and then to her cheek; possessively, uncaringly, as though she were a coveted and seized article to be fondled merely for the pleasure of having.
When she struggled, she reminded him there was a thinking being inside the object he held. He murmured, more in the way of an impatient order, for her to be still. Then his mouth went searching for hers and took it, too.
She had never been kissed in this way, never - as though he was testing her and teasing her and enjoying her all at once, the taste of her increasing his appetite insatiably. And so a man must kiss a whore. There was no perfunctory reverence here, as she had received from Felipé, as any reputable man might offer his wife. Here was hunger. And pleasure. And demand.
His hands moved down her back and over her curves, noting them and knowing them. Then one hand rose again to pass over her shoulders and insinuate itself between them. When it took her breast fully, the heat of it shocked her into an outrage greater than any she could imagine - into that, and the dissolving, disintegrating, completely unsettling little curl of something that might be desire, which streaked through her in the manner of a chill.
Michael knew it, too; she could tell by his quietening. He knew he had moved her. His caressing turned languorous; his voice in her ear was a coaxing breath.
“I’ve waited for you, Chrissie, longer than I ever remember waiting for a woman before. Why not give in, and enjoy yourself? You may not like me much, but that doesn’t have to matter when there’s wanting.”
“You don’t know what I want . . .”
“Oh yes, I do. It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it darling?”
Yes, a long time. In fact, forever! Felipé had never been able to force feelings like this to life inside her. Why, in God’s name why, did it have to be him? Why was it Michael Brett, the man she most despised in the world, who knew how to touch her just so, and produce the indescribable sensations now pricking her like pleasurable needles? And she was curious, wasn’t she, to see where they would lead?
He was guiding her onto the bed. She was beginning to perspire - - there was moistness on her forehead, between her breasts, she could feel it in a rush, between her legs. He would make her sick, she was sure of it. Her entire being was hot. But he would remove her shift, wouldn’t he, if she asked him to?
It was the thought of her nakedness that quelled the furor in her body and her mind. No, she would not find herself unclothed in the same room with him or any other man. And she would not allow him to trick her into abandoning her virtue and her self-respect, only to throw it in her face later as he offered her easy surrender to him as proof of her supposed affair with Santa Anna!
She must have been driven temporarily insane by his assault. To think that she, a descendent of European royalty, had been overwhelmed by the abased touch of a pitiless renegade! There was no excuse for her conduct, no justification for her shamelessness. She had permitted this man that she absolutely hated and distrusted to kiss her and caress her intimately. Yes, she was mad.
He had released her to begin undoing his own clothes, and she seized the opportunity to get up and move away.
“That’s enough. Leave my room, Señor, at once - or I will scream for your butler, and half the neighborhood, as well!” She spoke in Spanish, her vehemence punctuated by her low, determined tone.
Shirt buttons undone, hands at his waistband, he squinted at her in the improving light. “I’ve been in here for quite a while. Why bother to scream now? Or to pretend you don’t want me to stay?”
Instead of replying, she moved to the door, as far from him as possible, still clad in her white shift and long, dark hair. His gaze followed her, and his expression was dangerous.
“Why did you let me kiss you, Señora? Did you manage to forget for one moment that you’re the God-almighty Patrona, and above
When she struggled, she reminded him there was a thinking being inside the object he held. He murmured, more in the way of an impatient order, for her to be still. Then his mouth went searching for hers and took it, too.
She had never been kissed in this way, never - as though he was testing her and teasing her and enjoying her all at once, the taste of her increasing his appetite insatiably. And so a man must kiss a whore. There was no perfunctory reverence here, as she had received from Felipé, as any reputable man might offer his wife. Here was hunger. And pleasure. And demand.
His hands moved down her back and over her curves, noting them and knowing them. Then one hand rose again to pass over her shoulders and insinuate itself between them. When it took her breast fully, the heat of it shocked her into an outrage greater than any she could imagine - into that, and the dissolving, disintegrating, completely unsettling little curl of something that might be desire, which streaked through her in the manner of a chill.
Michael knew it, too; she could tell by his quietening. He knew he had moved her. His caressing turned languorous; his voice in her ear was a coaxing breath.
“I’ve waited for you, Chrissie, longer than I ever remember waiting for a woman before. Why not give in, and enjoy yourself? You may not like me much, but that doesn’t have to matter when there’s wanting.”
“You don’t know what I want . . .”
“Oh yes, I do. It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it darling?”
Yes, a long time. In fact, forever! Felipé had never been able to force feelings like this to life inside her. Why, in God’s name why, did it have to be him? Why was it Michael Brett, the man she most despised in the world, who knew how to touch her just so, and produce the indescribable sensations now pricking her like pleasurable needles? And she was curious, wasn’t she, to see where they would lead?
He was guiding her onto the bed. She was beginning to perspire - - there was moistness on her forehead, between her breasts, she could feel it in a rush, between her legs. He would make her sick, she was sure of it. Her entire being was hot. But he would remove her shift, wouldn’t he, if she asked him to?
It was the thought of her nakedness that quelled the furor in her body and her mind. No, she would not find herself unclothed in the same room with him or any other man. And she would not allow him to trick her into abandoning her virtue and her self-respect, only to throw it in her face later as he offered her easy surrender to him as proof of her supposed affair with Santa Anna!
She must have been driven temporarily insane by his assault. To think that she, a descendent of European royalty, had been overwhelmed by the abased touch of a pitiless renegade! There was no excuse for her conduct, no justification for her shamelessness. She had permitted this man that she absolutely hated and distrusted to kiss her and caress her intimately. Yes, she was mad.
He had released her to begin undoing his own clothes, and she seized the opportunity to get up and move away.
“That’s enough. Leave my room, Señor, at once - or I will scream for your butler, and half the neighborhood, as well!” She spoke in Spanish, her vehemence punctuated by her low, determined tone.
Shirt buttons undone, hands at his waistband, he squinted at her in the improving light. “I’ve been in here for quite a while. Why bother to scream now? Or to pretend you don’t want me to stay?”
Instead of replying, she moved to the door, as far from him as possible, still clad in her white shift and long, dark hair. His gaze followed her, and his expression was dangerous.
“Why did you let me kiss you, Señora? Did you manage to forget for one moment that you’re the God-almighty Patrona, and above
Similar Books
