Home for the Holidays by Johanna Lindsey

two of pleasure, no more. She would also be another notch in his campaign of revenge, though that was a point that didn’t seem to matter much now, was no more than a sop for his conscience.
    He didn’t like this hold she had on him, when he didn’t understand what it was. The seducer had become the seduced. He wanted her now at any cost and that frightened him. He should leave her be. He should get her out of his house even, put her back in her own if necessary, anything to get her beyond his manipulation. With her here and so accessible, she actually had more control over him than he did her. That had been proven today when she had held his emotions, his every thought, his body, all at her whim. Thank God she was too innocent to know how to use that against him.

    Larissa stood there in the bathroom for nearly an hour, staring at the lock on the connecting door. She wasn’t going to turn it. Rational thought had prevailed, even though it was making her miserable. She’d marry Vincent, yes, but she must have his proposal first. That was the proper order to go about these things.
    But the promised “pleasure unimagined” wouldn’t leave her thoughts either, which was why she was still standing there, abject over her decision, and unaware that she was trying to find a way to get around it. Her pulse was racing as she imaginined him on the other side of that door, waiting.
    Surely he had realized himself by now that a proposal was required before they indulge in any more pleasure of any sort, let alone the kind she was sure he had in mind. He could have intended to ask her tonight, though. She could be denying them both for no good reason.
    She unlocked the door. Vincent proved that he’d been waiting for the sound of it when it opened only seconds later. They stared at each other. Like liquid gold, his eyes were so hot they seared, melting away any last trace of indecision she’d been feeling.
    He shrugged out of his robe, left it on the floor there. She was still fully dressed, now uncomfortably so. Yet she was so mesmerized by his golden eyes that she didn’t even think to look at him, at
all
of him, nor was the optionthere for long, when his hand slipped behind her neck and drew her close to his body.
    Their lips met and melded. It was a ravenous kiss, echoing hunger long denied in them both. Her knees buckled, they became so weak, but there was no danger of falling, she was held so tightly to him.
    She was so new to this sort of sensual kissing—this was only her second experience of it—yet he was so skillful at it himself, guiding her, prompting when needed, that her inexperience wasn’t given any opportunity to interfere. Not that any hesitancy or inadequacies stood a chance of being noticed amidst the pleasure of tasting each other so fully, they became lost in that kiss.
    A groan finally broke it—his. She barely noticed, she was so enthralled by what she was feeling. And swiftly she was carried to his bed. Not hers. She didn’t notice that yet either. But it wasn’t long before she was noticing something quite extraordinary …
    Had she really thought all pleasure would derive merely from being held and kissed by him, just because it was so nice by itself? But then how could she have known otherwise? His “pleasure unimagined” had been unassociated with anything specific in her mind, because she had no specifics to draw from other than loose generalities. But it became very associated with his hand on her breast.
    Spontaneous reactions went off in numerous parts ofher body from that simple placement of his palm. Goose-flesh, butterflies, wet heat, and that was only the beginning. He continued to kiss her and catch each little gasp of pleasure that escaped her, and many did as he began the next lesson in sensual touching.
    Even the removal of her clothes was an erotic experience, he did it so slowly, with such thorough caressing of each limb and curve exposed. Amazing that if she touched the