Mistress of the Storm by Terri Brisbin Page A

ease his way. Just as her body fell into rhythm with his movements, his cock hardened and released his seed into her. His breaths were shallow and quick, but he did not pause to relax after his release. Instead he withdrew from her and stepped away.
    Lying exposed, her legs spread and his seed still escaping from within her, she felt like the whore she was. In a way, that was cold comfort, for she knew how to be a whore with any man. She drew her legs together and pushed up on her elbows to watch him for a sign of his next intended move. With another man, she would have cooed and coddled and complimented, but Duncan befuddled her. She eased the robe down and slid off the table’s rough surface, having a care not to catch the delicate fabric on it. When she raised her head, he was staring at her and she felt naked once more.
    “Now that Isabel the whore has had what she wanted,” he began in a low voice.
    His words hurt her for some reason she did not wish to examine too closely.
    “What does Isabel the woman wish to do this evening?”

Chapter Nine
     
    T ruth be told, Isabel wanted to sink to the floor, huddle in a ball, and cry until she was spent. That rarely happened and it was not going to happen . She took in a deep breath and prepared herself for whatever he had planned for her.
    Her legs shook and she leaned against the table to regain her balance. He’d simply been teaching her a lesson by swiving her as most men did. He would have his way and seemed intent on breaking in to find what she hid behind her whore’s mask. She could not allow him to do that.
    “Have I angered you in some way?” she asked. Always best to deflect and learn more before proceeding in the dark.
    “If and when you act the whore, I will fuck you like you are one,” he replied in a calm voice that did nothing to ease her discomfort. “Like that.” He threw a glance at the table, reminding her of the mindless, selfish manner in which he’d taken her—seeking only his own release and having not a care for her. Like a man treated a whore.
    With others, she knew not any other way and cared not, but he’d shown her something completely different in their previous couplings and that difference stung her.
    What did he want from her? She was a whore and she needed to remain only that with him. The small weakness displayed when she’d explained about her affinity for water should never have happened. Did she dare tell him what she wanted? No one ever asked; Sigurd punished her for making any demands or requests. Watching Duncan as he stood with his hands fisted on his hips, she wondered if he would accept her words. Or was it simply a ploy to learn more of her weaknesses?
    He raised his brow, waiting for her to ask for something. Thunder crashed outside as though prodding her on, so she took a deep breath and blurted out the thing that was uppermost on her mind.
    “I would like to sleep,” she admitted, looking away and fixing her gaze on the floor.
    Silence filled the space between them until his footsteps grew louder and closer as he paced across the stone paved floor. She could see his legs and the edge of his linen shirt as it hung over his thighs but feared looking at his face. She’d fallen asleep once while bedding a man and he’d complained to Sigurd, demanding his coins back. She’d learned the folly of sleeping and never repeated that mistake . . . until on the ride to Duncan’s farm.
    The gentle touch of his fingers beneath her chin, lifting it so she had no choice but to meet his gaze, surprised her. Once more. “Then go now and sleep.” He nodded toward the other chamber and stepped away, no longer blocking her path.
    Did she dare? Would she be able to sleep? Her blood raced through her veins; the heat of his fast and furious coupling lingered. So many questions plagued her she doubted she would indeed get any rest. And, when he did join her in that bed, he would expect her to satisfy his needs. Why bother then? Why