him. At the last instant, his hand grasps
my chin, turning me to him, and his lips find mine in a devouring,
soul-penetrating kiss that strips away all remaining barriers between us.
I fall into oblivion but I am not alone. Ian is there with
me, holding me, making me feel uniquely and perfectly safe.
Chapter Ten
Amelia
W hen
I’m next aware, I’m looking up at the ceiling of a tent made of diaphanous
white silk and filled with heaps of pillows in rich velvet jewel tones piled on
thick oriental rugs. Ian is propped up on an elbow, gazing at me.
“Welcome back,” he says. His
tone is measured, his expression watchful but he does look more relaxed.
I’m embarrassed, smugly proud,
and just a tad shocked by my behavior. Apparently, I have hitherto unsuspected
reservoirs of boldness. And at least where this man is concerned, an inherently
wanton nature.
I can think about that later.
“Where are we?” I ask.
He trails a finger down my arm
lightly. I try but fail to repress a shiver of pleasure which does not go
unnoticed by him. He’s looking at me very intently.
“Still in the spa,” he says.
“How are you feeling?”
Limp, replete, savoring the
lingering aftereffects of incandescent orgasms. But all I say is, “Much better,
thank you.”
The corners of his chiseled
mouth quirk. “Always so polite, Amelia. Even when you’re issuing a most
salacious invitation.”
I can’t pretend not to
understand him any more than I can stop myself from blushing. “Is that what I
did?”
“Hmm, I’d say so. One I was
delighted to accept.” He flops back against the pillows but continues to study
me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. I don’t have a clue to his thoughts. That,
more even than his scrutiny, makes me squirm.
“You’re staring again,” I say.
“Am I? I suppose it’s because
I’m trying to understand you.”
The way he says it suggests that
this is an entirely new endeavor for him. I can’t help but be piqued by the
thought of how easily women have come to him in the past.
With a note of asperity, I say,
“Didn’t I come with instructions?”
He answers more seriously than I
like. “Just the bare minimum and frankly they haven’t proven very helpful.”
Despite myself, I want to know
more. About them , those who created and maintained me through all the
long years floating in the hated gestation chamber, and about myself. But also
about what Ian thinks of the extraordinary situation in which we find
ourselves.
“Really? What were they?”
He hesitates, evidently
reluctant to tell me but finally he says, “Something about not overloading you
with information too quickly and the importance of establishing authority.” His
smile is wry. “I’d say I failed on both counts. Wouldn’t you?”
Establishing authority? What the
heck! Was I supposed to beg for a treat, fetch a ball, roll over for him?
I sit up, aware suddenly that
I’m still naked, as is he. Surely, there’s a robe to be had somewhere?
Rising, I glance around quickly.
“On the other hand perhaps what you said before is true. Something went wrong.”
“When did I say that--?” He
breaks off, remembering his exasperation when he brought me back to the palazzo.
“I was more frustrated than serious. So far as I’ve been able to discover,
there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”
He’s still reclining on the
pillows--rather sultan-like, I think. As his eyes drift over my body in leisurely
appraisal, my blush deepens.
Ian chuckles and stands with
coiled grace. I can’t help but be aware of how comfortable he is with his
nudity and his body in general. But then why shouldn’t he be? He is quite
simply magnificent.
He steps close to me, takes my
chin between his fingers, and says, “On the contrary, you’re dangerously
perfect.”
Before I can respond, his other
hand slides down to squeeze my bottom. “This part of you, for instance, is
perfect for spanking, which I also recall starting to do before
my chin, turning me to him, and his lips find mine in a devouring,
soul-penetrating kiss that strips away all remaining barriers between us.
I fall into oblivion but I am not alone. Ian is there with
me, holding me, making me feel uniquely and perfectly safe.
Chapter Ten
Amelia
W hen
I’m next aware, I’m looking up at the ceiling of a tent made of diaphanous
white silk and filled with heaps of pillows in rich velvet jewel tones piled on
thick oriental rugs. Ian is propped up on an elbow, gazing at me.
“Welcome back,” he says. His
tone is measured, his expression watchful but he does look more relaxed.
I’m embarrassed, smugly proud,
and just a tad shocked by my behavior. Apparently, I have hitherto unsuspected
reservoirs of boldness. And at least where this man is concerned, an inherently
wanton nature.
I can think about that later.
“Where are we?” I ask.
He trails a finger down my arm
lightly. I try but fail to repress a shiver of pleasure which does not go
unnoticed by him. He’s looking at me very intently.
“Still in the spa,” he says.
“How are you feeling?”
Limp, replete, savoring the
lingering aftereffects of incandescent orgasms. But all I say is, “Much better,
thank you.”
The corners of his chiseled
mouth quirk. “Always so polite, Amelia. Even when you’re issuing a most
salacious invitation.”
I can’t pretend not to
understand him any more than I can stop myself from blushing. “Is that what I
did?”
“Hmm, I’d say so. One I was
delighted to accept.” He flops back against the pillows but continues to study
me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. I don’t have a clue to his thoughts. That,
more even than his scrutiny, makes me squirm.
“You’re staring again,” I say.
“Am I? I suppose it’s because
I’m trying to understand you.”
The way he says it suggests that
this is an entirely new endeavor for him. I can’t help but be piqued by the
thought of how easily women have come to him in the past.
With a note of asperity, I say,
“Didn’t I come with instructions?”
He answers more seriously than I
like. “Just the bare minimum and frankly they haven’t proven very helpful.”
Despite myself, I want to know
more. About them , those who created and maintained me through all the
long years floating in the hated gestation chamber, and about myself. But also
about what Ian thinks of the extraordinary situation in which we find
ourselves.
“Really? What were they?”
He hesitates, evidently
reluctant to tell me but finally he says, “Something about not overloading you
with information too quickly and the importance of establishing authority.” His
smile is wry. “I’d say I failed on both counts. Wouldn’t you?”
Establishing authority? What the
heck! Was I supposed to beg for a treat, fetch a ball, roll over for him?
I sit up, aware suddenly that
I’m still naked, as is he. Surely, there’s a robe to be had somewhere?
Rising, I glance around quickly.
“On the other hand perhaps what you said before is true. Something went wrong.”
“When did I say that--?” He
breaks off, remembering his exasperation when he brought me back to the palazzo.
“I was more frustrated than serious. So far as I’ve been able to discover,
there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”
He’s still reclining on the
pillows--rather sultan-like, I think. As his eyes drift over my body in leisurely
appraisal, my blush deepens.
Ian chuckles and stands with
coiled grace. I can’t help but be aware of how comfortable he is with his
nudity and his body in general. But then why shouldn’t he be? He is quite
simply magnificent.
He steps close to me, takes my
chin between his fingers, and says, “On the contrary, you’re dangerously
perfect.”
Before I can respond, his other
hand slides down to squeeze my bottom. “This part of you, for instance, is
perfect for spanking, which I also recall starting to do before
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