grandfather approved of, safe and dutiful and boring, who would not remind him of the sea. He would build a life with her, an adult life made of obligation and responsibility, and he would not feel like this again, this roller coaster of desire and a kind of fury, this pounding need to bury himself inside Larissa. He told himself that was what he wanted. What he desired above all else.
But right now, tonight, his duty seemed a far-off thing. There was only this woman stretched out in his bed, waiting for him, flushed and near enough to naked.
“At the moment,” he said quietly, intently, the words sounding like a promise he knew better than to make, and had no intention of keeping, “you are mine.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
H E RELEASED her from the handcuffs much later that long and breathtakingly intense night, but the hold he kept on her, Larissa thought many days later when she was still on the island and still deep under his spell—was proving much harder to break.
She had woken the following morning feeling bruised—and not physically, which she imagined might have been easier to deal with, all things considered. Physically, though, she’d felt wonderful. More than wonderful—she’d felt
alive.
Vibrant. As if she’d finally understood, after all this time, what her body had been made to do, though she’d tried not to think of it that way.
No, the bruises she’d sustained were of the emotional variety, and Larissa had wanted only to hurry back to her tiny room at the inn, bury herself in the deep and forgiving bath, and try her best not to poke at them. She’d eased herself out from under the delicious weight of Jack’s heavy arm, and had moved to the edge of the bed. She’d told herself that her trepidation was only because it was a cold morning, with the rain still beating down against the bay windows that allowed in only a thin, weak light to indicate the night had passed. It was chilly and wet, and she’d known she had to walk all the way to the kitchen to locateher clothes. That, surely, had been reason enough to want to stay in the bed.
But then his hand had snaked out and his arm had wrapped around her waist, capturing her that easily. Not that she’d put up much of a fight. Or any fight. She’d been too busy repressing the deep sigh of contentment that threatened to spill out, just because he’d been touching her again.
Her weakness, she’d told herself then, was truly astonishing. There was so much she’d needed to think about, to come to terms with. The night before had blazed inside her, neon and vivid, and she’d not been at all certain she was the same person she’d been the day before. She’d had no idea who she might have become.
But even so, all she’d wanted to do was lean into him, lose herself in him, as if none of that mattered when he was near.
There would be time for that later, she’d promised herself. When the storm passed, when the smoke from this particular fire cleared. When sanity reasserted itself. She’d deal with it later. She’d have to.
“Do I have to chain you to the bed again?” he’d asked, his voice thick with sleep and far too appealing, dancing down her spine like a touch, like his clever, demanding hands.
“Are you asking for permission this time?” She’d had to force her voice to sound light. He’d tugged on her, gently, until she’d had no choice but to fall back against him, and she’d sighed involuntarily when he’d tucked her back into the heat of his chest, his mouth moving along her neck to tease the tender skin below her ear.
She’d felt him all around her, holding her—his hard chest and his strong thighs behind her, and the evidence of his unquenchable desire stirring against her bottom. He shouldnot have felt so good, she’d told herself with something too close to despair. The rough silk of his skin next to hers should not have made her quiver in delight. She should have been done with him after the night they’d shared. She
But right now, tonight, his duty seemed a far-off thing. There was only this woman stretched out in his bed, waiting for him, flushed and near enough to naked.
“At the moment,” he said quietly, intently, the words sounding like a promise he knew better than to make, and had no intention of keeping, “you are mine.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
H E RELEASED her from the handcuffs much later that long and breathtakingly intense night, but the hold he kept on her, Larissa thought many days later when she was still on the island and still deep under his spell—was proving much harder to break.
She had woken the following morning feeling bruised—and not physically, which she imagined might have been easier to deal with, all things considered. Physically, though, she’d felt wonderful. More than wonderful—she’d felt
alive.
Vibrant. As if she’d finally understood, after all this time, what her body had been made to do, though she’d tried not to think of it that way.
No, the bruises she’d sustained were of the emotional variety, and Larissa had wanted only to hurry back to her tiny room at the inn, bury herself in the deep and forgiving bath, and try her best not to poke at them. She’d eased herself out from under the delicious weight of Jack’s heavy arm, and had moved to the edge of the bed. She’d told herself that her trepidation was only because it was a cold morning, with the rain still beating down against the bay windows that allowed in only a thin, weak light to indicate the night had passed. It was chilly and wet, and she’d known she had to walk all the way to the kitchen to locateher clothes. That, surely, had been reason enough to want to stay in the bed.
But then his hand had snaked out and his arm had wrapped around her waist, capturing her that easily. Not that she’d put up much of a fight. Or any fight. She’d been too busy repressing the deep sigh of contentment that threatened to spill out, just because he’d been touching her again.
Her weakness, she’d told herself then, was truly astonishing. There was so much she’d needed to think about, to come to terms with. The night before had blazed inside her, neon and vivid, and she’d not been at all certain she was the same person she’d been the day before. She’d had no idea who she might have become.
But even so, all she’d wanted to do was lean into him, lose herself in him, as if none of that mattered when he was near.
There would be time for that later, she’d promised herself. When the storm passed, when the smoke from this particular fire cleared. When sanity reasserted itself. She’d deal with it later. She’d have to.
“Do I have to chain you to the bed again?” he’d asked, his voice thick with sleep and far too appealing, dancing down her spine like a touch, like his clever, demanding hands.
“Are you asking for permission this time?” She’d had to force her voice to sound light. He’d tugged on her, gently, until she’d had no choice but to fall back against him, and she’d sighed involuntarily when he’d tucked her back into the heat of his chest, his mouth moving along her neck to tease the tender skin below her ear.
She’d felt him all around her, holding her—his hard chest and his strong thighs behind her, and the evidence of his unquenchable desire stirring against her bottom. He shouldnot have felt so good, she’d told herself with something too close to despair. The rough silk of his skin next to hers should not have made her quiver in delight. She should have been done with him after the night they’d shared. She
Similar Books
