Beyond Betrayal

by Christine Michels

  And then, without quite knowing how it happened, she felt his big warm hand on bare skin as he brushed aside the lacy fabric of her camisole to caress the soft flesh of her breast. They groaned in unison. And then, abruptly, he slowed. "Delilah, darlin'—”

  But she didn't want words right now. Words. . . and thinking. . . and guilt. She wanted only to feel, to forget, to. . . truly live as other women did. And so she covered his lips with hers once again.

  But the distraction only worked a moment. "Delilah, are you sure? I promise I won't hurt you, but you have to be sure honey, because. . . well, I don't think I'll be able to stop if we go much further."

  As his words penetrated her consciousness, Delilah went still. He was talking about doing. . . that. Her stomach fluttered nervously as remembered terror struck fear into her heart. But this was Matt. The man who'd never been anything but gentle with her. The man she had betrayed with her unthinking actions. The man she had perhaps condemned to death. After what she had done. . . perhaps she owed him the momentary comfort of her body. Perhaps she even deserved a measure of hurt.

  "Delilah?" he asked again.

  She looked up at him and her heart tripped a beat at the emotion blazing in his eyes. He cared for her, of that she had no doubt. He would not hurt her unnecessarily. "I'm sure," she murmured.

  ~~~* * *~~~

  CHAPTER 12

  ________________________

  He crushed her to him then, brushing her face with little kisses. "You won't regret it," he murmured.

  And he lifted her in his arms to carry her into his bedchamber where he stood her next to the bed while he lit the bedside lamp. Delilah received an impression of a large, pine-framed bed draped by the colorful pattern of a homemade quilt. A mirrored dresser in the shadowy edge of the room. And a chest of drawers upon which rested a set of books bracketed between horse-head bookends. Then he turned her toward him, once again becoming all that existed in her immediate world.

  His arms encircled her and his lips claimed hers, masterfully, fiery with passion. He demanded a response she was powerless to deny as his hands began to roam her body, investigating, exploring, testing. Her breath caught in her throat at each tantalizing caress. "Matt," she breathed.

  "Call me Samson," he urged. "Just for tonight."

  Eyes closed, she nodded and whispered. "Samson."

  As though her acquiescence to his simple request had given him immeasurable happiness, he clutched her more tightly for a moment before backing away slightly to finish undoing the buttons on her shirtwaist. Within very short order, he had removed her outer garments and petticoats, and he stepped back to study her as she stood before him in her thin camisole, bloomers, silk stockings, and shoes. Feeling more than a little shy, Delilah's hands fluttered in a self-conscious attempt to conceal what was not yet revealed. He gently gripped her wrists to still them. "Beautiful," he pronounced with a tense smile as his eyes glittered with a raw hunger that should have frightened her, but didn't.

  This was Matt, or rather Samson. But whatever name he used, she knew he would not hurt her. Not the way. . . but she wouldn't think of that now. She wouldn't!

  "Sit down for a moment, darlin'," he bid her as his hands guided her onto the edge of the bed. Then, he knelt to undo the laces on her shoes, slipping first one shoe off and then the other, dropping both unceremoniously to the floor. Keeping her left foot cupped in his hand—it looked ridiculously small when cradled in his large hand—he raised it to his mouth. Delilah gasped as his warm mouth closed over her big toe, silk stocking and all, and sucked tenderly. An inferno of sensation raced up her leg to settle heavily in her loins. Her eyes widened, for she had never imagined feet to be capable of delivering such befuddling sensations. So involved was she in the new perceptions, that she was unaware that his hands had drifted up her leg to the edge of the silk stocking until she felt his warm fingers brush against the cooler skin of her bare thigh. His fingers blazed a trail of fire down her leg as he rolled the stocking down, garter and all, and slid it off her foot.

  Then his gaze locked on hers, holding her captive, immobile as he once again raised her foot to his mouth and gently kissed each of her bare toes. Delilah gasped as his tongue emerged, hot and moist, to caress her little toe. She found herself racked by a trembling she couldn't explain. Gripped by a panting breathless excitement that frightened her as she felt it gnawing away at the edges of the rigid control she'd always maintained. And suddenly she was aware of the textures of his quilted bedspread beneath her thighs, of her camisole, and of the flesh of his hands in a way she'd never been conscious of before.

  When Samson repeated the entire process with the silk stocking on her other leg, Delilah felt as though her heart must burst through her chest, its pounding was so violent. Her control snapped, and she gasped audibly.

  He rose then to rain kisses over her face as his hands threaded themselves into her hair, releasing pins, uncoiling the heavy mass of her waist-length hair. Letting it cascade to her hips, he gently spread it over her shoulders as though memorizing its texture. Then, lifting one coal-black tress in his hand, examining the curl as it coiled around his finger, he lifted it to his nose and breathed deeply. Did the lavender scent she'd used in her bath water still cling to it?

  And then, gripping her fingers in his hands, Samson raised her to her feet again. Delilah felt every ridge and fiber in the rag rug beneath her bare soles. And when he slipped the strap of her camisole off of her shoulder and lowered his head to sweep hot, sensuous kisses over her sensitized flesh, she felt the gentle coolness of the night air on her fevered skin. An erotic counterpoint to the subtle abrasiveness of his jaw against her skin. He lowered his head to kiss the breast he'd exposed, to capture the taut nipple in his mouth and a jolt of lightning sliced through her, sharp and potent and hot.

  Clinging to him, she gasped as a liquid heat she didn't understand sluiced through her to settle heavily in her loins. She clamped her thighs together in an attempt to stem the tide. Good heavens, what was happening to her? Was it supposed to happen?

  But she had no more time to wonder, for he lifted his head claiming her lips once more. The kiss was all-consuming, devastating to the senses, and her fingers curled helplessly in the fabric of his shirt. Part of her was aware of his hands moving over her, removing the last of her clothing, and that part of her cringed at her lack of modesty. But Delilah could do nothing to heed that internal voice for her passion-drugged faculties had focused on a strange potent need that had risen within her. She didn't know what it was—had never before felt it—yet it thrummed through her body with a power that ravaged her senses.

  And then, even the ground beneath her feet fell away as Samson lifted her in his arms and placed her gently on the bed.

  His bed.

  The fabric of the spread was cool against her back and, without the furnace-like heat of Samson's big body next to her, cold, hard reason began to intrude. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the quilt as an ancient fear tried to regain its foothold. Looking up into his face as he stood over her, she saw the heat of naked hunger blazing from his eyes, and felt that fear grow more desperate, clawing for purchase in her dazed mind. No! She reminded herself that she owed him at least this much. And she'd already declared that she was sure. She would not go back on her word.

  And then the sight of Samson removing his shirt distracted her. Her breath caught in her throat as he bared his muscular bronzed chest to her view. His smooth flesh gleamed with a health and vitality that not even the still-healing scratches inflicted by the cougar could diminish. Her gaze roamed the wide expanse, absorbing the restrained power evinced by his massive pectoral muscles. Seeing the brawn evident in the corded muscle of his abdomen. Discerning the tempered strength in the rippling muscles of his bronzed arms. And her heart stuttered.

  He was magnificent! Like the picture she'd seen of a Greek god once in one of her mother's treasured books.

  Samson pulled the boots from his feet, dropping the
m unceremoniously wherever they might land and then lifted his hands to the waistband of his denims. He hesitated then as his gaze searched her face. She had no idea what he saw there, but whatever it was apparently made him decide to leave his trousers on for a while longer.

  Delilah was a bit uncomfortable with that—she didn't want to be naked while he remained partially clothed—it made her feel exposed. . . somehow, more vulnerable. But before she could put her nebulous feelings into words, he lay down at her side on the bed and leaned over to kiss her again.

  This kiss was different. Although still a carnal assault she was powerless to resist, it was harder, making her aware of the restrained power, the controlled savagery of the man behind it. Yet, somehow, instead of frightening her the kiss only made her feel more feminine. Fragile versus his strength. Delicate versus his solidity. Diminutive versus his massive size. And yet, cared for, protected.

  His hands roamed freely over her body, exploring, tormenting. Delilah raised her hands to explore his body in turn—his shoulders, his chest, hesitantly at first, and then more boldly. It was smooth, hot, and hard. Fluid steel beneath heated flesh.

  He broke off the kiss, trailing his lips down her throat and chest until his hot mouth closed over the tip of one passion-swollen breast. Delilah moaned softly with the exquisite agony of the sensation that rushed through her. Her entire body felt ablaze with heat. Fevered with need. Adrift in an inferno of sensation. She clung to him, her anchor in a sea of wondrous impressions, and pressed her mouth to the back of one hand—an effort to stifle another moan that was even now rising in her throat.

  He pulled her onto her side then, facing him, and his arm slipped lower, sweeping over the indentation of her waist until his hand caressed the twin mounds of her derriere. Parting her legs gently with his knee, he pressed his denim clad thigh against that secret part of her. The part that burned with a curious empty aching need. And she could no longer restrain the moan that clawed at her throat.

  Her hands clutched at his shoulders, pulling at him, begging him for something she did not understand and could not voice. Groaning deep in his throat, he captured her lips in an intense ravaging kiss as his large hand closed over one aching breast. So sensitized to his touch was she becoming, that that simple act caused a renewed onslaught of liquid heat to race through her and instinctively Delilah flexed her hips against his thigh.

  Sensation raced through her like a prairie fire. And, she did it again, setting an intuitive cadence that coincided with the pulsing need engendered by his rhythmic caress of her aching nipple. Then, lifting his head, he shifted their positions once more, rolling Delilah to her back, removing his thigh from between her legs as he lay on his side next to her. Delilah groaned in instinctive protest as he withdrew the one source of assuagement she had found for the burning that centered there.

  "Soon, darlin'," he promised in a whisper. But her hips flexed again, involuntarily, seeking. . . something.

  He leaned back, then, to sweep her with his gaze. A savage glitter lit his eyes now, and she shivered beneath his regard. But it was not from fear. Rather it was an exhilaration as old as humankind that provoked the tremble. Her flesh tingled beneath his smoldering scrutiny. The nipples of her painfully swollen breasts contracted even more tightly. Her breath came in little panting gasps.

  Continuing to watch her, he trailed his hand slowly down her body, stopping to dip one finger into the well of her navel. Delilah's hips arched again, instinctively, demandingly, and her face flamed with mortification as his lips curved in an infuriatingly self-satisfied smile. But in the next instant, she forgot her embarrassment as his mouth closed over the distended tip of her breast, scorchingly hot and tantalizing, tugging at the tiny crest as he raked the sensitive nub with his tongue. A mewling sound escaped her lips. Her body arched uncontrollably. And every vestige of strength left her limbs as her body became a mere compilation of superresponsive nerve endings for him to manipulate at will.

  Before she'd even recovered from the paralyzing burst of heat that ricocheted through her system she felt his hand at the junction of her thighs, parting the crisp curls nestled there. Fear nagged at the edges of her consciousness again, but she ignored it as she strained against his hand seeking an end to the torment. A release that she'd never before felt the need of, but which she knew instinctively that he could give her.

  But his touch was only more torment as he stroked the soft inner flesh of her thighs, combed through the curls of her mound, and trailed his fingers delicately over the most heated part of her, stoking the hot coals of desire into an inferno that all but consumed her. "Samson!" she cried, involuntarily.

  He lifted his head from her breast to look into her face with a dark, smoldering gaze. "Soon, darlin'," he promised again. "Don't be impatient. I want to make absolutely certain you're ready for me."

  Ready? She didn't know what exactly was involved in reaching the satisfaction she craved, but she couldn't get more ready, could she?

  Yet as he lowered his head to exact exquisite penance for her impatience from her other breast and casually pressed one finger into the moist crevice between her thighs, Delilah learned otherwise. A sob caught in her throat at the desperate yearning that sent her hips surging upward in search of the release he withheld. "Matt, please!" she cried, as the last vestiges of modesty and virtue were swept aside. Forgotten was her agreement to call him Samson, for passion crowded everything from her mind but the tremendous need blazing through her.

  In the next instant he left her and Delilah cried out at the loss. Then she realized that he had merely risen to strip himself of his denims. She had a fleeting glimpse of his sex as it sprang from a thick nest of curls at his groin, but it was too fleeting for her to even get an impression of size. And perhaps that was best for she didn't truly want to know beforehand. Then he was back on the bed with her, nudging her knees apart as he knelt between her thighs.

  Delilah, dazed by desire, could only stare at him in puzzlement. So there was no satisfying conclusion to all these sensations then? There was only the intoxication of the feelings themselves before the painful part? Disappointment flared in her mind and she tensed slightly as the blunt head of his shaft pressed against her.

  "Relax Delilah. I won't hurt you," he murmured, as he leaned forward to suckle her breasts, each in turn, again.

  She didn't believe him. But then, despite her disappointment, her hips surged upward in involuntary response to his actions, and Delilah found that the feelings he'd aroused had not diminished.

  "That's it," he rumbled as he pressed his hips forward a tiny bit.

  The head of his sex entered her and, involuntarily, she felt her body tense again. The anticipation of the pain to come was almost as bad as the pain itself. Relax! she told herself. Get it over with. But once again he halted in response to her tension, holding himself immobile. He kissed her, caressed her, fanned the flames of her desire until her hips lifted in instinctive invitation again and, once more, he pressed forward a bit more.

  "Damn. . . you're tight," he murmured through gritted teeth on the heels of a groan and she wondered at the strain she saw on his face but knew not how to ask about it. "So hot," he gasped. "Oh, Delilah I want to be inside you."

  "Yes," she whispered, clutching him close. She knew what he wanted. "Yes.” Not knowing what else to say, not able to think through the feelings he aroused in her, unconsciously she raised her hips again. And again he pressed forward a tiny bit.

  It took him an awfully long time to enter her, inch by torturous inch, with a consideration and gentleness that she had not known was possible. By the time the deed was accomplished, perspiration beaded his brow in great droplets that he whisked from his eyes with an impatient hand. He groaned then, and relaxed against her.

  "It. . . it didn't hurt," Delilah voiced her surprised realization. It was a strange sensation this invasion of her body, but not unpleasant.

  He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "It's not supposed to," he
said tenderly as he stroked her soft cheek with his thumb. "At least not after the first time. Not if it's done right."

  "Oh."

  A frown flickered briefly between his brows and Delilah realized hazily that, had she been the married woman she portrayed, she would undoubtedly have known that. Samson, no doubt, wondered at her ignorance. And then, as his sex pulsed within her, her hips flexed and he groaned. Capturing her lips with his, he withdrew and slowly squeezed back inside.

  The friction of his sex as he filled her, huge and hot and rock-hard was exquisite agony and she lifted her knees to grip him better with her body. He repeated the stratagem. Withdrawing completely with each stroke. Quickening the pace with each stroke. Driving her closer to the edge of madness with each stroke. Until . . .

  Delilah cried out as a wave of sensation impacted, carrying her away on its surging crest. And another. And another. He smothered her cry of release with his mouth. And then his hips began to pound against her and he lifted his head, uttering a hoarse male cry. A moment later, he collapsed against her.

  Panting with complete enervation, Delilah opened her eyes to gaze upon the man who had thrown her senses into chaos. She had never suspected. . . never imagined. . . would never have believed how consuming lovemaking could be. Their hearts hammered in unison as she gazed into his storm-hued eyes with a sense of marvel and discovery. Words eluded her.

  Samson rolled to one side, taking her with him, and Delilah settled her head in the hollow beneath his chin, listening to the comforting thud of his heart as she closed her eyes. In the grip of a lassitude unlike any she'd ever felt, she drifted off to sleep.

  Being careful not to wake Delilah, Samson reached over to extinguish the lamp, and lay staring in the darkness. If it hadn't been for her obvious lack of virginity, he would have sworn that the woman in his arms had been a virgin when he took her. She was simply too naive, too lacking in expertise, and too innocent of the ways of men to have been married for any length of time. And yet it had been obvious that she'd received rough handling at some time in her life, so not all of what she had told him was untrue. Still. . . he couldn't help but wonder who Delilah Sterne really was.