the room isolated, the servants abed, and if she'd chosen to call out, no one was available to assist her.
She was totally at his mercy, and she was supposed to be scared and alarmed, yet she found herself elated by the scandalous interlude. Where the heady, ribald euphoria sprang from she couldn't have explained, because she hadn't realized she was craving a clandestine adventure.
Perhaps the man, himself, instilled the improper sentiment. He was overtly complacent about their situation, assured that he had every right to enter, confident that she would appreciate the wrongful intrusion. When he stared at her with those extraordinary eyes, she yearned to acquiesce to whatever he suggested.
Still, she couldn't permit him to remain, and she pulled herself up to her full height, which was distinctly lacking considering how he towered over her. "I'll not ask again, sir."
"I've been watching you."
He'd been watching her? From where? For how long? Had he observed her whole bath? Mortified, she clasped the towel more securely against her breasts. "How terribly vile."
"You opened the peephole." He shrugged, his offensive
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shattering of polite conduct apparently being of no import. "Why wouldn't I look through?"
"What peephole?" she inquired, aghast.
"The one between our rooms." He ignored her outrage. "Your skin is so smooth. Like silk."
The simple statement disconcerted her. She'd never before received a flattering compliment from a man, especially not an attractive, virile, mostly naked one, and as she stumbled for a response, he advanced like a large cat, a graceful, predatory beast like those from the jungles of Africa that she'd seen at an exhibition in London. He was so near mat the fist she'd valiantly anchored to her bosom to hold the towel was pressed against his ribs. His skin was warm, and his matting of chest hair tickled the heel of her hand.
She tilted away, but the mirror prevented evasion. Though she fought to appear staunch and in control, her dilemma had quickly spiraled beyond her ability to navigate. Anxiously, she licked her bottom lip, which instantly had him studying her mouth as though intent on devouring her.
"Sir, you're scaring me."
"How?"
"I'm not certain why you're here—"
"Aren't you?" His words were husky with a dangerous lust that even she, in her sheltered, virginal state, couldn't misconstrue.
"—or what you propose..."
"You know what I propose. I'll be very gentle if that's how you like it." With a sure finger, he traced down her cheek and across her neck, and his touch was so blistering that she felt as if she'd been burned. She flinched, and he soothed, "You don't need to be afraid."
She battled to comprehend what he was saying. It seemed mat he aimed to force himself upon her, but there was no urgency in his demeanor. "If you were any kind of gentleman..."
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"I'm no gentleman, my dear lady. Never have I professed to be."
Her pulse thudded at a higher rate. She had no notion how to interact with a man who uttered such a wild claim. If he didn't deem himself to be a gentleman, then what code governed his behavior? "If you don't depart, I'll scream."
"I don't care if you scream. I'm happy to indulge any of your whims, just as you'll get to indulge mine, so you're free to do whatever makes our rendezvous more enjoyable for you."
What? She shook her head, perplexed and becoming frightened even though he'd done nothing that was outright menacing.
"Please... I'm here alone, and I'm ..." She wanted to state the obvious—that she was undressed—but she couldn't speak the word naked to this unknown scoundrel, and she blushed bright red, the flush originating somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach and sweeping up her breasts to her cheeks. Unduly warm, she resisted the impulse to fan herself lest she drop die towel.
"I demand that you go."
"God, you're pretty." He reached behind her head and tugged at a comb that had helped to restrain her abundant locks, and the velvety mass cascaded
down her back and hung to her waist. "I love your hair. It shimmers like fire."
For one, mad instant, she thought he planned to kiss her, but instead, he ducked under her chin and nuzzled against her shoulder at the site where her pulse pounded so furiously. A shiver of excitement tore through her, and she swallowed a baffled squeal that could have been either delight or indignation.
His lips were heated and soft, and he tenderly kissed against her nape then, to her astonishment, he licked across her skin. She jumped then twirled away, only to end up facing the mirror, with him behind her, and she assessed the two of them, evaluating the differences: his tall to her short, bronzed to fair, brawn to lean.
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Boldly, he settled his hands on her hips and snuggled her backside against him, and she was assailed by an array of unique anatomical impressions. As though she'd been searching for this man all her life and had finally found him, she ignited with sensation, every pore alert and animated, and her nipples tightened painfully, poking at the towel.
The knave immediately noticed how they'd peaked. "I can't wait to have my mouth on you."
The declaration kindled cryptic images, and restlessly, she scrambled to flee—from the unusual fleshly perturbation and from him—but because of their positions, he merely nestled her close and flexed against her. His groin stroked across her bottom in a manner she'd never presumed a man might attempt with a woman. There was a solid ridge along his abdomen that dug into her buttocks, and her traitorous body reacted by squirming to get nearer to it. He appreciated her participation and gripped her firmly, flexing again.
"Your breasts are so beautiful," he murmured. "Just the size I like on a woman. Not too big. Not too small." Before she knew what he was about, he'd pushed the towel aside, revealing one to his torrid gaze. He cupped it, weighing it with his palm, then he pinched the nipple, twirling and manipulating it back and forth.
The swirl of agony he instigated was like nothing she'd ever previously experienced. The torment blazed a trail that commenced at her bosom, then rushed out across her torso, to the roots of her hair and the tips of her toes, and she curled them into the rug.
"Please," she begged, but whether she was beseeching him to continue or cease was impossible to surmise. On some secret level, she surreptitiously craved what he was vigorously inflicting.
"Look at us," was his rejoinder. There was a gleam in his eye that made him appear wicked and beyond redemption. "Look at how exquisite we are with my hands on you."
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His gaze met hers in the mirror, and she could only conclude that he was correct. Mesmerized, she was beguiled by the incongruous perception that she was magnificent in his arms: curvaceous, feminine, alluring. Their bodies were flawlessly reconciled, perfectly attuned, and the display titillated and disturbed. Much as she wanted to, she couldn't quit staring.
He could read her thoughts, and he smiled insolently. "You see it, too, don't you?"
"You're mistaken," she pointlessly asserted.
"Am I?"
Determined to prove her wrong, he unveiled her other breast, and she desperately grasped the towel around her waist, so it wouldn't fall to the floor and leave her uncovered. As she battled with her nude condition, he petted and fondled, squeezing the mounds and tweaking the nipples until they spasmed intolerably.
Her breathing hitched. Too much was happening too fast. The wanton episode was so inconceivable that it played out like a fantasy—except that he was really present, arousing and addictive. Her mind wailed for her to call a halt, but her body wouldn't obey.
"I'd planned to have you on your bed the first time"— his assertion brushed against her ear—"but maybe I should take you here, by the mirror, so you can see how splendid we are together."
An exotic fog may have temporarily immobilized her, but a fragment of sanity managed to seep in, and she was coherent enough to realize that her virtue was in peril, so she fought his restraint, but he scarcely noted her opposition. He lifted her and deposited her on the vanity, in a fluid move, scooting her back and positioning himself between her thighs.
They had rapidly vaulted to a different, more ominous, stage of involvement. There was an obstinate air about him; he wouldn't desist until he'd journeyed to a conclusion of which only he was cognizant.
He yanked the towel away, and she was completely ex-
16 Cheryl Holt
posed, and he dipped to her nipple and sucked at it. The untried crest was raw and inflamed from how his fingers had handled it, and his mouth only increased her distress. With a yelp of surprise, she resisted his machinations, even as her body hastened forward toward an unfamiliar destination, and she had to combat the urge to spur him on.
So entranced was she by his concentration on her nipple that she didn't discern how he'd shockingly traced his hand down her stomach until he massaged across her womanly cleft. Without warning, he delved through the springy hair and parted the folds, then pushed a finger inside. She froze, wondering what he contemplated, but he caressed her gently, the maneuver at odds with the tension she could sense emanating from him. The foreign intrusion strengthened her conviction to escape, but retreat was blocked by his hips and thighs.
"Stop it!" she commanded, but he didn't appear to hear her; he kept on. "Stop it, now!"
Blindly, she groped about, latched onto a heavy decanter, and swung it at his head. The blow glanced off his crown, but it definitely got his attention. He wrenched away, patently confused.
"Jesus," he muttered, "what the bloody hell did you do that for?"
She swung again and caught him alongside the temple, tearing a gash. Blood welled into the cut, and he staggered, momentarily off balance, and she utilized his distraction to leap away, swathing the towel about her as she went. Dashing into the bedchamber, she considered sprinting into the hall, but she couldn't let anyone discover her predicament.
Commotion emanated from the dressing room, and she spun around. Her adversary, a cloth jammed to his head, had stumbled in behind her, and she cast about for a weapon but didn't see anything useful. She still held the bottle, so she smacked it against the marble of the fireplace, and it shattered effectively.
"Stay away from me," she ordered, brandishing the bro-
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ken glass. "Depart at once—the same way you entered— or I'll slice you to pieces like the swine you are."
The man paused for the slightest moment then, enraged as a wounded bear, he stalked toward her.
Chapter Two
Michael Stevens stopped in the doorway to the bedchamber as the crazed woman before him smashed a decanter against the fireplace. Glass shards flew everywhere.
"I mean it!" she repeated in threat. "Go!"
He wasn't certain what had just occurred between them in her dressing room but, considering the aftermath he was now viewing, he had to sincerely wonder whether she was prone to lunacy.
What type of female invited a man to her boudoir, enticed him beyond reason, then panicked like a silly virgin? She was fortunate he still had control of his wits, that he wasn't the sort who would rush across the room and take what she'd initially offered but had obviously decided she didn't want to supply.
The woman was a menace, and he couldn't help but wonder what Pamela Blair, Lady Carrington, was dunking, welcoming such an unstable person to her fete. Pamela regularly opened her home to her decadent friends and acquaintances, providing them with a private and confidential environment where they could frolic at their leisure. They came in droves, to fornicate and debauch, both the men and women ready to wallow in every sick, ribald, immoral fantasy imaginable, and there were plenty of men currently visiting who wouldn't desist, despite these loud, fervent protests.
Pamela was risking disaster by bringing such a volatile guest onto the premises, and Michael couldn't wail to tell her so. In the meantime, he had to figure out a method of soothing this beautiful-but-deranged shrew before she shouted the house do
wn.
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To think that he'd let himself be lured away from a placid, civilized game of cards for this! If he'd utilized superior judgment, he could be downstairs—winning— while safely sequestered in the company of rational men or, better yet, he could have gone to cavort with any of the other female guests who'd asked, and he could at this very moment be copulating in peace, without being banged on the head for his troubles.
Considering the numbers of gorgeous, lustful women who were flowing in and out of the property, he'd had numerous other acceptable choices. As he was the most disreputable male in their midst, the wanton ladies of the ton were positively dying to couple with him, and for the past few weeks, he'd impulsively obliged their despicable caprices.
The party was every man's greatest dream come true. The level of decadence guaranteed that anything and everything was permitted, the women pleasing and amenable, and rules and inhibitions abolished. Raw interaction and meaningless sex, copious, insignificant, unrefined intercourse, was not only tolerated under Pamela's roof, but absolutely encouraged, with the prerequisite being that the people partaking of her hospitality were completely predisposed to misbehavior.
So what was this woman doing in Pamela's house? What did she hope to accomplish by this maidenly display of offense?
Belowstairs, he'd stepped from the card room in order to stroll outside in the fresh air, when he'd been accosted by a buxom blonde who'd pulled him aside and whispered insistently that the auburn-haired virago standing in front him wanted him to visit, that she was too shy to come to him later on as others would, so she sought a covert rendezvous in the privacy and sanctity of her own bedchamber.
Supposedly, she'd never previously attended one of Pamela's parties, was nervous about her participation, and
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therefore wished an inconspicuous orientation into the carnal routine.
When the request had been posed by her alleged friend, he hadn't given much thought to who the blonde ambassador was, or to why she was soliciting sexual congress on behalf of another, but he was definitely curious now as to her identity. Earlier, he'd presumed she was a lady's companion or perhaps her maid, so he hadn't ruminated over the entreaty or why it had been oddly made.