Defiant Angel (28 page)

When they approached Evette, Clinton bowed, placing a kiss on his mother's extended hand. Evette turned, grasped both of Tiffany's hands in hers. Tears shone brightly in Evette's gray eyes and edged her soft voice. "I have waited a long time for this day. I am so happy to welcome you to our family. Finally there is another woman to help balance our predominantly male members."

Tiffany smiled perfunctorily, replying, "Thank you, Your Grace."

Evette said reassuringly, "I believe when all is said and done, dear, you will find all the joy and happiness I have found at Wentworth." On a lighter note, Evette ventured, "I hope Clinton and you will visit me in Genoa, for the weather there is conducive to my health and I leave on the morrow."

Clinton had watched Tiffany all day and was well aware of her state of mind. He smiled at her and then at his mother, replying, "Madam, we will come to visit. You need not worry."

"Ah, well, now that you have settled down, I've no doubt. I would like it to be soon. I've had little chance to get to know my new daughter and would like that luxury before you present me with a score of grandsons!"

Clinton laughed and teasingly said, "Perhaps they will be granddaughters."

Evette smiled broadly. "Now, that would be nice! The first girl in ten generations of male Barencourtes. Lord only knows I tried. But, alas, it was not in the stars. Instead I produced five sons."

"Well, madam, I shall try to accommodate you."

Clinton leaned toward his mother, kissing her on each cheek, before she departed.

Clinton turned Tiffany in to the loose circle of his arms, whispering gently, "Princess, the hour grows late. It is best we bid our good-nights to the guests and leave them to their celebration."

He saw a flicker of fear cross the sapphire depths and suppressed the urge to pull her closer to reassure her.

After making the necessary good-nights and listening to the harmless jests from the men, Clinton led Tiffany to the broad, curving staircase. The events of the last hours began to slowly burn away at Tiffany's numbness. When Clinton stopped before the large double doors of their apartments and turned to her, he saw the fear of realization in her eyes. When he opened the door but did not enter, he saw a flicker of relief pass over her face. His eyes spoke of his desire and understanding as he studied her. His voice confirmed what his eyes told her. "I will give you some time, Princess, and then I will come to you."

Cupping her chin, he brought his mouth down upon hers in a gentle, yet promising kiss, before leaving her.

Tiffany stood alone in the dressing chamber, having dismissed Germane. She unconsciously brushed her hand along the fine black silk belted robe, the only night apparel found. Her hair was pinned up after her bath, and wisps of damp locks curled about the nape. She approached the bedroom door with trepidation and tentatively touched the brass handle, quickly withdrawing her hand as if it burned. Her thoughts spun as her hand trembled before her.

She knew, once she entered
that
room, the man who would come to her would physically bind her to him. In
that
room, beyond those doors, she was legally his to take as he chose. Her hand trembled as it moved back to the handle. She swallowed the fear that had lodged itself in her throat. Taking a deep breath to still her racing heart, she reasoned: her body might be his to take, but giving of herself--her heart, her soul--lay in her hands. She vowed no matter what he did to her body or how her body responded, he would not touch her core. No! That belonged to another!

A sense of strength flowed through her. Straightening her shoulders, she turned the handle.

Whatever she expected to find behind the door or feared to find did not prepare her for the breathtaking sight.

French doors were thrown open, allowing the soft, whispering breeze to flutter the long, gauzy curtains that graced two full walls. Nestled between the two walls was a black marble fireplace, where a small glowing fire smoldered. Thrown invitingly in front of the hearth lay a sable fur rug of a proportion she had never seen. Large pink-and-black-striped cushions formed a cozy semicircle on the rug before the fire. She hesitated, but the desire to feel the soft, plush rug beneath her feet overrode her reluctance--her toes curled against the fur.

Turning, her eyes fell upon a giant bed. Fear rose as she gazed at the black ebony bed set upon a dais which rested on a lavish Oriental rug of black and mauve. Her eyes drifted to the mauve silk bed curtains tied back at each post and came to rest on the six plump pillows arranged at the headboard. A rich ermine spread was drawn back, and white satin sheets gleamed in the candlelight.

She turned from the bed, thinking too soon she would join Clinton on it. A prickly sensation shivered down her spine as she moved out onto the terrace.

The brick terrace ran the full length of the corner apartment. It was laden in a profusion of blossoms, late in bloom, and was as vivid and exotic as the bedchamber. Leaning against the terrace wall, she gazed at the full moon which hung heavy in the night, casting its silvery glow, its beams stretching into the recesses of the chamber.

The late summer breeze caressed her, lifting a wet tendril of hair, and rustled the silk of her robe, molding it to the soft contours of her body. She shivered, but whether it was due to the breeze or fear, she did not know. A sense of sadness crept over her, bringing tears to her eyes. Tears born of defeat. She had been forced against her will. She had fought as best she could and failed. She turned, walking back into the room, the bed again catching her gaze. Aloud she vowed, "No matter how I've lost the battle, I'll not wave the white flag and wait placidly in bed like a mare led to a stallion!" Turning to stare at the fire, curling her toes against the fur, she heard the soft closing of the door. Hirning slowly around, she saw him. Leaning against the jamb, his arms folded across his chest.

Clinton smiled softly at her image. His eyes fell to her long, shapely legs revealed by the subtle parting of her robe. His blood flowed hotly, knowing soon he would feel her legs entwined and wrapped about him. Slowly, his eyes roamed seductively upward, stopping at her waist, a belt about it which defined its smallness and accentuated her rounded hips. A breeze molded the silk robe to her full, tilted breasts, outlining her nipples. Passion inched slowly, burning its way through his veins, as he knew his mouth and tongue would soon feast upon the bounty. His eyes continued their upward perusal, noting the translucence of her delicately carved face and graceful neck, heightened by the blackness of her robe. His eyes moved to the temptingly curved, parted lips to travel over her pale, yet proud face, stopping to search her eyes.

Tiffany was acutely conscious of Clinton. His stance emphasized the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. The rich outline of his shoulder strained against the fabric of his black robe, whose vee revealed a muscular chest, covered with a crisp mat of hair. A tingling, an uncoiling, began in the pit of her belly at his virile appeal. Tiffany swallowed, sensing the moment was close at hand. His compelling gray eyes, his firm features, the confident set of his shoulders, just the way he stood there, told her the time had come when he would mark her, possess her. She could not dispel the hungry desire reflected in his eyes but spoke out, "You'll not possess all of me, my lord."

Clinton pushed away from the door, walking toward her. "I will have no less." A flicker of apprehension coursed through her, hearing the promise in his words.

When he stopped, he stood so close, their hips touched, and his voice was like a caress. "This night is mine. It's only you and I, and tomorrow is a long time away."

She shivered at the underlying sensuality in his voice. She felt the heat from his loins, feeling as if she were afire as he moved closer, making her fully aware of his thigh. Lowering her eyes, unable to meet his, fearing he'd see her reaction, she looked at the mat of hair covering his chest. Her fingers itched to run through the dark pelt. She felt her knees weaken, knowing her fingers would touch firmly muscled, warm flesh.

Clinton lifted her chin so her eyes met his. Reaching up, touching her hair, he said softly, "A virgin comes to her husband with unbound hair." She shivered at his words, at his touch, as he plucked the pins from her hair.

Seeking to gain some fraction of control over him, wishing to dispel his effect and reaffirm her own conviction, she whispered, "You cannot possess what I have already given. You'll not possess all of me."

His fingers ceased their plucking, his eyes searched her face. She saw a flicker of surprise in them. His fingers began again and her locks cascaded down her back, like a silken mantle. She felt his fingers run through their texture, his eyes holding her captive as his warm, possessive hands slid across her scalp, the raven tresses wrapping about his fingers.

Gently forcing her head back, he held her eyes captive, drinking in her beauty. He leaned so his mouth was a breath from heres. His lips brushed gently across hers as he said, "No matter if the wedding sheets confirm or deny your honor." Pulling her up against his chest, crushing her breast against the mat of hair, he vowed, "When you lie with me, no other will come between us." His last words were smothered on her lips as if sealing his vow with a kiss as promising as it was rewarding.

He traced the soft fullness of her lips with his tongue, then wound a path of shivery kisses up the column of her throat to nibble at her ear. She shivered and tingled with his assault. His hands remained wound in her hair, holding her steady. When his tongue traced the pattern of an ear and delved into its crevice, she felt an uncoiling deep in her belly. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to block out the sensations, only serving to heighten them. She unwillingly moaned when he seared a path down her neck, placing tantalizing kisses at the base of her throat, where a pulse beat rapidly.

When he lifted his mouth, she opened her eyes, locking with his hooded in desire. She began to feel herself becoming lost in their promising depth and she tried to will her mind to resist. Clinton smiled softly, and as if knowing, he recaptured her lips wijh a demanding mastery, savoring the rich bounty.

Tiffany sucumbed to the forceful domination of his lips parting hers. Clinton felt her surrender and gently plunged his tongue, exploring the sweet recesses of her mouth. A betraying shudder urged him on, sucking the tip of her tongue into his mouth.

Her knees weakened. Her fingers clutched at his arms for support. She yielded, meeting his tongue timidly at first and then more boldly.

Clinton groaned in pleasure at her innocent boldness and released her hair, running his hands down her back, cupping her buttocks, bringing them against his rising manhood.

A cold wave of fear washed over her feeling his desire, so hard, so threatening. She pulled back, but his hands firmly held her pressed to his desire. "No!" She moaned. She braced her hands against his shoulders, pushing her upper body away and inadvertently pressing her lower body closer. Her action parted the vee of her robe, laying her breasts open to him. Clinton buried his face in the soft valley and leisurely circled a dusty nipple with the tip of his tongue. He closed his mouth over an aching peak. Tiffany whimpered, clutching desperately at his shoulders as a tingle shot from her breast to her belly. She arched her back and in an utterly wanton motion, dropped her head, groaning deeply.

Clinton's desire rose, burning brighter with each surrender. He swung her into the circle of his arms, carrying her and laying her on the bed.

Standing there at the side of the bed, he stared, meeting her eyes, now dulled with desire, and held them imprisoned with his. He unbelted his robe and shrugged it off so it slipped to the floor.

Tiffany was half-dazed with passion, the betrayal of her body forgotten by the beginning of an ache between her thighs that consumed her. She couldn't move and lay there in the downy softness of the bed. She wanted to close her eyes but was unable to draw hers from the gray eyes burning with unleashed desire. She could only stare at his towering form, so powerfully built with its broad, muscled chest, flat, hard belly, and his manhood--full, potent, rising triumphantly from the mass of black hair at his groin.

Clinton gazed down at the magnificent woman who lay before him. As he watched her eyes take note of him, his manhood hardened, and his hand reached out, untying the belt of her robe, flicking back the silk material, revealing the beauty he would never tire of.

Tiffany felt a warm blush creep from her toes to the roots of her hair when he parted her robe. She looked up, away from his eyes, feeling their scorching path. Gazing up, she caught her reflection in the mirror above the bed. She stared, the feeling so erotic, watching them as if she were removed from her body, yet feeling every nerve end tingle.

Clinton let his hand travel to cup the fullness of her breast and slide his thumb over a nipple, working it to a hard, taut peak. Tiffany moaned as she watched his hand move deliciously over her breast, seeing her nipples, feeling them rise proudly. Her breath caught in her throat, she parted her lips, wetting them with her tongue, for they had gone dry with her ragged breathing. Seeking to regain herself so as to rebuild her wall, she closed her eyes against the reflection. She felt his hand slide over her ribs to her belly; she squeezed her eyes tighter, hoping to shut out the sensations.

He watched her close her eyes, knowing she sought to erect a new stone to her already crumbling fortress. His voice husky with desire, he commanded, "Open your eyes." She complied and he saw their heavy lids, the glazed, haunted look in their depths. Triumph gleamed within his own.

His hand moved down the soft inner skin of her thigh, caressing the long length, and traveled back up, stopping a fingertip from her womanhood. He drew a deep, silent breath. His desire burning, a need to be answered, he felt the sweet agony in not taking her yet, as much for her pleasure as his as he delayed their joining. He saw the slight arching of her hips, the subtle twist of her body, all signs of her rising passion, her need to have him touch her. He smiled in triumph, moving his hand, splaying his fingers in the curls of her mound, feeling the muscles in her belly strain. "Watch." His words were as potent as the caress of his fingers as they moved within the ebony curls, stopping a breath away from her essence.

"Please do not," she whimpered, her words a contradiction to her arching hips. She yielded to his command and lifted here eyes to the mirror above.

A single finger slid sensually down between her legs, finding and stroking that most sensitive of spots. She moaned aloud and lifted her hips against his finger. She tried to fight against herself but instead lost herself to him.

Clinton watched her face in its battle to withhold and saw her yield, felt the sweet moistness between her thighs as his finger brought her to the edge of unbearable pleasure.

His finger stopped. Tiffany felt the white-hot pleasure recede, the ache strong and pleasurably painftil. She looked at him, not understanding anything but the need to fulfill that ache. She watched him take his finger and bring it to his mouth, tasting the moistness she felt between her legs. She whispered brokenly, "Please ... I cannot bear it," surrendering another part of herself to him.

His eyes, burning with desire, captured hers; muttering thickly, he said, "You shall not bear it any longer." He spread her quivering limbs, placing himself between them, sliding his hands under her, lifting her hips to him and closing his mouth over her, stroking her sensitive bud.

Tiffany twisted mindlessly, her hands clutching the bed sheets, her hips arching against his mouth. Closer and closer she came to the bright tunneling light, and as she reached closer to the edge and was about to fall into the abyss, his mouth left her. A frustrated moan escaped her lips.

"Tell me, Tiffany, tell me you want my mouth," he commanded in a voice simmering with barely checked passion. She tossed her head back and forth on the pillow. Her body, as taut as a bowstring, arched to him, begging him for completion.

"Tell me," he ground out, his desire near bursting, his restraints slowly crumbling. "Tell me," he whispered, his breath a caress against her cheek.

Unable to bear her agony, her lips formed the word "Yes."

Satisfied with her admission, Clinton gave her what she yearned for, closing his mouth over her, bringing her over the edge in a shattering release that left her body weightless.

She was crying aloud in her release. Clinton moved over her, receiving her cry in his mouth. He felt her shudders subside as she began the descent from the peak. He gently kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyes, and finally he satisfyingly kissed her mouth. He whispered his love in her ear, moving his mouth down the slim column of her throat. He worshiped her body with his mouth, he reveled in the depth of her passion. He rekindled the lire in her taut body.

The pulsating feeling deep inside which had been quenched began anew. Her world existed only in the molten sensations, setting her body afire. She whimpered and moaned when her nipples ached against the warm pelt of hair on his chest, and rose as he erotically brushed against them. She shuddered and arched when his mouth covered a breast, holding his head, clutching her fingers in his hair. The traitorous flame of her desire rose higher, singeing the edges of her control.

Clinton moved his hand, mouth, tongue, over every inch of her--biting, nibbling, sucking, tasting the heady ambrosia she offered, leaving no course untouched.

He could barely control himself. Her wanton wild toss-ings, her moans, the feel of her wetness, pushed his body to the limits of control. His voice, barely recognizable, whispered raggedly, "Do you want me, Tiffany?"

She tossed her head, whispering, "N . . . no," as passion raged through her body, chipping down the remnants of her will.

"Will you take me, Tiffany?" he ground out, rubbing his swollen member against her bud. She whimpered. He smiled between clutched teeth, and commanded, "Give me your all. No less." His voice was thick, unsteady. Circling his hips provocatively, his member touching her wetness, he said, "Will you receive me?"

Half-mad with need, white-hot sensations rippling through her taut body, desperate for release, she cried out, "Yes," and her walls tumbled down.

His hands slid beneath her, lifting her hips to receive him. He inched himself into her wet sheath, feeling it open, and he withdrew and poised himself to bury himself deep within. He was near bursting and drew upon the last of his reserves of control before he drove into her.

Tiffany cried out when he entered her, tearing through the thin barrier. Her fingernails dug into his arms at his invasion.

Clinton breached her maidenhead and held himself, feeling the incredible sensation of her muscles contracting against his pulsating shaft. She tightened about him and opened to accommodate him. He held her, whispering softly, "Hush, Princess . . . easy, it shall pass." He stroked her streaming hair and lightly kissed her tear-streaked cheeks. "Hold me . . . the pain will fade."