By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories) (5 page)

She wanted to huddle under a blanket and forget the world, or better still, take a cold shower — or possibly a hot one. Her mind, so controlled, so well versed in ignoring any physical or emotional upheaval she refused to acknowledge, was drowned in sensation. Where her clothes touched her she felt near pain, the little hairs on her arms stood as if they needed to preserve the warmth of her body against the cold, whilst at the same time she felt her skin burning.
 

“What do you feel, little one?”

He had come closer and she had not even noticed. Fear began to rise in her mind, fighting for predominance with all the physical sensations she seemed unable to control. She was never ill, never. True, some of it was the result of close association with paranormals, some of which had at least a minor talent for healing, often subconscious in nature. But not all of it. She was healthy and because she hated and feared doctors she also had a tendency to do all that was necessary to remain so. She exercised every day, ate with a view to healthy ingredients, took vitamins and tended to hide away when she felt the aches and pains of illness until they were over.
 
In her adult life she had been ill twice and neither had necessitated a visit to the doctor. She did not get ill.

“Jennifer, tell me what you feel.”
 

His voice was sharper this time, more demanding. Warmth touched her cheek and as he turned her head she realised the sensation were his fingers gently stroking her skin, burying in her hair in a sensuous caress that made her lean into him, lean towards the temptation of his strength. She luxuriated in the touch. It was as if the simple caress reached every part of her body.
 

Somewhere in the depth of her mind she realised in a moment of rational thought that her fear and physical discomfort should not be pushed away by only a touch. There was something wrong, more than just a lack of dignity or decorum, for her to rub her cheek against the warm strength of his palm like a purring kitten under the caressing hands of its owner. The deep green of his eyes captured hers, not with his mind but with his presence. He reached her muddled awareness enough to let her collect a little of her reason, just sufficient concentration to answer the question.

“I am warm. Too warm. And my clothes hurt.”

She heard her own words as if through fog, through layers of diffuse distraction. She was falling, drowning in a sea of sensation, each overwhelming, each clamouring for predominance. Every sound, even the smallest touch such as a draft from the window, became all-consuming, overtook her awareness. Something in her mind told her it made no sense, as little sense as her answer had made but she could not bring herself to care, to hold onto that thought. It was all buried under the renewed awareness of his skin against hers, the sensation of his fingers massaging her scalp in soothing, even circles. Again, she could not help leaning into the touch, indulging in it. She was almost sure the sound escaping her lips was closer to a purr than any sound coming from a human mouth should be.

“Hmm - why don’t you take your coat off then?”

It sounded so reasonable. His silky voice slipped into her mind, the vibrations of his tone barely disturbing the surface, and before she knew it, her coat slipped from her shoulders. She heard the thud, felt the movement in the air against her legs, as it dropped to the floor. It felt better, the pressure on her shoulders less severe, less painful — but it was not enough. Her mind had not yet caught up with the movement of her hands when they had already opened the three top buttons of her shirt. Jen wanted to hesitate, wanted to stop and think, but the sensation of the cold air against her skin was too overpowering; soothing her agitation and feeding it at the same time. Too slow in making a decision, the choice was taken from her. His deft hands found the buttons, slipped them efficiently through their holes and helped her push the shirt off her shoulders.
 

The cotton fabric hurt as it slid along her skin, grated on her like sandpaper on rough wood. As it dropped to the floor in the wake of her coat it left a path of burning pain on her sensitised skin, the sensation surprising her enough to wake the fear again. This was not right, nothing was right. She had to stop.
 

“No!”
 

The word sounded as if it came from someone else’s mouth. From a distance she noted the panic in her voice slowly bending to outright hysteria. At the same time she felt impotent, unable to do anything. She was losing hold of reality, of her own sensations with every moment more. Every sound, every taste, every touch overwhelmed her, juggled for predominance with a violence she could not control. Tears rose, the first sob choked her, hurt in her throat. He reached for her, his right hand fitting to her cheek, the other circling her neck, pulling her in with gentle pressure.
 

“No, Jennifer, … Jen! … everything will be all right. I promise you that. Shh, just let it take you.”
 

She wanted to lean into that voice, wanted to take the solace it offered and allow it to take over, to be the one to make the decisions she was too lost to make. Temptation had always frightened her, more so than doctors, more than even spiders. Temptation was in every scent, every taste, every sight, and every day she ran from it.

Jen had always wondered if others felt the world as deeply, as acutely, as she did and if so, how they managed not to lose themselves in it. How did you stop dancing in the rain when the caress of the drops teased your every ounce of existence, the scent of renewal and life washed away all debris, when the water painted interesting shapes on every surface? How did you stop tasting the sweet bitterness of chocolate when it suffused your very being with dreams of exotic jungles and burning suns? How did you stop to touch, to love, when every human was so full of fascination and beauty, no matter how often they hurt you?
 

And because she had always been frightened there would be a moment she would not be able to stop to touch, to smell, to taste — she had stopped herself from ever being tempted, from starting whatever tempted her in the first place. She was frightened of herself. How did you find yourself again after having lost what you are?
 

But nothing had ever been as tempting as the warm strength of the man before her so, naturally, she threw herself away from him, tried to break the contact, the lure of the sensation. Her hands found his chest, pushed against him, against his warm strength, the safety she instinctively felt he offered her. He did not let her go. Instead, he brought her body against his, held her close, an arm circling her waist with a band of steel. She pulled away, only to be brought back to him again. In absolute silence he held her, his eyes calm and ever observant, waiting her struggles out with quiet confidence.
 

She did not understand him. He had the power to stop her, to restrain her, even hurt her. Instead he held her close enough she could not get away but with enough leeway he did not have to hurt her. He let her fight him, let her tire herself against him, only controlling the framework in which she moved. It felt good, freed something in her she had not realised needed an outlet. All those chains of civilisation, of normalcy and acceptability fell away and she was able to allow her fear and pain space to breathe, to exist and be faced down.
 

And just as quickly as she had let herself feel, the little voice of social correctness screamed at her, reigned her in, telling her how utterly messed up she was. She was acting crazy, like a mad woman. Not only was she attacking a being who could squash her like a bug without even breaking a sweat, she did not really want him to let go. She was revelling in his hold, in the restraint he put on her in part because it allowed her to let her own go, to relax her own constant control of her emotions, knowing he would be the one to make sure she did not get hurt. She trusted in him, even if she did not trust him entirely.
 

It was that realisation which pushed her into panic. She did not want his control to feel good, no, more than that, knew it was wrong to feel this way. She was an independent woman and he was not a man who would ever let go again after she had given him this much. Only now, as she tipped into mindless panic, did he tighten his grip until she could not breathe anymore, had to gasp for air subsiding under her body’s need for oxygen. Where he touched her she did not hurt anymore.

His brow came to rest against hers, their scents of vanilla and spice mingling in the space between them until they became her whole world.

“Let me help, Baby. Let me help.” A whisper on his breath, a plea.
 

His thumb slipped under her chin, gentled her with soothing caresses into raising her head for him. She knew what he was about to do, somewhere in her mind she did know but had lost all strength to resist the onslaught of sensation, of emotion. With that first touch of his lips she knew she was addicted, hopelessly lost in him.
 

She expected his lips to claim, to conquer, to take, but the touch was featherlight, a mere stroke over her own, gone before she had even registered the kiss. The fleeting touch left behind the taste of cardamon and heavy wine, of evenings in front of a fire and decadent fantasies coming to life. It was a taste with a promise, a complicated taste, seductive, impossible not to want more, a taste which spoke to her curiosity as much as her libido.
 

Her mouth tried to capture it, tried to draw it in with a stroke of her tongue over her lower lip but his mouth had already parted from hers, the taste already disappearing. It was instinct which made her angle her head to chase it, to follow the temptation, to catch those illusive lips.
 

He played with her, his lips a teasing touch, a caress, a lick, a nip on her lower lip. It was aggravating, tantalising, playful — and not to be borne. Jen reached for him, her arms coming around his shoulders, her hand shaping itself to the curve of his cheek. She liked the slight roughness there, so different from the softness of her own. The first touch of his lips was unsatisfactory, too light, still too fleeting. But the taste. She could spent every day of the rest of her life immersed in that taste. It enchanted and enthralled her, lingered on her lips and awareness.
 

His lips were velvet, softer than she could ever have expected. She could feel the slight ridges and as he nipped her upper lip, the sharp tips of his incisors scraped across her skin in an erotic gentleness, so at odds with the power of the man. She needed more. She was not a small woman with her five foot eleven, but to reach him she had to lean on him, shift her weight and allow him to support her. He could have bent his head to her but he chose not to do so and she recognised it for the strategic consideration it was, even in her muddled state. To reach his taste, his touch, she had to trust him to hold her, had to give herself into his keeping.

The blatant manipulation should have annoyed her but he gave her his taste, and in so doing invaded each aspect of her being, wiping away any emotion, any sensation other than him. The moment she fitted her mouth over his fully, her tongue teasing the seam of his lips, his reticence broke and he devoured her. His mouth opened to hers, engaged her in a duel of tongues, of taste, of breath. Her lips felt bruised under the power of his kiss, her mouth had never been so sensitive. But she was by nature not passive, not outside the bed, nor within — or wherever else she chose to enjoy her lovers. She was used to giving more than she took, was used to the control, and long habits asserted themselves.
 

He let her, allowed her tongue to play with his, to discover and caress wherever it wanted — but the tenor of their interactions changed. The unbridled passion banked, was transmuted into something sweeter, something tender. He gentled her away from the sharp tips of his fangs, let her play, but controlled the way in which she could do so. Was it the nature of the man or the Lord? The fact she could, and did, puzzle over this question, told her the kiss had, unaccountably, cleared her mind. Little is more designed to cool your erotic ardour than to realise you can think better after a kiss than before, especially if the man you were kissing had held a starring role in a wide range of your teenage fantasies.
 

Their lips parted, their panting breaths loud in the otherwise eerie quiet of the room. This close she saw the passion, the warmth — and the watchfulness in his eyes. Maybe for the first time in her life she was near speechless, lost without any idea what to say. It did not last for long.
 

“What is going on?”

Her voice was rough, held the aftermath of their kiss and the shocked disbelief of the moment at the same time. On some level she could not believe what had just happened but, worst of all, she was too aware of the slow renewal of the rising heat in her body, clamouring for attention, nibbling away at her regained concentration. It frightened her more than anything — then came the mortification.
 

Sudden and overwhelming, a wave of mindless embarrassment souring her stomach, constraining her throat. Her cheeks were glowing with the heat of the blush and humiliation made her drop her eyes, close them to shut out reality and what she had just done. As if burnt she dropped her arms from his shoulders and stood shaking, trembling under too many sensations, emotions, fears, for her mind to assimilate into a coherent whole. She could not breathe, could not get around the tumbling thoughts to even concentrate on such a basic function, such a necessary one. She wanted to disappear, escape, be anywhere but here.
 

“It’s all right, Jennifer. You will be fine, I promise you that.”
 

His voice barely reached her; she was too steeped in embarrassment. She hated being humiliated, hated it more than almost anything. Even as a young child she had been willing to go to surprising lengths, including physical chastisement, to avoid embarrassment. It was like a pain on her heart, a constant wound seeping her strength. At the oddest times in her life, when she was relaxed, or triumphant, the memory of the many small humiliations collected through her life would raise their heads and haunt her, destroy the little self confidence she had just gained. She was certain this moment would soon figure in the endless parade of the most mortifying moments of her life. What was wrong with her? There was no excuse, even if she was ill and he a willing participant. How do you recover from stripping and assaulting your boss on your first day of work? And a vampire Lord was so much more than your boss.