by Anne Stuart
“Can’t say it, can you? We’ve spent too many nights sleeping on couches.” He kissed her again, lingeringly this time, and her lips instinctively clung to his. He lifted his head, still keeping her trapped in his gaze. “Come on, Elizabeth, don’t play games. It’s not as if you . . . haven’t . . . done . . . this before.” He hadn’t even finished the sentence before he realized the truth. He wanted to drop her arms and run. He wanted to get away from her, away from the trap of her vulnerability. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t move away, couldn’t drop her arms, couldn’t stop wanting her so much he thought he’d explode from it.
“You haven’t, have you?” he whispered.
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She found her own bare feet fascinating, or maybe it was his she was looking at. She shook her head, a bare suggestion of a gesture, and tried to pull away.
He slid his hands up to cup her face. Pushing her gently against the wall of the loft bedroom, he pressed his body against hers, and he knew by the sudden widening of her soft brown eyes that she could feel his arousal. “Then it’s past time you did,” he said, dropping his mouth down on hers.
This was no gentle wooing. This was demand, pure and simple. And to his mingled surprise and satisfaction it was a demand she answered, sliding her arms around his waist and softening her mouth for his hungry kiss.
She was all soft and shivery in his arms. The more he kissed her, the more he wanted. He wanted to drown in her mouth; he wanted to devour her; he wanted everything to disappear but the wet, hungry texture of his mouth and hers.
When he broke away she was looking dazed, stunned, vulnerable. Staring down into her hazy brown eyes, he knew that if he went one step further he’d never escape. Once he entered her virgin body he’d be tied to her for life. He told himself he should wait, think about it. Give her time to reject him, give him time to come to his senses.
He picked her up and carried her the few short feet to the big old bed. It was a high one, covered with an old quilt. He set her down gently in the middle of the pristine white sheets, and her long damp hair spread around her pale face.
He sat down beside her, his weight making the old bed sag. And then he leaned over and turned off the light, plunging the room, the cottage, into a velvet darkness lit only by the fitful flickering of the firelight in the fireplace down below.
He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know if he could touch her without terrifying her; he didn’t know if he could take that white cotton nightgown with its row of tiny buttons off her without tearing it from her. He didn’t know if he could stroke her, arouse her, bring her pleasure, before the raging demands of his own body overwhelmed him and he buried himself in her. For the first time in his life, his woman’s pleasure mattered more than his. He just wasn’t sure if his body realized it.
Maybe he should pick a fight with her, he thought, lifting one slender hand and holding it in his. Hers was cold, icy, but he knew it was only from nerves. If he picked a fight with her, he could take her in anger, getting the whole thing over quickly. And then maybe she’d cease to have such power over him.
But he couldn’t do that. He’d already gone too far down the road to deliberately hurt her. Not in this way. Sex was one weapon he wasn’t going to use, not with her. There was no turning back. He wasn’t going to have sex with her tonight. He was going to make love to her. And he wasn’t going to stop until she realized what she’d been missing all these years.
“Sam?” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper in the darkness, and her small hand turned in his, catching his larger, stronger one. Holding it. Holding it for comfort. For protection against the demons of the dark. Despite the fact that he was one of those demons.
He could see her face in the pale light, a dim oval with dark, shadowed eyes. He’d turned the light off for her, knowing she’d be shy. And for him, not wanting to be reminded of how very vulnerable she was. It didn’t matter. He could see her clearly, even in the darkness. And she was his.
Chapter 15
ELIZABETH LAY IN the dark without moving, her hand held tightly in his. A thousand times she wanted to open her mouth and say, No, I don’t want this. To tell him she needed more time. To beg him to leave her alone.
He’d probably do it. For all his coolness, his unsentimental, hardheaded approach to life and most particularly to her, she knew he didn’t want to hurt her. That he would go back downstairs and leave her if she asked.
His hand was callused, hard against her own soft skin, and his fingers closed over hers, capturing her. She could see his expression in the firelight filtering up from below, and he looked almost regretful. And just slightly brutal.
And then he moved, slowly, gracefully, covering her body with his, his hips resting against hers, his broad chest pressing against her small, sensitive breasts as his hands cupped her face. “Maybe I shouldn’t do this,” he said. “But I can’t stop unless you stop me.” He waited, his mouth poised above hers, and his breath was soft and warm on her upturned face.
“Don’t stop,” she said, her hands reaching up around his back, sliding underneath his loose cotton T-shirt to his smooth, warm skin. “Don’t stop.”
He groaned in the back of his throat, and then he kissed her hard, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue diving deep, and she was kissing him back, with passion, with desperation, with fear. She knew there was no turning back at this point, and she didn’t want to turn back. But she was still afraid of what lay ahead.
He felt hard and heavy and dangerous against the fragile cradle of her thighs. She wondered whether it would hurt. She wondered whether he’d be gentle or rough. Most of all, she wondered if she’d be torn apart by visions of bloody death or torn apart by pleasure.
He rolled to his side, giving him more access to her. The nine tiny buttons at the neck of the demure nightgown gave way beneath his deft fingers, and the coolness of the night air against her skin soon gave way to the wet warmth of his mouth on her breast. She gave a little cry, but he ignored it. It was surprise, surprise at the effect his mouth had on her, surprise at the warmth and dampness between her legs. The aching longing in the pit of her stomach was nothing new, but the tingling in her skin, the tightening of her breasts, the hot flush that covered her skin, were all unexpected.
His hand covered her other breast, its rough texture curiously arousing against the softness of her skin. She seemed to swell and harden against him, and she found she wanted to kiss him again, wanted to quite desperately.
He took her hand in his and brought it down, down to rest against the zipper of his jeans, against the bulge of male flesh beneath it. He held her there for a moment, his longer fingers covering hers, pressing her against him, showing her how to caress him. When he released her she kept her hand there, her fingers touching and exploring the hard ridge of flesh. She liked the feel of it against her hand. She liked the safe barrier of the jeans between them. And then suddenly the denim frustrated her, and she wanted to feel his skin, his softness and hardness, his male flesh, in her hand.
She couldn’t manage the zipper. She’d hoped to tug it down gently, almost surreptitiously, but it stuck, and even a discreet yank wouldn’t release it. She thought she heard him laugh, only the whisper of a sound, and then he sat up, taking the hem of her nightgown and pulling it over her head, leaving her wearing nothing but white cotton underpants that seemed absurd. She didn’t even know why she’d put them on in the first place—she never slept in underwear. Maybe she’d hoped they would offer her some sort of protection.
“The zipper’s stuck,” she said, not meeting his gaze, controlling her strong desire to cover her breasts. She knew perfectly well they were too small, that someone like Sam would prefer a chesty woman, with voluptuous hips and . . .
“Your breasts are perfect,” he said, his voice a deep, sexy rumble. “And it’s no wonder my zipper’s stuck.” He unfastened it himself, and she kept her eyes on his face as he slid his jeans off and pulled the dark T-shirt over his head. S
he knew he was wearing nothing, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to look. Her shyness was overwhelming, even when he lay back down beside her and pulled her into his arms.
“You’ll have to tell me what you like,” he said in her ear as his hands cupped her breasts. “You’ll have to tell me what gives you pleasure, what frightens you.” He ran his thumbs lightly over her hard, sensitive nipples, and she moaned. “Did you like that?” His mouth followed his thumbs. “Did you?” he whispered against her skin.
“Yes.” It was just a breath of sound as his mouth lingered on each breast for too brief a time and then trailed lower across her flat stomach to the lace-trimmed edge of her panties. And then his mouth touched her, right at the juncture of her tightly closed thighs, and his breath fanned through the cotton, warm and damp and impossibly arousing.
He nibbled at her through the cloth with lips and teeth and tongue, and she put her hands on his bare, strong shoulders, wanting to push him away, clinging to him instead as she trembled beneath his touch.
Before she realized what was happening he’d slipped his hands inside the cotton briefs and pulled them off. His mouth was on her, touching her, and he’d managed to move her legs apart, to give him better access. The strangled protest died in her throat as the first flames began to build. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he was doing with his tongue; she didn’t want to know, and she didn’t want it to stop. She was writhing beneath his practiced mouth, and his hands on her hips were holding her still as he teased and tormented and pleasured her with such exquisite care that all shyness and doubt and sanity melted into the darkness, and she felt she was reaching, reaching for something so distant that she couldn’t even see it.
And then she was there. She heard the strangled cry, almost from a distance, and knew that it came from her. But she was beyond noticing anything. Her body convulsed, shattered, and every bone, every muscle, in her body tightened, dissolved, disappeared, and the shock wave swept over her.
She tried to pull herself back together again. She was frightened, mortally frightened of what had just happened to her, frightened of the darkness, frightened of that intensity of feeling that was almost painful in its pleasure. She’d made herself come before—it had been only natural, but this was nothing like that small shimmer of pleasure she’d managed to coach forth. Her eyes couldn’t focus; for a moment she didn’t know where she was. And then she realized that Sam’s arms were around her, Sam’s body was pressed against her, his heartbeat almost as rapid as hers, his hands gentle, comforting, wiping the tears away from her face, pushing the curtain of hair away from her. She kept her face down, away from him, unaccountably shy, but he ignored it, tilting her chin up and kissing her gently on the lips.
“I’m going to hurt you.” His voice was harsh in the stillness, and she suddenly felt the tension thrumming through him, the iron control keeping his body rigid. “I don’t want to, but . . .”
She put both hands on the sides of his face and kissed him. “Hurt me,” she said. “Just do it.”
She trembled when he touched her, and for a moment she tried to close her legs to him again. But she couldn’t. He murmured soft words in her ear, love words, sex words, words that made no sense and made her feel shy and proud and sexy. She was very damp, she knew that, but she was also very tight, and she wondered how much he really would hurt her.
She reached down and touched him, that combination of silk and steel that would soon be a part of her. He was damp, as she was, and pulsing with desire. He held himself very still as she explored him, running delicate hands across the ridges and veins of him. She hadn’t realized how big he was. And she realized he might hurt her quite badly.
For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to worry. She felt empty, aching inside, and she wanted him. Wanted him on top of her, pressing her down into the soft mattress, wanted him inside her, filling her with this pulsing male power. She wanted not to be afraid anymore. Of anything.
He must have sensed her readiness. She heard the sound of paper ripping in the darkness, and knew he was protecting her, and it took the last bit of fear away. He’d take care of her, she knew that in her bones. Moving over her, he knelt between her legs, his strong, tense arms supporting his weight as he rested against the center of her. “Bite your lip,” he whispered, pressing against her, into her, gently. “Scream.”
“I don’t want to. . . .” Before she’d finished speaking he’d done it, sinking deep into her, pushing past the fragile barrier with only a momentary spasm of pain, resting deep inside her, holding very still.
She was breathless for a moment, from the sharp pain and from the impact of his invasion. For a brief second panic swept over her as she lay trapped beneath his strong body. She didn’t struggle, only tried to withdraw mentally, drawing in upon herself, but he wouldn’t let her. He caught her chin in one strong hand, forcing her to look at him, and his eyes were dark with regret and a glaze of passion that astonished her. “Don’t,” he said, his voice raspy. “Stay with me. Don’t leave.”
She’d forgotten he knew her so well, forgotten that he was privy to her innermost thoughts in a way only she could understand. Her fingers were clutching the sheet beneath her, and it took her a moment to relax her desperate grip. Another moment to touch him, to feel the warmth and heat of his smooth skin and know that it was going to be all right.
“That’s right,” he murmured, reaching down and pulling her legs up around his narrow hips. “It’s going to be all right.” His voice echoed her thoughts, low and soothing and hypnotic. “It’s going to be just fine.”
He began to move, and she automatically tensed, expecting more pain. But there was none, just the graceful glide of flesh and dampness and heat and longing. She didn’t notice when her hands began to cling to him; she didn’t notice when she began to follow his movements, the simple, elegant rhythm that was building to something far beyond elegance. Their bodies were slippery with sweat, and she could sense that his control was about to shatter. She wanted to savor the moment, to lie there and take his pleasure into her, but she’d reckoned without his determination. That same dangerous rawness was building once more, with even greater intensity, and she was afraid of it, afraid of its power, afraid that if this time she lost herself, she might never come back.
“No,” she whimpered, not knowing what she meant. “I can’t . . . I don’t want . . .”
“Yes, you do,” he whispered, his voice harsh, and fitting his hands between their bodies, he touched her.
It was darkness; it was terror; it was the deep, endless limits of outer space with no light or breath or life, until he shuddered, losing himself within her, catching her as she fell through the velvet, limitless night, holding her tightly in his arms, keeping her safe. She could hear the maddened thudding of his heart against her, and she didn’t know where his heartbeat ended and hers began, where his body ended and hers began. She didn’t know where his life ended and hers began. Everything was permanently, inextricably, eternally entwined.
She knew she was crying. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help it, and soft, silent sobs were shaking her still-trembling body. He was holding her tightly against him, and at some point he’d rolled on his side, taking her with him, and her hair was wrapped around them like a shawl. In the distance she heard the phone ring, and she burrowed her head against his chest, whispering, “Don’t answer it,” as she hid from his too-observant eyes.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said, the words a deep vibration beneath her ear. Slowly, gently, he untangled his body from hers, even as he still held her tight. She knew he wanted to look at her, but right then she couldn’t bear it. All she could do was burrow against him and cry.
He was a patient man. He waited until the tears faded into an occasional hiccup and sniff; he waited until the shudders faded almost entirely from her body, waiting until the tension and resistance left her muscles and he could carefully push her face back as he soothed the damp hair away from h
er. “Are you all right?” he asked, prosaically enough, and she didn’t know what to answer.
“No,” she said, trying to turn away.
This time he wouldn’t let her. “Did I hurt you? Was I too rough? Elizabeth, for pity’s sake . . .”
“Shut up,” she said fiercely. “Just be quiet for a moment, would you? Or if you have to say something, tell me it was one of the most wonderful experiences of your life. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me you love me.”
The words hung in the air between them. “It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life,” he said slowly, deliberately, and she believed him. “You’re beautiful,” he said. And nothing more.
It was more than she’d expected—more, probably, than she deserved. It wasn’t his fault that her life had undergone a metamorphosis in the past few days, culminating in his bed. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been fool enough to fall in love with the first man she’d ever slept with.
Her emotions felt raw, her body still trembled, and her heart felt ripped and battered. “I need some sleep,” she said, hoping he’d leave her. Knowing she’d hate him if he did.
“I know,” he said gently. He wasn’t a gentle man, a patient man, but he’d been both with her tonight. He’d been a loving man, but he didn’t love her. And she didn’t know how she was going to survive that simple fact.
“Come here,” he said, a foolish thing, since she was already draped over his body like a limp rag doll. Very carefully, very deftly, he arranged her against him, so comfortably that she was asleep almost before she realized it. Asleep with his unloving body holding her tightly. Asleep with his unloving hands gentle on her skin. Asleep with his unloving mouth resting against her hair. Asleep.
IT WAS A SMALL bed. She spent the night wrapped in his arms, and when she’d finally accepted that fact, she slept soundly. He’d pulled the quilt over them, afraid she’d wake up chilled and miserable, and kept her tight against him, transferring his formidable body heat to her slender frame.