Captive at Her Enemy's Command Page 9

  One dark brow rose at the provocative statement, and she felt the surge of confidence. If there was one thing she’d always been good at, it was bluffing. Pretending not to care when she did care. Pretending not to be hurt when she was. Pretending to know what she was doing when she didn’t have a clue.

  Surely this was one time that being her mother’s daughter ought to work to her benefit?

  He pressed his hand to his jaw and rubbed the rigid muscles through the shadow of stubble, as if considering his situation. Their situation. But the fierce hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “If we do this thing, you need to know it means nothing to me,” he said. “I don’t do emotional attachments.”

  Why?

  The word hung in the air as her gaze tracked to the scars that peppered his forearms. Emotion tugged at her abdomen, combining with the heat as the cries that had wrenched her from sleep the night before, those broken shouts ragged with agony, echoed in her head.

  But she forced her gaze back to his face—and saw the challenge in his expression. He was daring her to ask, so he could have an excuse to leave her wanting.

  She swallowed down the yearning to know more about him.

  Not your business.

  “I’m not great with emotional attachments either,” she said, wishing it were true. “Just ask my sister—or Dario.”

  He huffed out a laugh, breaking the tension between them. “Fair point.”

  Stepping toward her, he lifted his hand. Slowly, carefully he cupped her cheek, the way he had the night before, as if he were giving her the chance to pull back. But this time the flight reflex refused to come. The chilled skin of his palm felt rough against her skin. He stroked his thumb over her lips. And her breath gushed out on a tortured sob, the coil in her belly yanking tight as the fire in his eyes flared.

  “You’re so damned exquisite.” The gruff statement sounded as if it had been wrenched from him—and was all the more devastating because of it.

  No man had ever looked at her the way he did. As if he wanted to punish her and worship her at one and the same time. That bold, unapologetic gaze, so full of longing, had a heady effect.

  She had always needed to fight for every scrap of affection, had needed to shout to be seen, but with Jared it had always been different. He made her feel fully visible, fully present, fully alive—without her having to do anything at all. Except be.

  Capturing her other cheek, he framed her face, then covered her lips with his. His tongue demanded entry, the kiss hard, punishing, hungry.

  She opened for him instantly, her hands grasping his waist, the damp skin smooth and hard. She sucked on his invading tongue, letting the excitement sizzle through her body. He angled her head to delve deeper, to take more, his fingers driving into her hair, dislodging the band that held it back from her face.

  The kiss was all she remembered from the night before and from all those years ago, and more, not coaxing this time or fleeting, but savage and demanding.

  One large hand covered her breast. The nipple pinched into a tight point beneath cotton and lace.

  He reared back, his face dark with desire as he stared down at her. “Are you sure? Tell me now, damn it,” he demanded. “Because once I get you naked I’m not going to stop.”

  She nodded, every inch of her skin alive with sensation. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  He grunted then, bending, lifted her into his arms. She gasped, circling her hands around his neck, her stomach swooping into her throat as he strolled across the gardens, up the steps and then marched across the terrace.

  Nudging open his bedroom door, he dropped her onto her bare feet. The room was larger than hers, the bed less fanciful, and unlike her own room everything was in perfect order, so pristine it was as if no one stayed here.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  She did as she was told, and heard the sibilant rasp of the zipper as he yanked it down. Then the click as her bra released.

  He hooked his fingers beneath the straps and she found herself naked to the waist, the cotton dress slipping over her hips and her bra sliding down her arms. His callused palms covered her naked breasts.

  She sunk against him, her knees buckling as he plucked at her nipples, the fire arrowing down. She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her lower back through the damp swimming trunks as his lips settled on her collarbone and he sucked the pulse in her neck.

  Her ragged breathing sounded harsh in the quiet room. He turned her to face him and she crossed her hands over her breasts, a wave of insecurity assailing her.

  “Don’t,” he said, his voice gruff as he took her wrists in his hands and tugged her arms away from her body. “Don’t hide from me.”

  The sun was sinking beneath the cliff top, sending shards of light and shadow through the room, but she felt far too exposed. All the excitement of moments ago faded as he studied her. No man had ever seen her naked before. As a model, she’d refused to go topless. She’d avoided looking at herself in magazines, or on billboards, her boyish figure perfect as a designer clothes horse, but less so as a woman.

  He tucked a knuckle under her chin, forcing her to look at him.

  His jaw was hard as granite, the hunger still vivid on his face. “Are you shy?”

  She shook her head. “No, I just...” Her excuses stalled.

  The excruciating tension stretched tight, her breasts still throbbing from his attention. The nipples distended under his gaze.

  Lifting his thumb, he stroked the underside of one breast, circling the sensitive flesh, making it pucker into a hard point.

  “Just what?” he asked absently, all his concentration on the play of his thumb over her nipple.

  “I’m just not very well-endowed,” she managed on a strangled gasp as he plucked at the peak until the blood rushed into the tortured tip.

  “So what?” he asked, then bent his head and drew the tight peak into his mouth.

  She grasped his head, holding him to her as the suction sent an exquisite drawing sensation straight to her sex.

  She cried out soft sobs of protest and encouragement, the blood rushing to her engorged nipple as he transferred to the other peak and proceeded to torment it too with his tongue and his teeth.

  When he finally lifted his head, she was barely able to stand. Hooking his finger into her panties, he dragged them down. She stepped out of them as he knelt before her, her legs shaking, her hands gripping the bunched strength of his shoulders for balance.

  Then to her astonishment he grasped her buttocks in large palms and pressed his face to her sex, breathing in.

  “You smell incredible.”

  She shuddered, unable to speak or breathe as he used his thumbs to open her up and then licked through the slick, swollen folds. The shocking intimacy made her jolt, but what shocked her more was the pulsing pleasure that rippled through her body with startling intensity as he teased her with his tongue. One blunt finger worked its way into her sex.

  She groaned deep in her throat, shaking so much she felt as if she were dissolving into a pool of aching, unbearable pleasure. The loss of will frightened her—she felt as if she were in a trance her decisions no longer her own, her body drugged by his expert caresses.

  Withdrawing his attentions abruptly, he stood and pressed her back onto the bed.

  She lay down as he directed, surrendering to the carnal hunger. She wanted to cover herself again but she couldn’t seem to move, trapped by his fierce, feral gaze. She drunk in the sight of him as he drew the wet swimming trunks down the long muscles of his thighs.

  The erection sprang free, thick and long, curving toward his belly button. Her breath seized in her lungs, the sight of him both magnificent and intimidating.

  He was large, much larger than she had anticipated. She longed to feel him thrusting deep, but wondered at her own hunger for the pain she knew it would cause. Pain she couldn’t show him, or he’d know. He was her first. Her only.

  He climbe
d over her, caging her in. Her body quaked as the thick erection brushed her hip.

  “You’re trembling,” he said, cradling her face in his palm, stroking her hair back with his thumb to brush it behind her ear. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing,” she lied. “Can I touch you?” His brows furrowed and she stiffened at her own stupidity.

  She couldn’t have sounded more gauche and inexperienced if she’d tried.

  “You don’t have to ask my permission,” he said. Taking her hand, he wrapped her fingers round the length of him.

  Giddy joy raced through her as his erection leapt to her touch. She watched enthralled as he let her explore with tentative strokes. He felt soft and yet so hard, a drop of moisture appearing like a jewel at the tip. The deep, drawing sensation at her center turned to pulsating need.

  “Enough,” he said, drawing her hand away.

  Reaching past her, he fumbled for a moment in the bedside drawer then produced a condom. She noticed the slight tremor in his fingers as he tore the foil then rolled the protection over the powerful erection. Did she affect him as much as he affected her?

  He held her hips and she grasped his shoulders, opening to him, all her senses, all her needs, now focused on the coil deep in her abdomen.

  She felt the blunt tip probing at her sex. He grunted, pressing inside her. Her flesh stretched, so tight, too tight, but then he thrust deep. And pulsing pleasure turned to rending pain.

  She choked out a cry, heard his curse as he stilled.

  He felt huge inside her, too huge, overwhelming her.

  She bit into her lip, trying to relax, hoping he hadn’t felt the small barrier tear, desperate for the bright, beautiful pleasure which had seemed so close moments ago to return.

  She wiggled her hips, trying to ease the immense discomfort.

  “Don’t move,” he said, his voice strained, rough with desire.

  “Please don’t stop,” she whispered.

  He raised his head and searched her face. Color lanced into her cheeks.

  He knows.

  She grasped his back, scared he was going to withdraw, going to leave her there, on the brink of something amazing. But then he began to move, sliding even further, stretching her even more.

  She arched into the pain, as he notched a place deep inside. The shock of ecstasy ripped through her. Exquisite pain merged with merciless pleasure as he rocked against that place.

  Her eyes closed, her breath coming in ragged pants, her body moving with his as he pulled out and drove deep, establishing a brutal rhythm. The waves of pleasure undulated, eddying upward, coiling tight, thrusting her into a maelstrom.

  She heard his grunts, her sobs, his smooth, fluid movements becoming disjointed, savage. Sweat slicked their bodies, her fingers slipping against his skin as she tried to gain traction, gain momentum, clinging on for dear life, scared of falling, scared of letting go. Then the pleasure smashed into her, stealing her breath, forcing her over that bright, burning edge into shattering, soul-destroying oblivion.

  * * *

  What the hell have you done?

  The accusations came from another dimension, whispering through Jared’s dazed brain as his body came down from the mind-blowing orgasm.

  He managed to lock his elbows, shaking through the final throes of the stunning climax, determined not to collapse on top of her. He pulled out of the exquisite clasp of her body, feeling as if he were leaving what little was left of his soul behind him.

  She’d been innocent.

  The memory of her artless, eager response to every caress blasted through him and he flinched.

  He felt hollowed out, weighed down, as he rolled away from her to stare dumbly at the ceiling.

  All the clues had been there. If he’d been paying attention to anything other than his own lust he would have realized the saucy come-on she’d given him by the pool had all been an act long before he’d plunged into her with all the force and fury of a battering ram.

  The way she had wrapped her arms over her nakedness. The panicked look when she’d first laid eyes on his erection. The tentative request to touch him that he’d assumed was some kind of tease. The agonizingly careful way she’d caressed him. Every single one of those gestures made him think now of the kid she’d been five years ago.

  Vulnerable and alone.

  He’d taken advantage for a split second back then. He’d taken much more now.

  Why had she waited so long? And why the heck had she chosen him?

  He left the bed without looking back and headed for the bathroom. He needed a moment. The desire to apologize, to hold her and comfort her was almost as disturbing as the need already tightening in his groin, because he wanted to take her again, to stake his claim.

  He got rid of the condom, horrified anew at the evidence of her innocence, then forced himself to return to the bedroom. Had he hurt her? He must have. She’d been incredibly tight.

  But when he walked in she was crouched over, gathering up the dress, panties and bra where he had discarded them.

  She bolted upright, gathering the clothing to her chest. Desire pulsed in his groin and he felt himself getting hard again.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, more harshly than he had intended.

  “Going back to my own room,” she said, her voice a little shaky, but that stubborn chin jutting out the way it always did when she was trying to pretend she was tougher than she actually was. “I know you don’t want me here.”

  If only that were true, he thought ruefully, it would make this so much simpler.

  Her eyes darted down to his crotch, and he could see she’d gotten the message when her cheeks brightened with color.

  Yeah, precisely.

  He crossed to the dresser, tugged out a pair of clean sweatpants and put them on. And willed his libido to behave itself.

  She hadn’t moved, her long limbs vibrating with tension. She looked like a fawn, waiting for him to pull out a rifle and shoot her on the spot.

  He almost winced, not a great analogy, given what had just happened.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, trying to stay calm.

  She simply stared at him. But the color in her cheeks went radioactive.

  “That I was your first,” he prompted. She couldn’t have looked more guilty if she’d been a bank robber caught on the threshold of a vault with a bag marked “swag” gripped in her hands instead of a summer dress and lacy panties.

  “I...I didn’t think it was significant.”

  He stared her down, making it crystal-clear he wasn’t buying that argument.

  “And I didn’t want to put you off,” she added, all but choking on her embarrassment.

  Given the pulsing ache in his crotch at the sight of her, he wasn’t sure it would have, which only disturbed him more.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Don’t lie,” he said, taking a fresh bathrobe out of the closet.

  Walking to her, he wrapped it around her shoulders and felt the tremor of response. The toweling engulfed her.

  “Put it on,” he murmured, tugging her clothes out of her hands and dumping them onto a chair.

  She shoved her arms into the garment and tied the belt, her fingers visibly shaking with the effort to hide her nakedness as quickly as possible.

  “Really, it didn’t hurt that much,” she said. “I enjoyed it.” He wasn’t sure he believed her, not entirely—he’d heard the gasp of pain when he’d ploughed into her—but her obvious urge to make him feel better about the whole thing beguiled him in a way he wasn’t sure he liked.

  He’d said he didn’t do emotional attachments during sex, but apparently he did. With her. Because he felt responsible—for her pleasure, or rather the lack of it. And as if he had something important to prove that he’d never had to prove before.

  “I could have made it more enjoyable,” he said, touching a finger to her cheek. He stroked the soft skin,
captivated by the wariness in her eyes and the instinctive tremor of reaction. “If you’d told me what was going on. I would have been a lot gentler.”

  Or he would have tried to be. Given the hunger that was already tearing at his gut again, with her quivering and blushing in front of him in nothing but a bathrobe, he wasn’t so sure.

  “I should go back to my room,” she said, then went to walk past him.

  He should have let her go. He wanted to let her go. But instinct took over and he grasped her shoulders, pulling her round to face him.

  “You don’t have to go,” he heard himself say.

  “You’re not mad with me?”

  He was more mad with himself. So he shrugged, the movement stiff and forced. He didn’t want to feel responsible, but somehow he did. “You should have told me,” he said. “But it was your choice not to.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and that stubborn chin sunk back to her chest.

  She looked so confused—so devastated. And, whether he’d intended it or not, he was the cause.

  “Come back to bed,” he said, finally giving into the unprecedented urge to hold her. At least for a little while.

  Her head lifted, the blush firing back across her cheeks. “I don’t think...” She stammered, her gaze darting to the rumpled sheets. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, I’m a little...” She sighed. “Well, a little sore, frankly.”

  He chuckled, the sound harsh and strained, but easing at least some of the tension churning in his gut.

  Damn, what was he going to do with this woman?

  He had never found innocence a turn-on before. But he had to admit with Katherine it had always been a factor. The woman was a mass of contradictions—bold and provocative one minute and then strangely unsure the next.

  Was that why she had always fascinated him?

  Solving puzzles had always given him a rush. It was one of the things that had driven him to set up his own security agency—once Dario had hauled him out of the gutter and shown him a better way. It was a beautiful irony that the skills he’d learned on the street had eventually helped to make him a model citizen—and a very rich man.

  Perhaps his fascination with Katherine was nothing more than an extension of that.