by Julia Keaton
Logan tugged at her bottom lip, sucking and teasing the tender flesh, his mouth tasting her like she was a rare delicacy. She felt as though he would devour her, one sense at the time. And she thrilled at the prospect, hate burning away with his kiss. He drew his arms around her and crushed her body to his ... so close ... but not nearly enough.
She needed—wanted—more. Lost to thought, all awareness save her awareness of his mouth, she clung to him, her body begging when her words could not. He pushed her higher against the door, wedging a hard thigh between her legs for support, moving the rigid muscles across the center of her sex in shocking precision. A sudden wave of pleasure rocked her core. She gasped against his mouth and he plunged his tongue inside with a liquid glide.
Guided by instinct, she closed her mouth around his tongue, sucking, enjoying its rough texture, the taste of whiskey and his own wildness, moving her hands over his broad shoulders. The need to touch him everywhere was near unbearable, and her hands crept down his back, hovering at his waistline. He groaned in response to her awkward caress and pressed closer to her, hiking her skirts up with one hand.
She felt the rough touch of his palm on her thigh, pushing her dress higher. Her legs spread for him as he supported her, until her sex was horribly vulnerable to his penetration, covered only by the thin cotton of her chemise. No armor to protect her from the sensation of his hardened manhood nudging against her woman’s flesh.
She moaned into his mouth, clutching his shoulders as he thrust once against her, driving a wedge of need deep within her belly.
Abruptly, he pulled away, breathing raggedly, his chest heaving as he struggled for control.
It felt like he’d taken a piece of her with him when he withdrew, like he’d ripped a wound in her that would never heal. And she was afraid he had. Winter was cold, colder than she’d ever felt in her life. If he hadn’t stopped, would she? Shivering, she rubbed a hand across her mouth, feeling miserable, tainted. She should never have agreed to his conditions.
He wouldn’t look at her as he urged her away from the door and opened it. “Go now, while you still can. I expect you to come tomorrow. I will send a coach for you at the park. The same time you held your appointment with Vincent Giovanni. Do nothing to arouse your mother’s suspicions if you value your reputation.”
Winter nodded, torn between an urge to deny his wants and risk the public’s censure ... and an equal urge to embrace what he desired. She fled the room before she could do anything irreversible. She felt drained, emotionally as much as physically. He’d stolen something from her. Her respect for her life, for her position as a lady. How would she ever get through this and remain Winter Stevens?
CHAPTER NINE
Winter left early the next day to visit “Sarah.” Her mother suspected nothing, since she’d long since established this pattern of behavior with her. Indeed, she was happy for her daughter to have a social life when times seemed so dismal.
Winter felt lower than low for her deception. It had all started with her damnable pride, but the deception to have her way paled beside the deception she now practiced. She knew she didn’t deserve to be happy—she deserved punishment for her wrong-doing. Logan Cordell was her punishment ... and it was fitting.
It made her want to scream and rage at the role she’d been dealt in life.
She wished she was someone who could do whatever she liked, to live each day with freedom from society’s dictates. But she couldn’t change who she was, any more than he could. He would never believe she was sorry for what she’d done, that the instant she had struck him, she’d regretted it. He would think her apology only a ruse to have her way without paying. Had their places been reversed, she would not believe it herself.
An extorted apology wasn’t remorse. It was self-preservation and that was the only way he would see it.
If she had only sought him out then and humbled herself with an apology none of this would ever have happened. He might have accepted her apology then, would at least have seen it as voluntary.
She damned her prideful ways yet again.
No, she had no choice now but to go through with this, whether she liked it or not. She would keep her promise to him, as she knew she must. Whatever else she was, she always kept her promises.
A black coach arrived at the park and picked her up at the appointed hour. It bore no signs of distinction, so she would not be noticed riding in a peer of the city’s conveyance. Or at least, she hoped not. One could never tell if a gossip monger was on one’s tail.
She nervously twirled a tendril of hair in one hand during the ride, wondering if Logan would keep his vow not to betray her. He had no honor—that much was apparent. But could she trust him in this? It was moot even questioning the possibility, either he would or wouldn’t. Logan had given her no choice but to play along and trust the outcome would be something she could live with.
The carriage pulled to a stop behind his lordship’s sprawling mansion, one of the oldest townhouses in the city. It had long stood empty, until the earl’s return with riches enough to restore it to its former glory. And he’d done so without her ever having known it. The city had grown too much, too fast, when one couldn’t keep up with her citizens’ progress.
Winter kept her head cloaked until she was safely inside and was ushered immediately to Logan’s study, where he awaited her arrival.
Entering the room, she was struck momentarily dumb when she saw him—a different side than she’d seen before ... and far more desirable. She sucked in a deep breath, her inner calm felled immediately. She felt like a blithering idiot every time she looked at him, and wondered if her advancing age had something to do with the raging emotions he continued to evoke within her. She certainly wasn’t behaving as she normally did.
She felt like some rutting beast in heat when around him. And that loss of control was dangerous to her.
One brow arched, he seemed to realize his effect on her ... and he enjoyed it. Maintaining his casual stance, he leaned a hip on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest, tightening the fine fabric over his wide chest until she expected it to rip. His cravat lay in a rumpled heap on the desk, and the white silk shirt he wore slashed open at the neck, revealing sun bronzed skin sprinkled with dark hair. She wondered if he’d acquired his unusual coloring and impressive physique working on the docks....
Black breeches covered his legs like a second skin, every muscle clearly delineated. He looked every inch a pirate ... a rogue ... and she knew quite suddenly that she was in trouble ... and that she couldn’t stop looking at him, no matter how hard she tried to look away.
“Sit down.” He gestured toward the chair sitting directly before his desk.
It was a simple command and she obeyed without questioning. Her knees brushed his legs, and the point of contact seemed to burn like fire through the thin cotton gown she wore. Winter looked at her hands clasped in her lap, but her eyes kept straying to his legs, studying him in the silence that swallowed the room.
“You like the way I look, don’t you?”
She would never admit something so crude. It would please him too much, that she was not the perfect lady she pretended to be. Her head snapped up, blood rushing to her cheeks. “No. I find you utterly detestable.” The fairness of her skin had been forever her enemy, and she wished yet again that she was not so easily embarrassed. And that he could not read every thought on her face. He was a wicked rogue to state the obvious with the intention of upsetting her calm ... and she was weakening if such simple words affected her thus.
He smiled knowingly. “It’s time we began your first lesson.”
She glared at him. “I am no child.”
“In this, you are.” Watching her steadily, he said, “I want to see your hair unbound. Take it down.”
When she did nothing, he said, “Do you enjoy making this harder on yourself than need be? It is a simple enough request.”
She remained unmoving.
“Would you prefer I do it?” he asked, a devilish gleam in his eyes.
Resisting the defiance raging inside her mind, Winter stood, her face flaming, and pulled the pins from her hair. The heavy mass fell in abundance down her back and over her shoulders, the curling tendrils brushing against the top of her buttocks. Her hair was a constant source of discomfiture to her. It was, and had always been, the color of white gold, so pale the color was often mistaken for that of an older woman’s hair, and she resented the label of spinster before her time.
Logan nodded in satisfaction and walked around her, splaying the ends of her hair in his palms, feeling its silkiness. Her hair had fascinated him from the first with its unusual color, and he’d often imagined her draping the snowy locks around him in their lovemaking. He grabbed her shoulders, ignoring her small gasp of surprise, and buried his face in her curls, breathing in her intoxicating, fresh scent. She smelled like honeysuckle on a spring day. He longed to run his tongue over her skin to find if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
A knock sounded softly on the door, and she jerked away from him, smoothing her hands over her hair nervously, looking incredibly guilty and desirable.
“Enter,” Logan said, irritated at the interruption. He’d forgotten he’d ordered the tea service. It wasn’t like him to forget anything. Winter Stevens was proving ample distraction. The butler entered bearing tea, iced cakes, and sandwiches. He left as silently as he’d come in, closing the door behind him.
As the servant departed, an idea occurred to Logan, one that would set her at ease and still satisfy his need to touch and taste her.
“Come, pour the tea,” he said, gesturing toward the tray as he sat behind his desk. He enjoyed watching her, her nervous movements, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. She was incredibly sensual in her innocence, lovely beyond words, and yet she did not realize it. Her own doubts of her desirability made him want her that much more, for she was unable to hide her flaws from him as so many women did.
Winter managed to pour without spilling it everywhere, preparing the tea according to his directions and setting it before him. “Would you like cake or sandwiches?”
“I’d like you to serve me cake.”
She selected a slice and set the plate in front of him. He caught her wrist before she could retreat. “From here,” he said, watching her as if she were a tasty morsel he would devour.
She tugged at her arm, to no avail, already uncomfortable being alone in the room with him. When he touched her, her nervousness threatened to spiral out of control. “I don’t understand.”
“Come, I will cause you no harm.” He patted his lap.
Winter looked at him in dawning horror, knew her face had gone white. The very idea caused her heart to skip a beat. “I can’t do that.”
“But you will.” Giving her no choice, he pulled her down until she was compelled to sit on his lap or fall on top of him. She squirmed on his lap, unable to be comfortable in the intimacy of her position. Their forced nearness made her feel something entirely different from hatred, and she liked not the feeling one iota.
Logan watched her profile, waiting in expectation, enjoying every minute of her rounded bottom pressed against his thighs. Only extreme will power kept him from pressing his advantage over her. Hesitantly, she picked up a fork and he shook his head. “I want you to serve it to me ... with your hands.”
Winter bit her bottom lip, forcing back the retort stinging her tongue. Angrily, she removed her gloves and tore off a piece of cake with her fingers.
She shoved it at him and he grabbed her wrist, preventing her from shoving it down his throat. Winter gasped as his lips closed around her fingers. She tried to pull away, but he held her trapped—one hand curled around her hips and the other manacling her wrist. There was nothing to do but allow him his way. Watching her steadily, he sucked the bite of cake from her lax grip.
Her eyes transfixed by the movement of his mouth, his nibbling lips, Winter watched, mesmerized, as he flicked his tongue over her fingers, nipping the tips as he sucked the icing off. Her fingertips tingled as he suckled and rubbed his tongue over them.
Her breathing grew ragged watching him bent over her hand, worshipping her with his mouth. It sparked a frisson of energy to dance across her nerves.
He kissed each tip when he finished and then awaited another piece. Riveted and unwilling now to resist, she pulled off another section and offered it to him like a supplicant. He locked his gaze with hers, tilting his head, almost smiling as he repeated the ritual.
There was something incredibly erotic having him watch her while he sucked her fingers. It was unforgivably naughty, and yet she couldn’t help the thrill it gave her. She’d never thought her fingers could be a source of carnality—he had proven her wrong.
She wondered briefly what other sources of pleasure could be evoked in the most innocent of ways, for she’d never thought food could be used to invoke desire.
Unable to look away, she gave him another piece, slowly feeding him in that manner until the slice was gone—and her skin prickled with his branding.
When he finished, he released her. She moved quickly away, wondering at the strange feeling of trust burgeoning in her breast. He’d not done what she’d anticipated him to do today, not that she could name her expectations in words. She watched him warily, unsure if this was the extent of his demands, and if so, why he’d gone to such trouble to intimidate her.
“That was not so difficult, was it?”
Winter’s first instinct was to flatly refute his statement, to tell him she had loathed every moment of it, but she could see that he knew very well that she had found it far from repugnant. “No,” she said, and flushed at the huskiness of her voice.
His brows rose, as if he was surprised at her honesty. “If you continue to please me, Winter, I promise, you will enjoy your time with me.”
CHAPTER TEN
The following day preceded much the same as the first had. The butler would bring in a tray of tea, cakes, and sandwiches, and Logan would compel her to feed him.
By the third day, strangely enough, she began to look forward to it. The erotic pull of his mouth on her fingers acted like a strange aphrodisiac on her, suffusing her with unnamed desires, replacing her initial nervousness with an entirely different, but equally troubling, tension.
She wondered if this would be the extent of her servitude.
Winter would not get off so easily, however, she soon discovered.
She’d arrived at his study at her usual time, wearing her afternoon dress and pelisse to combat the wintry cold. Even in the South, there were times when the temperatures dropped to a level of discomfort.
Winter watched the cheery fire burning in the hearth, feeling her bones thaw from her excursion from the carriage to his quarters. She appreciated the warmth of the room and removed her muff and bonnet, waiting for Logan to say something to begin his next method of coercion.
Logan watched her from behind his desk, saying nothing as he swirled brandy in a glass.
He seemed to be preoccupied with something, if the dark look on his face and the haphazard way he’d tied his cravat were any indication. Try as she might, she could not become used to seeing a gentleman in such a state of dress.
She wanted to maintain propriety as much as possible, but he made it difficult to remain aloof. She shifted nervously on the edge of the brocaded high back chair, wondering why the butler did not come in as he had her previous visits.
“Are we not having tea today?” she asked, watching as he sipped his brandy.
He set the glass down. “Not today. I’m ready for something new. Are you?” he asked, his voice rough from the alcohol.