He lifted his other hand to cup her jaw and tilted her head gently upward toward his. His voice dropped an octave. “This, perhaps?”
He bent his head to capture her mouth with his again, to stroke his tongue against the seam of her lips, to draw the full swollen flesh of her lower lip into his mouth and plunder beyond it with a possessive sweep.
“Or maybe this?” He skimmed his hand from the back of her neck down her spine to press her lower body forward, into his, against the aching arousal that demanded to be assuaged.
“No,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Be honest with me, Helena. Be honest with yourself.” He kissed her again, holding her to him, feeling the taut resistance of her body as he tasted and suckled at her lips and exulting in the moment she surrendered her will to his own—when her body moulded against his as if she’d been carved from his very flesh.
He let go of her jaw and slipped his hand up underneath the waistband of her top to trace his fingers against the texture of her skin, slowly working the material away from her body until his fingers could splay across the warm globe of her breast. He plucked gently at the hardened nub of her nipple, playing the tender flesh until she sagged against his body and groaned deep in her throat.
Barely taking a second to release her lips, he swept the sweatshirt up and over her body. Both his hands spanned her tiny waist and skimmed over her rib cage, his thumbs trailing twin lines under the swell of her breasts.
He watched her face as he touched her; saw the glitter of desire in her eyes before they slid closed. Her parted lips were moist and swollen, an open invitation. He should stop now. He should be repulsed by her eagerness to welcome his touch, his body. Instead, his arousal escalated another notch. He felt her reach for the waistband of her pants, saw as she gripped the fabric with fisted hands then pushed until the sweats fell in a pool at her feet. Total surrender. Total capitulation. She was his to do with as he wished.
Mason swept her small frame up in his arms and placed her gently against the covers on his bed. As he settled over her body he bent to kiss her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. Helena’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, the fingers of one hand splayed against the back of his neck, encouraging him to hasten. To take her lips, to take her body.
But he would not be hurried. Every part of her face, her jaw, her throat, fell victim to the relentless, but painfully tentative, attention he paid her. Attention he’d dreamed of more nights that he could count. Attention that had wound him in knots of frustration for more years than he wanted to remember. He trailed his lips and tongue down her throat, stopping only to nip gently at the edge of her neck. The gasp of pleasure that escaped her spurred him on his path and he bent his head to capture one tightly budded nipple between his lips. His tongue swirled with delicious intent around the hardened peak, drawing it into his mouth and suckling with a steady rhythmic pull. She squirmed against him, silently urging him to press his body harder against hers.
He wore too many clothes. Mason lifted himself and managed to divest himself of his shirt and unbuckle his jeans. He clenched his teeth against the roaring torrent of desire that threatened to swamp him as his body finally settled, skin against skin—as her breasts flattened against the hard planes of his chest. Protection, damn, he needed protection. He dragged himself away from her welcoming body to reach in the bedside cabinet drawer. If he didn’t take care of things now it would be too late. Sheathing himself took only a moment but even then the time away from her heat was an eon.
Helena lifted a trembling hand to stroke his face, tracing the outline of his cheekbones, his jaw, committing every touch, every texture to memory. She shouldn’t be doing this, but she wanted him with a fiery need she barely recognised in herself. She trailed her fingers over his lips before letting her hand drop to her breast where she repeated the caress across her aching nipples. His pupils dilated at her action, his chest shuddered with uneven breaths. She cupped her breasts with both hands—offering herself to him. Her skin, so sensitive now, it begged for him to touch her again. His eyes blazed over her, watching as she arched her body along the sheets. A primitive beat pounded through her veins, heightening her senses and her awareness of the man who watched her every move with the intentness of a panther stalking its prey. A piercing shaft of anticipation arrowed through her as he covered her body, length for length, driving a small whimper of sheer need to shudder from her lips.
Mason caught her face between his hands—forcing her to meet his gaze, defying her to break the contact. He slid inside her—slowly, completely—filling her with a sense of belonging that both terrified and soothed her. She drew him deeper inside, and took the groan wrenched from his very core as her reward.
He began to move, first slowly then in increasing tempo, fuelling the delicious tension that escalated within her. A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on her skin and her heartbeat accelerated, matching the cadence of their movements. Still, he held her with his eyes—still, she remained trapped. Drawn inexorably to him as if her existence depended on their ephemeral link. Helena gave herself over to the sheer volume of feeling that ebbed and flowed within and around her. Her sight began to glaze, her eyelids to flutter and a deep-throated sigh expelled past her lips as her climax approached. When Mason’s hands let her go, she tilted her head back and lifted her hips to take him in as deeply as she could bear. Except suddenly her body was bereft of his heat, empty of his possession.
“No!” she cried. “Not now, please, don’t stop now.” Helena struggled to push herself up onto her elbows as Mason pulled away from her and got up from the bed.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice, thick with desire, hung in the air between them as he watched her impassively. She fought to control her rapid breathing. A shiver rippled over her as the air caressed her flushed skin. Under his cool scrutiny Helena felt reduced to little more than a butterfly on a pin. Something bad had happened, something she didn’t understand, and now she desperately wished she could cover her aching naked body from the emptiness in his gaze.
“There’s nothing wrong.” His answer was delivered at subzero temperature.
“Then why? Why did you stop?”
Mason bent to gather his clothing and yanked his jeans up his long legs and over his hips. “Because I can.” He collected the sweatshirt and pants she’d worn earlier and tossed them onto the bed. The inference in his action was clear. Get dressed and get the hell out of his room. “And because now I know how far you’re prepared to go.”
Helena scrambled to cover her vulnerability, her skin still sensitised to his touch, her body still craving the release he’d denied them both. On trembling legs she sped across the carpet and through the door, the click of the latch behind her almost inaudible against the echo of her fractured breath as the reality drew home with terminal velocity.
Because I can. The words echoed hollowly inside her mind. In three words he’d reduced her to nothing but some thing to be enjoyed at his convenience. She’d allowed herself to be degraded to nothing more than what she was essentially fighting so hard to forget. It was as if she’d learned nothing in the past twelve years. Anger lanced through her body, followed swiftly by burning pain that billowed from deep within her chest. Helena pushed a fist against her mouth to hold back the scream that built inside, because she was suddenly frightened that if she let the sound go she’d never be able to stop.
In his bathroom Mason dispensed with the redundant condom—balling it up in tissue and flinging into the wastebasket with a guttural curse. He didn’t know what he hated more at this moment—the fact that he’d made love to Helena, or the fact she’d let him. Made love, ha! He’d succumbed to a primal urge, nothing else—and if he kept telling himself that for long enough, he’d even begin to believe it.
He stepped into the shower stall, switched the water to as hot as he could stand and, resting his forehead against the wall, let the water pound against his shoulders.
He’d said no. It had s
eemed so important at the time to be able to walk away—to resist her. To be in control. The victory should be pulsing through him, yet all he could feel was the acrid taste of failure compounded by intense clawing need. The compulsion to stamp himself on her body, her psyche, tormented him. Urged him to wipe away every memory she held of every other man—and there had been plenty of them, he was certain.
She’d responded to him so immediately, so intensely. A piece of him wanted to believe that her response had been for him, and him alone, but he knew her type too well. The painfully familiar nausea swelled inside him as he remembered the careful yet inappropriate brush of a hand, the kiss that lingered a little too long on his cheek and then later, in his room one night, the blatant offer from his father’s much younger mistress. Yeah, he knew the type all right, and now he knew just how to handle her.
It helped that he had something over her—she needed his help. And then there was Brody. If the boy was his son he’d be doing him a complete favour to remove him from her influence, from the steady stream of men through the revolving door of her bedroom. No wonder she had Brody away at boarding school down country, she didn’t have to be accountable for her behaviour this way. But not for much longer if the paternity test results validated her claim. Things were going to change.
Mason reached for the shower mixer and twisted it one-eighty degrees before lifting his face to the stream of water. He flinched as the spray flung cold needles at his body, almost to the point of pain, then snapped off the mixer when his blood had finally cooled to what approximated normality. It was a shame the same couldn’t be said for his flesh. Damn her for having this effect on him, and damn him for letting her.
Four
Dawn slanted thick, pink streaks, laden with the threat of rain, across the sky, its light like a probe across her face. Even at her lowest, when she’d done things that had shamed her dreadfully, she hadn’t felt this used.
Because I can.
Did he think he was so superior to her, so much stronger that he could use her and then just walk away? Of course he could. He held all the cards in this particular hand and he knew it.
Helena dragged herself from the twisted bed sheets and padded into the bathroom. God, she looked a wreck. She’d ended up going to bed in the tracksuit. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to wear it a moment longer. She needed the reminder of his touch against her skin about as much as she needed a garden party right now. She slid out of the clothes—Mason’s clothes—and kicked them across the floor. If only getting out of this situation were equally as easy. She plucked her underpants off the heated towel rail and pulled them on, swiftly followed by her camisole and skirt. The waistband of the skirt still felt damp and clammy to her skin, but at least she was wearing her own clothes.
Her clothes. Her decisions.
One way or another she’d deal with her problems, even if it included dealing with Evan. It had been Patrick’s wish that she disclose the truth about Brody’s parentage to Mason. She’d followed that wish to the letter. Now the ball was in Mason’s court. She certainly wasn’t going to stick around here and be a victim of his dictates any longer. The sooner she was gone, the sooner she could begin to garner the strength she needed for what she knew would be an arduous battle ahead.
Helena gathered up her handbag and let herself quietly out of the bedroom. The house was silent and still. Too still. She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly to calm her sudden nerves then resolutely made her way down the passage. It wasn’t until she’d picked up the cordless phone in the sitting room that she remembered the line was dead. How on earth would she get a taxi now?
There was nothing else for it but to walk down to the main road and hope she could get a ride with some passerby. However, at the front door Helena was stymied once again. Obviously Mason had brought his city habits here to the Coromandel. The front door was locked and a quick reconnoitre of the entranceway proved futile in the search for a key to let herself out the house.
The garage. What about the garage? The automatic garage door opener would have a wall-mounted control as well. She let herself into the garage and carefully closed the door behind her. Only a small amount of light filtered through the high windows in the wooden automatic doors and it took her a while for her eyes to adjust to the gloom in the garage.
The bank of switches by the door had been labelled by some organised soul. Mason, she didn’t doubt. She knew he’d done a stint in the army. The way he kept things rigidly organised here at the house was no doubt a follow-on effect to his military training. Helena swiftly identified the switches that operated the garage door and the gate at the bottom of the private road. Her hand hovered over the switches hesitating briefly before depressing them. The garage door slowly opened.
It would be so much easier if she could simply drive out of here. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably as her eyes tracked across the garage to Mason’s four-by-four. The beast was way bigger than the small sedan she’d lost to the river twelve years ago. Could she do it? Could she drive again?
She walked across the tiled garage floor and pulled open the driver’s door, swinging up into the seat before she could think twice about it. Her hands shook as she laid them on the steering wheel. Fear washed over her in a sickening wave and Helena closed her eyes in a vain attempt to force down the choking nausea that pitched through her.
“You’ll need these.”
Mason’s voice from just outside the open vehicle made her jump. From his fingers dangled a set of car keys. He was dressed all in black again today, the solid darkness lending a lethal edge to his appearance.
“I wasn’t…” Her voice trailed off. She had no idea what she was thinking.
“Sure you weren’t.” He leaned across and inserted one of the silver keys into the ignition. “There you go.”
He stood back and crossed his arms, silent challenge visible in his stance and the fierce expression in his eyes. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring herself to turn that key.
“What’s stopping you, Helena?”
“I can’t…I can’t drive anymore.” Her voice shook almost as much as her hands, and her stomach twisted.
“You used to.”
“That was different. It was a long time ago.”
“It’s going to be difficult to run away from me if you don’t.”
She swivelled her head to face him. “I’m not running away. Not from you.”
“Of course you’re not. So go on. Do it.”
There was a thread of steel to his voice, an underlying fury that both frightened and galvanised her into action. Helena reached forward and turned the key, bringing the four-by-four to sudden rumbling life.
“Still remember what comes next?”
Helena flung him a withering look. “Sure I do.” She pulled the driver’s door closed with a hollow thunk and selected Reverse to put the vehicle in motion. Her hands felt clammy on the wheel and her stomach was doing the kind of acrobatics that more appropriately belonged in a Cirque du Soleil performance. She backed out of the garage, spinning the wheel to turn in the parking bay so she could head off in the right direction down the drive. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed Mason still stood in the garage, his arms crossed in front of him, his feet planted firmly on the ground.
She could do this. If only to show him.
Helena slipped the transmission into drive and held her breath as the vehicle jerked forward. Another glance in the rearview mirror showed Mason hadn’t moved an inch. She hooked up her seat belt then planted her foot firmly on the accelerator.
The truck fishtailed slightly as she took the sharp corner that turned from the driveway onto the private road that lead down to the main route back to civilization. Helena kept the momentum up, braking gently before she reached a blind bend in the road. Something wasn’t right. A sea of mud, littered with small trees and debris, encroached on the unsealed surface. There was no way she could drive through all of that at this speed. She stomped on
the brake and pulled the steering wheel sharply to the left.
She knew the exact moment the vehicle lost its grip on the loose metal road and, without losing momentum, felt the precise point at which the front edge of the bull bars connected with the bank, spinning her around, until with a muffled metallic wallop, the entire right side connected with the hard wall of earth that lined the road. The truck groaned as it settled back on its four wheels, rocking slightly in the process. The passenger door flung open.
“Are you okay?” Breathless, Mason climbed in and ran his hands over her chest and shoulders, frantically checking her for injuries.
“I…I don’t think I’m hurt,” Helena managed in a shaky voice as tremors shuddered through her.
“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“No. It’s me. I chose to do it. I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have let you goad me into it.” Helena felt her eyes flood with tears, felt the hot liquid spill over her lashes and track down her cheeks.
Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her into the warm haven of Mason’s body.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His broad hands cradled her head and gently ran through her hair, testing her scalp for any tenderness. He tilted her face toward his. “When I heard the crash I…” Mason shook his head, as if to dislodge the sharp lines of concern etched into his pale face. His thumbs reached up and brushed away the tears that rolled down her face.
“Don’t cry, babe.” His voice was strange, tight.
Helena felt the air shift between them as he brought his face to hers. His lips, when they touched, were hot, consuming. She softened against him, squeezing her eyes closed against the stark need she saw reflected in his gaze. She didn’t want to think anymore. She didn’t want to feel. But despite her wants, her body took on a life of its own, greeting Mason’s possession of her lips with an answering flare of heat that melted every nerve ending. His mouth slanted across hers and she welcomed the power in his kiss. Tremors rocked his body like tiny after-shocks.
The Tycoon's Hidden Heir Page 5