Mr. Chisholm gave a succinct nod, and Jinan unclenched her hand and held it out to him. It wasn’t Mr. Chisholm’s slight, cool hand that grasped hers. Lord Rothburn’s firm, warm fingers slipped over her hand. Her heart nearly tripped right out of her chest in trepidation. His hold was strong, as if he were afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough.
He helped her down the steps of the dais. When she was eye level to him he released her hand and clasped the back of her knees to swing her up in his strong arms.
Her arms went automatically around his wide shoulders. Tilting her head back, she gave him a hooded gaze, one that showed the depth of her desire and willingness to fulfill his deepest yearnings.
It was wasted.
He stared straight ahead without so much as a word to Mr. Chisholm. She looked over Rothburn’s shoulder, seeing the envious crowd of outbid gentlemen, then raised an eyebrow at Amir in question, but he paid no heed to her misgivings. Then everyone’s attention returned to the auction. She was forgotten as the men sought to purchase their pleasures with another of the forbidden women.
Rothburn’s gait was smooth, his strides determined as he carted her off to one of the private, sari-covered alcoves.
Sweeping the gauzy silks aside, he stepped into the small nook.
His arm slid away, releasing her knees, forcing her to stand in front of him in the darkness. The soft scent of jasmine filled her nostrils, as did the smell of man, sending her heart aflutter. The beating of it was so loud in her ears she wondered if he could hear it. She could smell a faint aroma of olive oil, probably from his soap, and a little bit of sweat, not at all unpleasant. It was nice and so very masculine. He stood a full head above her, a towering, imposing figure. Taller than she remembered. Even though they’d once danced a cotillion and a waltz together. Even though they’d spent every night of their two-week courtship in any secret place they could sequester themselves.
Conjuring the details of her past was dangerous. Besides that, it wasn’t like her to take to these flights of fancy. He was her lord for however long Amir said. She’d do her duty. No more.
Pushing the old memories from her thoughts, she began to play her part in the seduction.
The lamp was unlit in this room. It was too dark to make out his expression so she raised one hand to sculpt his face. He said naught as she felt the prominent planes of his cheekbones, smooth and defined with hard-edged lines. Her fingers were slow, feeling every contour as she stroked his smooth-shaven jaw and the cleft in his chin.
Curious, she raised the other hand and caressed the soft plumpness of his parted lips. An even stream of his hot breath met her exploring thumb. He seemed in no rush to stop her, standing still while the tips of her fingers molded lightly over his closed eyes. A small sound of ecstasy escaped him as she put the tip of her thumb in his mouth, touching his tongue. He bit down lightly to hold her in place as his tongue swept around it.
Her resolve to banish the past from her thoughts was as futile as denying Rothburn her body. How she wished her life had taken a vastly different path.
Concentrating on the physical and not the memories that stole her ability to seduce, she pulled her thumb from his mouth and trailed her fingers lower. The column of his neck was strong, manly, the pulse that beat there erratic, telling her an entirely different story than that of the sound of his controlled breathing. Did he know she was just as aroused as he? He’d know it if he touched her. As the thought slid into her mind, he raised his arms, hands reaching for the veil placement at the back of her head. She pulled away, shaking her head no, the copper coins at the edge ringing like distant wind chimes.
His hands dropped away from her hair, falling loose to his sides. The outline of his head, barely visible in the dark, cocked to the side in question. She put her finger to his lips and said in Persian, “Amir would have been explicit in this. My veil stays for the duration of the contract.”
He didn’t argue, and seemed to understand the meaning of her foreign words.
She opened her mouth to ask how they should continue when his finger crossed over her lips. “Shh . . . no words between us this night. I want you silent, no matter what I say to you. Your owner will discuss the contract we’ve agreed upon when I leave. Just give me all of your true self this night,” he responded in English.
What did he mean by such words?
The only indication he had moved was the sound of sliding material. She thought he had removed his vest or unbuttoned his trousers to take them off. She was mistaken. His hands reached for her arms and after a gentle squeeze he turned her around, pulling her back flush to his cloth-clad chest. He burned hotter than the summer night, yet goose bumps rose at her nape where his breath fanned through wisps of her hair.
It took her but a moment to understand what piece of clothing he had removed.
Complete darkness blanketed her eyes as he tied his stiff neckcloth around her head, locking over the clasp that held her veil in place.
His message was clear. She’d played the submissive often enough that she understood the significance of the blindfold. He forbade her to see him when denied the privilege of viewing her. Now more than ever it was imperative she not remove the veil for fear of revealing her identity. So be it. It was better this way.
If the moon awakened from its sleepy hollow in the clouds and illuminated the room, he would be able to read her flitting thoughts in her eyes. Read the hunger that went beyond her being a mere mistress of the night.
When the material was snug he pulled her in tighter. Her back bowed, bringing her shoulders to his chest and her derrière into his hardened groin. He didn’t nestle his cock between the cheeks of her buttocks as she expected.
His hand made a downward arc between her naked breasts, caressing over her ribs right to the top of her navel. Then lower, his fingers spanned the sloping curve of her stomach. His other hand wrapped around her neck, his fingers turned her face till her ear was pressed to his mouth. His breath was rushed, uncontrolled as it rasped out in a needy thread.
He did nothing more than hold her in that position. She wasn’t aware how long they stood there, both breathing hard in anticipation of the inevitable outcome.
It was as though nothing existed but him in the dark world he had created with the blindfold . . . and that wasn’t good. She needed to guard herself carefully. She would not lose her head or her heart to him again.
What did he plan to do with her?
He scooped her up in his arms again and strode over to the plush divan where he lightly deposited her on her back. She couldn’t see so she listened to his movements, the shush of his quiet steps, the raggedness of his breath as he came closer. The press of his body between her thighs dipped her forward. He pushed her knees out with his hands. She was quick to spread her legs wider and place her heels close to her rear to give him at least a slight view he could appreciate even in the darkness.
His groan was barely audible, but she heard it and grinned. Some men liked the vulnerability of a woman’s body. Men were aroused by the raw, unadulterated liberty a woman gave them in the intimacy of sexual congress. That was the most important thing Amir had taught her. And that was what she offered Lord Rothburn by exposing the core of her femininity without fear or reserve.
She was not an untried English miss. Not once would she give him reason to believe they had a previous acquaintance. A previous engagement, no matter how brief it had been.
She waited for him to release the buttons on his trousers, but he only pressed his clothed body to her naked flesh. His weight came down fully upon her; his hands pulled her hips up off the divan and snug to his arousal. How she wanted to rub up and down that length until she found her own release.
Afraid to show too much desire, too much of her own need, she held still in his grasp.
With his hands still clasped to her hips, he bent over her and rubbed his cheek over the delicate skin between her breasts. His pace was indulgent, languorous, and mea
nt to excite her senses and increase her arousal. Why didn’t he take her? Why didn’t he thrust inside her and lose himself in what she offered so willingly? Perhaps she needed to take him in hand, rub him off—some men could only find their bliss this way.
Jinan lowered her hand toward that prominent thickness but was stalled when he grasped her hand. Manacling her wrist and throwing it painfully to the bed, he said, “Do not touch me this eve unless I give leave to do so.”
She nodded her understanding. He released his hold and let her arms fall on either side of her. Some men liked to know how a woman reacted to certain touches, to better take complete control of a woman’s desires.
His lips touched the plumpness of her breast before he bit down—not too hard—just enough to test her limits. She moaned and arched higher off the divan, wanting him to take more, do more. How badly she wanted only to pretend she wasn’t just an agreeable whore. With a desperation unlike her, she needed to mean something more than a frig and passing pleasure to Lord Rothburn. She needed tenderness drawn from caring and . . .
Love.
The only thing she needed was to banish these indulgent thoughts.
Even so, she stretched her arms above her head to find purchase against the wall and pushed closer to that warm, inviting mouth of his. The kisses were featherlike, followed intermittently with the sharp nip of his teeth. He bit her shoulder, his breath hoarse, hot and heavy against her fevered skin. A deep appreciative moan passed her lips when his teeth plucked at the flesh on the underside of her breast, then did it again and again until he’d covered the whole underside of that tender flesh with his mark.
He pulled her in harder against his cock, grinding at an even, unhurried pace. He was intent on their finding their climax just this way.
She should stop this madness. It was she who should be pleasuring him, touching him.
As if he had read her thoughts, Rothburn said, “Thread your hands together above your head.”
So, he was the type to bind his ladybird. Was that what she should expect this evening?
Her nether region was soaked. Her slit slid easily against the material covering his cock. His grasp never lessened as he held her hips, riding her along his rigidity.
Her hands flung out to grab the throws and brocaded silk beneath her. Sweat beaded under her veil, around the back of her neck. The scent of sex and her cream was heavy in the heated air around them. She needed to hold on to something. Her orgasm, her release, built rapidly as he rocked her along his hard groin, his tongue and teeth nipping, tasting the flesh of her breasts.
Her knees fell wider apart and she planted her feet on his hips, surely opening the folds of her sex and completely exposing the rosy flesh unseen in the dark, to his beautiful strokes. The pearl hidden in her folds swelled and throbbed with every stroke.
“By all that is holy . . .” The words slipped out, as her back arched impossibly higher off the divan and her release washed through her body as her heart filled with impossible longing for more than sex games. More than a mere contract with Rothburn.
She felt a release of fluid from her center drench his trousers more thoroughly than they already had, the slickness further aiding the slide of her naked body over his clothed form. His lordship stilled then jerked twice against her. He let her rock her hips—barely—in his unrelenting hold. His fingers gripped the flesh of her hips with bruising intensity. The pain of his grasp was dulled by the intense pleasure that clenched her womb. She was unable to stop herself from riding out the completion of her bliss.
After her peak she’d worry about the possibly destructive aftermath of the storm that had swept through her life this past hour.
When the tremors subsided and the thrilled clench of her womb eased, his hands came under her knees in silent demand that she stretch her legs out. She did, leaving enough room for him to fall into the vee of her body. Instead, he turned her on her side, pulled her back to his chest, and wrapped his larger frame around her slight one. She couldn’t feel his hardness anymore. The dampness of his trousers slid against her every now and again as well as the push of his linen shirt against her back. Had he too let loose his seed while she’d been helpless to stop the desperate thrusting of her pelvis?
She hadn’t noticed.
That was worrisome. She was trained to take notice of her master’s needs, and she had failed on her first night with Lord Rothburn. Though he’d demanded control over the crisis of her body. She’d forgotten what that bliss felt like with a man, for she hadn’t done that in more than five years. She banished any further thought of her long-dead husband.
The veil felt hot against her mouth. Clasping the edge with the tips of her fingers, she pulled forward so it parted at the back of her head and let the night breeze fill her lungs. The heavy musk of their union was strong in the little room. It would take a long while for that sweet muskiness to dissipate in this dry, unmoving heat. What did it say about her that she liked the smell of their sex?
Closing her eyes, she waited for Lord Rothburn to fall asleep—it was a man’s prerogative after these things took place. She wanted to go back to the harem quarters and collect her thoughts before she had to face him. What had just happened? What had she let happen?
What a fool she was.
Lord Rothburn’s breathing deepened and calmed. But he did not sleep; his hand plucked at her peaked nipple. She would not be sneaking away any time soon.
Over the years she had done strange things for her patrons but never this. Was this all he wanted? This seemed more intimate than the sexual act alone. More intimate than any depraved unnatural games she played with others.
By some perversity, or maybe even some self-flagellation, she did not want this to end. Just for a short moment, she wanted to pretend that she was not this man’s whore. All too soon the truth of the situation would hang its weight around her heart.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t live with the lie for as long as the night allowed.
When both their breathing steadied, Lord Rothburn whispered into her ear, “I will take the same liberty you took. Do not flinch away.”
A quick tug at the back of her head released the tie bound about her eyes. She didn’t move as he pulled the cloth from under her head; a soft whoosh sounded as he tossed it away. The tips of his fingers traced her brow, smoothed along the curves around her eye, then down her cheek. He didn’t attempt to slide his fingers beneath the veil as he felt every part of her face. She barely breathed as he touched her; afraid to stall—or even stop—the moment of bizarre intimacy they shared. So like the kiss they’d shared in the Glenmoores’ maze all those years ago.
She was trying to live in a past better left buried.
A past that had been so far removed from her mind in this setting that tears came to her eyes—but they did not fall. She wouldn’t allow them to. Was this what it could have been like? Was this what marrying Lord Rothburn might have brought to their marriage bed? This—dare she say it?—affectionate, almost loving touch?
Why did she hold on to what could never be?
What use was there in that? Except to shed tears, revealing the depth of her despair.
It wasn’t as though she could ever admit the truth of her identity. She was only Jinan here. Elena had died long ago when the last shred of decency she once esteemed in herself had been stolen. By the man she’d been forced to marry in the end.
Men never brought her love. They brought her misery upon misery. Loneliness.
His hand caressed her naked hip, higher to her ribs. “After you take your bath in the morning, we will spend the day here. I leave in two days but will be back by week’s end.”
“For how long have you purchased my contract—” A small gasp escaped her when his hand grasped the fleshy mound of her breast tightly in his hand.
“Hush. You will only speak when I’ve given you leave to do so.” His reproof came lightly, but she shut her mouth nonetheless.
He released her bre
ast and rolled her onto her stomach. His knees came between her thighs and pushed them out.
“Put your hands above your head, Jinan.”
The way he said her name sounded different and foreign, rolling off his tongue with his crisp English lilt. He made it sound more exotic than any other man who had whispered it.
She wanted him to say her name again. Instead his leg came up firm to her mound, causing her to groan. She raised her hands above her head and grasped the edge of the divan, nails clawing into the material for purchase as his knee rode up farther, splitting her sex, exposing it to the abrasion of his trousers. Her desire flared anew.
There was indeed more than a mutual rubbing to be had between them.
Now, he would start his real games.
“I’m going to have you so many ways, you won’t remember where you are, my sweet Jinan. My name will be the only one you can speak for weeks, wishing for my company.” He bit her shoulder, not too hard, but enough to leave the flesh stinging when he released her.
“You’ll want no other.” He growled so low in her ear, she thought maybe it was her imagination. Those words held deeper meaning for her. Did they for him, as well?
She unclenched her fingers from the couch and reached back to hold his head against the flesh bite. He rewarded her with a deep groan of appreciation. Pressing her bottom up to his groin, she gave herself over to him in complete animalistic supplication. He ground their bodies together and pushed her down so her stomach was flat to the soft, cushiony velvet, his breath hot in her ear.
“You’ll never want another after me, Jinan.”
She made no response. She knew the truth of those words without having to say them.
Pulling his lower body off hers, he centered his fingers at her core. “Say it, damn it. You’ll want only me.” He drove his fingers into her, slamming the flat of his palm against the damp lips of her slit. The slapping, moist sound made her writhe against him for more.
This was so different, so primal and raw, compared to the innocence of their courtship ten years past.
The Surrender of a Lady Page 12