by Brenda Joyce
“Grace, now, let me in now,” he ordered, and he plunged through her barrier.
Grace cried out in pain. They both froze. He was huge, and she could feel all of him, encased tightly in her sheath. “God,” Rathe cried. “Oh, God, Grace.” He kissed her hungrily and began to move.
The feeling of being stretched taut eased. The fullness became pleasant. He began moving harder. “That’s it,” he gasped. “Open, open wide, take all of me, all that you can…”
Her hands found his back, shyly lying flat on hard, steel muscles, throbbing with power beneath her. He was moving rhythmically now, determinedly, and Grace felt the pressure building again. Her fingers tightened on his skin. “Yes,” Rathe cried, surging deeply. Grace felt the out-of-control spinning begin again. She heard herself cry out gutturally. She was aware of him surging deeper and deeper, and then his arms tightened convulsively around her and he collapsed, moaning her name.
She could feel him watching her.
Eyes closed, Grace gripped the sheet she had rescued from around their feet and held it tightly to her neck. Then she blinked and turned her head slightly.
He was watching her, raised up on one elbow. Grace was expecting anything but the look in his eyes. It was warm, not lustful. It was warm and sparkling and tender.
A slow smile curved along his beautiful mouth, and Grace became fascinated. His lips had a sensual line that intrigued her. Studying them now, she remembered how they felt on hers—and on her body. He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.
“Blushing?” he drawled. “What are you thinking about, Grace?” His tone was light, teasing.
His question brought forth a very graphic image of his sun-streaked head in a place it had no right being, and she felt her face burning.
He chuckled. “Cat got your tongue?”
She met his gaze. Hers wasn’t exactly wary, more intensely curious. She did not know what to expect, now that her status had been established. And it was very hard not to look at this beautiful man who had just made her feel depths of passion she had never dreamed existed.
He was grinning, showing off his deep dimples. “Come here,” he coaxed, the rasping quality of his tone reminding her of everything she had just experienced.
She looked at him. The sheet barely covered his hips. The muscles rippled beneath his dark, golden skin. Sleek he was, and powerful, the way she imagined a mountain lion. He patted the space between them.
Grace took a breath, and shifted slightly—about an inch.
He grabbed her and pulled her up against his warm, hard body. “Umm. This is much better, don’t you agree?”
She looked at the hairs on his chest. She felt his hand on the back of her head, pressing her forward, until she let her cheek come down to rest on his shoulder. “Much, much better,” he said, stroking her nape.
It was better. This was…quite nice. Comfortable. Safe. Warm. His palm moved down her back along her spine. Exciting.
She didn’t know what to do with her hands, caught between their bodies. She was careful to keep her feet and legs on her side of the bed. Suddenly the mattress shifted and rolled as he moved abruptly. And then he was sitting and she was on his lap.
She stared, almost but not quite stricken, into his eyes. One of his strong arms anchored her waist. He met her look calmly, then bent and nipped her ear.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
He pulled back, smiling. “Wondered if you still had a tongue!” Then, with his, he probed into the shell of her ear, and bit it gently again.
Hot delight raced through her, while, at the same time, her hands braced against his chest. “Rathe! What are you doing?”
He chuckled. “Playin’,” he drawled. “Remember, Gracie? I told you when we played you’d know it.”
She recalled their conversation, and now, understanding the meaning, went red in horror and—yes—pleasure. Then, before she had quite absorbed that, he was on his feet—with her in his arms. “Rathe!”
He was carrying her across the room, the both of them stark naked in the light of day. “Put me down!” she demanded. Her heart was racing wildly. But its beat accelerated when he leaned over to nuzzle her breasts with his beard-roughened face. “Put me down,” she faltered, her nipples tightening dangerously.
“Bad timing, Gracie,” he said, as he carefully lowered her into the steaming bathwater.
She gasped. Before she had adjusted to this turn of events, she saw him lift a hard, muscular leg—and stick it inside with her. “What are you doing?!”
Half of the contents of the tub sloshed out as he settled himself opposite her. Grace blinked, for she had seen it, his maleness, stiff again—so big. She was thinking, We couldn’t possibly, could we? Knowing it was wrong, not now, in the daytime, in the bath. Yet her body was feeling tight and hot and traitorously yearning for his touch.
He got to his knees and, gripping either side of the tub, leaned close, his mouth inches from hers. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he kissed her.
Shyly, she opened her mouth. She accepted the deep probing of his tongue, then began returning his attentions with growing boldness. He groaned and ended the kiss. “God, Grace, it’s so hard. I need you again.”
The heat in his gaze thrilled her. No matter how much she wished it didn’t, it did. He lightly brushed his lips over hers. “But I’m afraid it will be too much for you. You’re so small.” He paused, then grinned wickedly. “And I’m not exactly that.”
She went pink. Did other couples discuss such things? She had lowered her lashes, careful not to look at him, and she was finding it distinctly difficult to breathe. How could he talk so graphically? Slowly, newly aware of her body and what its heavy throbbing meant, she raised her glance to his. She found herself staring at his mouth. He inhaled sharply.
She looked at his chest. I’m sitting in a bathtub with a man who is not my husband, she thought, and I’m feeling lascivious toward him.
“Touch me,” Rathe urged huskily.
Her gaze flew to his. That hot light was her undoing. Languidly, she lifted a hand and laid it on his shoulder. His body quivered like a finely tuned bowstring. She ran her palm down his bicep, exploring the rippling muscle, the hard male flesh and bone.
He kissed her again.
His arms were braced on either side of the tub while his mouth locked with hers. Grace clasped his shoulders, unable to let him go, gladly accepting his tongue and capturing it with her own, unwilling to release it. The heat racing through her body was more brilliant than the first time. Her heart was trying to rise out of her breast.
He lunged free of her, and before she knew it, he was out of the tub and walking away from her, putting on a robe. It clung to his wet body when he turned back, making her eyes widen and her breath catch.
He was so utterly aroused and so utterly magnificent.
“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” he told her harshly. “You’d better bathe alone.”
“Oh,” Grace said. Confusion gave way to disappointment.
Chapter 20
They had finished breakfast and Grace was playing idly with a spoon when Rathe broke the silence. “I just have to run out for a bit,” he said.
Grace felt warm beneath his gaze. His look was hard to interpret, because it was so thorough and so very intent. Then he rose and pulled her into his arms, kissing her shamelessly, hungrily. When he finally left she was breathless.
Grace stared at the door, clutching herself.
She was this man’s mistress.
She sank into a chair. Everything had happened so quickly. She wasn’t even sure how she felt.
She looked down at herself, clad in his navy silk robe, without a stitch underneath. Indecent, scandalous, utterly improper. All through their meal he had touched her, his hand lingering on her arm, or her knee, or her waist. His gaze had been riveted on her face. Warm, bold. Yet soft, too.
She hadn’t been able to eat more than a few bites. Her heart had been lodged som
ewhere in the vicinity of her throat. His scrutiny had embarrassed her, yet it had also made her pulse pound. She had been so very aware of him, as a man, sitting so close to her. In fact, never had she been so aware of another human being in her entire life.
Never had she felt so utterly alive. In his embrace, Grace didn’t think, she only felt. How could she have ever imagined that a woman could experience such feelings in a man’s arms? Such passion. It had not been the way she thought it would be. Never had she dreamed her own wild response. She also had not expected such tenderness from him.
Grace shuddered. She really did not know how she felt. A part of her, she supposed, was frightened; another part was shocked. There were other feelings, too, nameless emotions which she did not want to face. She had the uncanny fear that if she did try to analyze them, she would be irretrievably lost.
She looked around the room and realized she had absolutely nothing to do. He hadn’t said how long he would be gone, or that she should wait for him to return. Well, it was the middle of the day, the perfect time to find Geoffrey and begin organizing a class.
She found half a dollar lying atop the bureau and used it to rent a buggy at Tom’s Livery, just across the street from the hotel. As she prepared to go, she found herself wondering where Rathe was; then she thought about Allen. If he didn’t know by now that she’d become Rathe’s mistress, he would soon. She felt she owed him an explanation, but couldn’t bring herself to do it today. She was a coward.
She had no trouble finding the home of Geoff and Clarissa’s family, just north of town, on the outskirts of Natchez. Smoke curled from the chimney, a sure sign supper was on. Workers were trudging in from the fields carrying their tools, and she saw an old man sitting on the porch in a rocker. “Hello,” Grace called, stepping down from the buggy. “How are you today?”
He got to his feet and smiled. “You’re Geoffrey’s teacher, ain’t you, ma’am? I’m his granpappy. An’ thank you, I’m jes’ fine.”
“I’m Grace O’Rourke,” she said, extending her hand.
He stared, shaking his head, but he was grinning. “They says you is different,” he remarked, taking her palm.
Just then Clarissa and Geoff came peeling out of the cottage at the same time, the latter shouting her name in excitement. Grace beamed at the warm reception. After an exchange of greetings, she was led into the house by their grandmother, Maddie, who insisted she stay for supper. Knowing their fare was meager, Grace refused.
When she told them her plans to hold free classes, the entire family enthusiastically agreed to help her organize the children.
“Don’t you worry about it at all,” Maddie said. “Tomorrow at noon you’ll have a churchful of children waitin’ for you.”
Grace was thrilled, but she knew she couldn’t stay.
Rathe had intimated that he wouldn’t be long. She had already been gone for a couple of hours; he was probably back. Was he waiting for her? Thinking of seeing him brought a strange, unexpected excitement. Warm, insistent memories tugged at her: his hard, driving passion, his delicate tenderness, the warmth in his eyes when he smiled at her. Don’t think like this, she told herself sternly. He’s a philandering rogue, and you’re his mistress. It’s as simple as that.
The sky was just starting to turn gray when she returned the buggy and mare. She found herself skipping across the street, her heart pounding despite her resolve to be nonchalant and even briskly businesslike. When she let herself into their room, her heart was beating joyfully.
His face lit up at the sight of her.
Grace stood still against the door, unable to prevent herself from gazing at him raptly, taking in every detail of his appearance, from his high black boots, his fine white doeskin breeches, to the casual lawn shirt left open at the throat.
He came to her. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for an hour.”
His hands closed on her shoulder. Grace opened her mouth to reply, but it was no longer necessary, his mouth eagerly took hers. “I have something for you,” he said huskily. He grinned with the eager look of a schoolboy.
Rathe hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for a single minute of the past few hours. He had experienced many infatuations before, but never one like this. If he didn’t know better, he would think he was falling in love—which was silly. Still, his first and most insistent thought after making love to her, other than doing it again, was buying her a beautiful gift.
If he could, he was going to spend the next year showering her with beautiful gifts.
He had spent a long time choosing something for her. Now he couldn’t wait to see her expression when she saw it. He couldn’t wait to watch her lift stunned eyes to his—then glow with pleasure. He liked it when Grace glowed with pleasure. His heart was beating uncontrollably.
“Here,” he said, reaching to the bureau behind him, smiling.
Grace saw he was holding out a long, flat jewler’s box. An acute feeling of dizziness and nausea welled up in her. This was what she needed to remind herself of the exact nature of their relationship. To shake her out of her state of confusion. Respectable ladies did not accept gifts from men, other than their husbands. She felt a moment’s pang, because they could have been man and wife. Then her lips finned. She was being rewarded for her favors, which was to be expected. But it was so blatant and hurtful Grace did not want to take the box.
“Grace?”
She looked up at him, trying to contain the hurt behind a facade of coldness. It was so very hard to do.
Rathe stared at her expression. She was not glowing; she seemed upset. He heard his tone change, sounding almost apprehensive. “This is for you.”
She wanted to fling it back in his face and tell him she didn’t want it, that the deal was off, that she could not go through with it—she could not be his mistress. She wanted to weep. Instead, she resolutely took the box from his hands and opened it.
His gaze riveted on her face.
A brilliant necklace of amethysts and diamonds twinkled up at her. She thought of the men who gave their wives presents like this because they loved them. He was giving her this present because she had earned it by being his whore. Oh, God, it hurt.
“Grace?” he asked, not breathing.
She looked up at him with frozen features. “Thank you.”
There was a stricken look on his face, but she only saw it for a second, for he turned away and walked to the table. Grace looked back at the necklace, and she had to admit, through the blur of tears, that it was beautiful. She would sell it the first chance she had. It would pay her mother’s bills, maybe for the next year.
She had her back to him, and she used the opportunity to discreetly brush the few stray tears from her face. Then, elaborately, she tossed the box on the bed, knowing full well he was watching. “I think we should come to some sort of agreement,” she stated, turning to face him.
His eyes left the black velvet case lying carelessly amidst the rumpled covers. They were singularly icy as they returned to her. “What sort of agreement, Grace?”
Her hands closed over the back of a chair. “In the future,” she said, “I would prefer cash.”
He sucked in his breath.
“Or a cashier’s check will do.”
He shook from head to toe.
Grace actually shrank back from the intensity of his reaction.
“In the future,” he choked, fists clenched, face red, “you will most certainly have cash.” Then he whirled and moved across the room in a maelstrom of rage. Grace was momentarily afraid to breathe.
He tore out of the room like a cyclone, slamming the door thunderously behind him.
Grace sank, shaking, into a chair. She was so confused. Why had he gotten so angry? She had every right to demand cash. And why did she feel guilty and awful, as if she were at fault? And why, oh why, was she crying?
She expected him to return, first for supper, and then to retire for the night.
But he did not.<
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“I’m out,” Rathe said.
A groan greeted his statement. “You no-good bastard,” George Farris said good-naturedly. “You’ve cleaned us up.”
Rathe was sitting in the Black Heel with what was left of a full table of poker players. He pulled his winnings forward. He knew he had close to five thousand dollars, but he did not smile. He felt no pleasure, just grim satisfaction. A picture of her formed in his mind’s eye, lush and pale and voluptuous and naked.
Anger, icy cold, froze in his veins.
He had been playing for twenty hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were circles beneath them from lack of sleep. His face was scruffy with a day’s growth of beard. He was rumpled and worn-looking, his shirt opened, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. But he wasn’t tired. Far from it.
She wanted cash, did she?
Well, now she would have it.
He saw her tossing the velvet box aside, and the anger in him threatened to become red and hot. He began folding the bills carefully. Five thousand dollars took a while to fold and put away.
His first instincts yesterday had been to wire New York for money. But Rathe had a longstanding policy. Ninety-nine percent of his net worth was tied up in investments. He reinvested every dividend, living off his winnings at the card table. It was easy to do because he was such a successful player, and because he loved the game.
Yet yesterday he had actually gone to wire New York when he realized it was Friday. It would be days before he could throw the money in her face. He couldn’t wait days. He was too furious. His desire to play her game the way she called it made this poker match the most important and hateful one in his life.
“You look like you could use a hot bath, honey,” purred a lush blonde who’d been assigned to looking after the back room after the waiter had gone home exhausted several hours earlier. Players, too, had come and gone, though Rathe had been winning steadily. Even George had only joined in at ten o’clock last night.