I don’t kid myself that I’m in any better shape but I am determined. That first time with her, I lost all control. That’s not going to happen again. Ever.
Slowly I slide the leotard from her shoulders, remembering all too vividly how she looked on the balcony in the rain. Her lush, exquisite breasts hold me mesmerized for a long moment. I move on without touching them. Do that and there won’t be any massage.
At the tuck of her waist, I hook my fingers under the top of her tights and pull them off as well but leave her panties in place, partly to avoid alarming her, mostly to avoid seeing exactly how much temptation I can resist. Kneeling again, I free first one foot, then the other before tossing the garments aside.
“Lie down.” I gesture to the table. “On your stomach.”
As she settles herself, I coat my hands with oil scented with sage and ginger, warming it between my palms. Her beautiful face is turned to one side, her eyes closed. Dark feathery lashes fan across her pale cheek. A small furor of pain and tension lurks between her brows. I’m determined that before I’m done, it and every other remnant of stress in her will be well and thoroughly gone.
Beginning with her neck and shoulders, I work the oil into her skin with long, slow strokes. Her muscles are taut under my fingers and the heels of my hands. I wonder if she has been this way ever since awakening, suspended in a state of bewilderment, confusion and fear with inevitable physical consequences. My respect for her courage redoubles.
When my hands reach the base of her spine, I stop for a moment, step back, and study her. I can’t help myself. She is quite simply perfection. Her long, slender back, the curve of her high rounded ass, her slim, tapered legs all enthrall me.
I force myself to breathe in and out slowly. My cock is so hard it’s painful but I almost welcome that, determined as I am to prove to myself that I can keep control. That has never been more important to me than at the moment when she stirs slightly, her eyelids fluttering as though she is suddenly aware--and having second thoughts--about what she is allowing.
Before that goes any further, I glide my hands down the length of her legs with slow, circling motions, concentrating on easing the muscles in her calves, along the back of her thighs, and inward. I can feel the tension ebbing from her, replaced by something else entirely. She is pliant under my hands when I stop.
Softly, I ask, “How’s that, better?”
Amelia makes a faint, inarticulate sound. Her delightful posterior rises a few inches off the table.
I repress a groan. She’s so exquisitely responsive.
“Not quite yet?” I work my way back up her legs, making sure that all the strain in them is gone before I settle my palms firmly on the curve of her ass. Slowly, I squeeze, kneading, letting my thumbs slip toward her cleft just barely covered by the rapidly dampening silk of her panties.
“Ian...” The little catch in her voice coupled with her soft gasp do away with any thought I have of being able to draw this out much further.
“It’s all right, baby, I’ve got you.”
With my hands grasping both her hips, I turn her over. She blinks up at me, surprised but, I’m relieved to see, unresisting.
“Show me what you want, sweetheart,” I urge.
This has to be for her, only for her. I owe her that but I owe it to myself as well if I’m to have any hope of holding onto the idea that I really can be a better man.
Her flush deepens and for a moment I think she can’t or won’t comply. But she surprises me. My breath catches as slowly, hesitantly her fingers begin to trace a path down her torso, below her naval to…
Chapter Nine
Amelia
My fingers, brushing the lacy edge of my panties, feel scorched by flame. What am I doing?
What I desperately need to do. I can tell myself that I was designed to submit to him and to please him. That would absolve me of all responsibility if not for the inconvenient fact that he asked my permission. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to touch me. I want us to--
I, Amelia, my mind flooded with impressions, experiences, and sensations from the moment I awoke. Not to mention memories that are not supposed to exist. None of this is what Susannah gave to me. It is my own, shaping the woman I am becoming.
Myself.
Even as I gaze up at Ian, my body still resonating to his touch, I have to acknowledge how much I want him. If I deny that simply for the sake of proving that I am capable of doing so, I’m denying my own deepest yearning. In effect I’m faced with a conundrum--able to prove that I possess my own will and am capable of making my own choices only by rejecting both.
Under other circumstances, I might find such a quandary intellectually challenging. At the moment, I have no patience for it whatsoever.
Slowly, keeping my gaze locked on his, I slip a finger just inside my panties. My lips press tightly together. If he expects a more articulate invitation, I’m afraid we’re both going to be disappointed.
He smiles. Not the wolf’s grin I remember so well from the balcony but more open and unguarded, a glimpse of the man I hope he really is. Still, the note of command in his voice is unmistakable.
“Stretch your arms over your head and keep them there.”
I do so with speed that deepens his smile, then am forced to wait and watch as he slowly picks up the bottle of fragrant oil and trickles a stream of it…
Aaaahh.
Drops of oil settle one by one between my breasts, down my torso to my naval. Ian rubs more of it between his hands, gives me a long look, and…
Ohmygod.
My hips rise off the table as his palms cup my breasts, squeezing firmly, his thumbs rubbing over my hard, sensitive nipples.
A low gurgle of dismay escapes me when he stops. Again! His hand stretches across my abdomen, pressing me back down.
“Be still,” he says.
I obey and he resumes the slow, sensuous massage, moving along my body inch by inch, touching me everywhere except where I need him most. Even my toes get his attention, each one stretched and rolled between his fingers as sensations shoot from them directly to my groin. My hips rise helplessly.
He shakes his head in what I hope is mock dismay. “So disobedient. What shall we do about that?”
I’m desperate enough to at least try to tell him. But before I can gather the breath to do so, he hooks a finger around the narrow edge of my panties and drags them not down as I’d like but up until they are drawn tightly, squeezed between the outer lips of my sex where they apply exquisite pressure.
He pours more of the warm oil directly onto the silk and with a fingertip traces the fabric stretched above my clitoris. The friction is so intense that I all but come off the table.
“Ian…!”
He ignores my plea and continues the sweet torment until I can do nothing but whimper. Only then does he finally take hold of my panties where they rest against my hips and in a sudden, almost harsh movement, jerks them off.
Before I can even begin to react, he presses his hands against my inner thighs, spreading me wide.
“Like that,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Stay just like that.”
I struggle to obey. His long, too-skilled fingers begin to tease me intimately, pinching my labia together before spreading them apart. He repeats the rhythm of constrict and release until, when I think I can’t bear it any longer, he runs his oiled thumb and forefinger along the inner sides of my sex.
I feel myself becoming hotter and wetter with each passing moment. When he begins a slow, circular motion with his thumb against my swollen clitoris, I stop breathing entirely. At the same time, he thrusts his fingers into me, unerringly finding that ultrasensitive spot I became so well acquainted with in the golden bed.
A moan breaks from me as he increases the pace, his hand moving up and down rapidly, his eyes locked on mine. Pleasure builds in me, higher and higher, teetering on the edge of becoming exquisite pain.
I gasp, dragging in air, and cry his nam
e. “Ian!”
My orgasm is sudden, intense, and merciless. In the throes of it, my entire body bows, the back of my head and the flats of my feet pressing into the table. Even then, he doesn’t relent but maintains the pressure, driving me on and on until finally, as tears seep from the corners of my eyes, he gives in and at last lets me subside.
“My God,” he murmurs, gazing down at me with scorching eyes. “You are so fucking hot.”
I am still shaking with the intensity of my release when he lifts me from the massage table. My head nestles into the curve of his shoulder and my eyes drift closed, only to open again as he carries me into a room constructed entirely of dark polished stone. Stands of tall ornamental ginger plants heavy with red spiky blossoms spice the air.
He sets me down on a bench of the same polished stone--onyx, I think--and quickly strips off his clothes. I can’t take my eyes from him, although to be fair I don’t really try. He is the personification of male beauty, broad in the shoulders, his torso tapering to narrow hips and…
The grin he gives me assures that I have no chance of recovering my composure. I can only go along meekly as he guides me to a wide stone pillar in the center of the room. I have just enough time to wonder what he intends. He wasn’t serious about my being disobedient, was he?
At a flick of his hand, water showers out over the top of the pillar and cascades down, running away into a drain set in the floor.
“Better than the tub?” he asks as he steps close beside me under the fall of hot, steaming water.
I manage to nod even as I marvel that my body, so recently sated--or so I thought--can possibly be tightening with need for him again so quickly. Yet it is, so much so that the muscles at my core clench when he takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so that I’m facing the pillar.
“Put your hands flat against the stone and keep them there,” he orders.
I do as he says but reluctantly. I want so much to touch him.
With greater care than he took on the balcony, he takes the pins from my hair and lets it down. It brushes the center of my back just above my waist and falls over my breasts.
His voice is husky as he says, “Tip your head back, baby.”
When I’ve done so, soaking my hair in the process, he says, “Close your eyes.”
Again, I obey and am enveloped in the scent of honeysuckle and ginger shampoo being rubbed gently into my scalp and through my hair. That this man who can be so intensely, even roughly passionate is also capable of such tender care comes as a surprise. He does a very thorough job of it, then follows up by rubbing body wash over every inch of me. Every single aroused, yearning inch.
By the time I’m thoroughly cleaned and rinsed, I can’t stay still any longer.
Turning, I face him and my eyes widen. His state of arousal didn’t escape my notice when he undressed but neither did I have much time to contemplate it. Now I can’t seem to do anything else.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
A low, surprised laugh breaks from him. “Yes, but I might as well get used to it. This is how I am around you.”
I’m not the only one swimming against a current of carnal desire that threatens to carry me away?
Mimicking his own fondness for issuing orders, I reach for the bottle of body wash. “Let me.”
He arches a brow in surprise but doesn’t refuse. Even so, I can’t mistake the hot desire in his heavy-lidded eyes that mingles with wariness as I slowly spread my hands across his chest. I explore the powerful curve of his shoulders before brushing from the silky dark hair shadowing his underarms down the sides of his chest to his hips and back again.
By the time I pour more body wash into my palms, his breathing is ragged.
Focusing entirely on the task I have set myself, I move behind him to wash his back and buttocks, lingering for a moment on the rock hard muscles there. He groans and reaches a hand to take hold of me but I evade it and step in front of him again.
“Almost done,” I murmur and sink to my knees.
His startled grunt delights me. Slowly, with the same meticulous care that he gave me, I wash his feet and legs. Long before I’m done, his erection is thrusting out from his groin, demanding my attention.
Giving in at last to the temptation I’ve felt from the first moment I saw him nude, I take both my courage and the base of his penis in hand. The sensation almost undoes me. He’s so smooth, so thick, so hard… I stroke along his length, finding the velvety softness at the tip and catch a hot, silken drop of creamy fluid on my finger.
Obeying an urge I can’t resist, I rise, step back just far enough so that my eyes meet his, and suck the tip of my finger between my parted lips. He tastes salty and delicious, and I want more.
But I’m not going to get it, at least not right then. Ian closes his eyes for a moment as though he’s in pain. When he opens them again, the sheer intensity of his hunger makes me gasp.
Before my courage can fail, I turn and place my hands against the stone pillar, my legs spread and my posterior thrust out at a most unladylike angle. His indrawn breath emboldens me.
I turn, look over my shoulder at him, and whisper a single word, “Please.”
What I see in his eyes almost, but not quite, unravels me. I wanted to take the initiative and make it clear that this is my choice. I can hardly complain about the outcome. Nor as it turns out do I have any reason to do so. Ian grasps my hip with one hand and with the other carefully inserts two fingers into me, circling the inner walls of my vagina until I mewl in need.
He groans with relief. “Sweet Amelia, so ready!”
A moment later, his fingers withdraw. He positions himself, clasps both my hips, and in a single thrust seats himself fully inside me. The shock of being so filled, so suddenly sends an ecstatic shudder straight from my groin to the pleasure centers of my brain, which seem in danger of imploding.
I can sense that he is teetering right on the edge of losing control yet he still manages to hold on. Bending low over me, his breath brushing the sensitive skin below my ear, he murmurs, “All right?”
I manage a gurgle that I hope he will take as agreement.
At once, he almost entirely pulls out, then thrusts again and again, rapidly building to a pounding rhythm that shatters my awareness of all else. The water falling over us, the smooth, hard texture of the pillar under my hands, even the beating of my own heart dwindle to insignificance.
There is only Ian, his power claiming my own, our shared hunger, and the precipice of incandescent pleasure to which he is driving us both.
I reach it almost too quickly, screaming his name as I do. He joins me a moment later, his body arching over mine, his fingers splaying over my abdomen, locking me against him. At the last instant, his hand grasps my chin, turning me to him, and his lips find mine in a devouring, soul-penetrating kiss that strips away all remaining barriers between us.
I fall into oblivion but I am not alone. Ian is there with me, holding me, making me feel uniquely and perfectly safe.
Chapter Ten
Amelia
When I’m next aware, I’m looking up at the ceiling of a tent made of diaphanous white silk and filled with heaps of pillows in rich velvet jewel tones piled on thick oriental rugs. Ian is propped up on an elbow, gazing at me.
“Welcome back,” he says. His tone is measured, his expression watchful but he does look more relaxed.
I’m embarrassed, smugly proud, and just a tad shocked by my behavior. Apparently, I have hitherto unsuspected reservoirs of boldness. And at least where this man is concerned, an inherently wanton nature.
I can think about that later.
“Where are we?” I ask.
He trails a finger down my arm lightly. I try but fail to repress a shiver of pleasure which does not go unnoticed by him. He’s looking at me very intently.
“Still in the spa,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
Limp, replete, savoring the
lingering aftereffects of incandescent orgasms. But all I say is, “Much better, thank you.”
The corners of his chiseled mouth quirk. “Always so polite, Amelia. Even when you’re issuing a most salacious invitation.”
I can’t pretend not to understand him any more than I can stop myself from blushing. “Is that what I did?”
“Hmm, I’d say so. One I was delighted to accept.” He flops back against the pillows but continues to study me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. I don’t have a clue to his thoughts. That, more even than his scrutiny, makes me squirm.
“You’re staring again,” I say.
“Am I? I suppose it’s because I’m trying to understand you.”
The way he says it suggests that this is an entirely new endeavor for him. I can’t help but be piqued by the thought of how easily women have come to him in the past.
With a note of asperity, I say, “Didn’t I come with instructions?”
He answers more seriously than I like. “Just the bare minimum and frankly they haven’t proven very helpful.”
Despite myself, I want to know more. About them, those who created and maintained me through all the long years floating in the hated gestation chamber, and about myself. But also about what Ian thinks of the extraordinary situation in which we find ourselves.
“Really? What were they?”
He hesitates, evidently reluctant to tell me but finally he says, “Something about not overloading you with information too quickly and the importance of establishing authority.” His smile is wry. “I’d say I failed on both counts. Wouldn’t you?”
Establishing authority? What the heck! Was I supposed to beg for a treat, fetch a ball, roll over for him?
I sit up, aware suddenly that I’m still naked, as is he. Surely, there’s a robe to be had somewhere?
Rising, I glance around quickly. “On the other hand perhaps what you said before is true. Something went wrong.”
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 8